Chapter 7: A Different Time Zone
8:00 p.m.
The fortieth-floor penthouse was pitch-black.
Julian stepped out of his private elevator. He reached for the main switch on the wall. The crystal chandelier came on, illuminating the silent, chilly room. There wasn't a sound. Even the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen seemed too loud to his ears.
The man let out a long breath. He'd come home early today, ignoring the stack of tender documents he usually finished before nine at night. The reason was simple yet deeply irritating: his stomach was cramping.
All day, Julian had drunk three cups of coffee from the office pantry that tasted like sewer water. No one had reminded him to eat lunch. There was no lunchbox filled with stomach-friendly food, usually delivered by courier at exactly noon.
Julian walked into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator. Empty. There was no glass tray of dinner sealed beneath plastic wrap. No yellow sticky note with the instruction, “Heat for two minutes in the microwave.”
Julian's jaw tightened. He slammed the refrigerator door hard enough to make it bang.
The man turned and headed for the living room. He took off his suit jacket, loosened his tie, then dropped onto the leather sofa. His eyes stared straight at the floor-to-ceiling glass wall across the room.
The darkness of Jakarta's night sky turned the glass into a giant mirror. And there, Julian saw only his own reflection. Sitting alone. Isolated inside a luxurious glass cage worth billions of rupiah.
9:00 p.m.
Julian began to grow restless. He grabbed the AC remote and lowered the temperature by two degrees. Then he arranged three thick books on the coffee table, slowly shifting them until their edges were perfectly aligned with the edge of the table. Not even a millimeter out of place. This was what he did when he was stressed: controlled the little things around him.
10:15 p.m.
There was still no sign that the elevator doors would open.
Julian took his phone from his pants pocket. He opened the messaging app and stared at his chat with Serena. Their last conversation had been yesterday morning. Even then, Serena had only replied with one word: “Yeah.”
Julian's thumb hovered over the virtual keyboard.
Where are you? Delete.
What time are you coming home? Delete. It was too obvious that he was waiting.
The driver said you haven't asked to be picked up. Delete. Too intrusive.
In the end, Julian tossed his phone onto the sofa. He rubbed his temples, which had begun to throb. Why was he getting worked up? Serena was a grown woman. She was the director of the family foundation. She was probably busy dealing with the unfinished work from last night. She'd be home soon.
11:30 p.m.
Ding.
The elevator bell finally shattered the suffocating silence.
Julian, who had deliberately picked up a business magazine half an hour ago to pretend to read, immediately straightened his back. His eyes glanced over the top of the pages.
The elevator doors slid open. Serena stepped inside.
For several seconds, Julian barely recognized his wife. Serena wasn't wearing the gray work suit she'd had on that morning. She wore a knee-length black dress with a relaxed yet stylish V-neckline. A matching blazer was casually draped over both her shoulders.
But what made Julian freeze was the woman's face.
Serena was smiling. Not a thin professional smile. Not a mechanical one. But a broad smile that made her eyes crinkle. She was on the phone with someone.
“Yeah, I agree. That concept from earlier was brilliant,” Serena said brightly, accompanied by a carefree little laugh. A laugh that... God, Julian couldn't even remember the last time he'd heard his wife laugh so freely. “Okay. See you tomorrow, Dirga. Bye.”
Serena lowered her phone. The smile still lingered on her lips.
Until the woman's eyes caught sight of Julian sitting stiffly on the living room sofa.
In less than a second, the smile vanished from Serena's face. Gone without a trace. Erased as if it had never existed. Replaced by the flat, cold, functional mask she'd worn in this house for the past two days.
Julian felt as though an invisible hand had squeezed his heart. That drastic change in her expression struck directly at his ego.
“Not asleep yet?” Serena asked casually. Her voice had gone flat again.
The woman walked closer. As she passed in front of the sofa table, Julian caught an unfamiliar scent. Not the soft vanilla fragrance that usually accompanied their nights. This was a blend of wine, roasted meat, and the chill of the night air.
His wife hadn't been working late at the office. His wife had been out having a good time.
“Where were you?” Julian's voice came out lower than he'd intended. He snapped the business magazine shut.
Serena stopped. She turned around casually. “Dinner.”
“Until eleven-thirty at night?”
“The event only ended at eleven.”
Julian stood. His towering height immediately made the room feel more intimidating, but Serena didn't flinch at all.
“With whom?” Julian demanded. His eyes fixed sharply on the phone in his wife's hand. “Who is Dirga?”
Serena's brow furrowed slightly. Very slightly. Not from fear, but more from confusion. “A coworker.”
“A coworker from where, exactly, that you had to have dinner with him and laugh on the phone at this hour?” Julian's voice began to rise. A possessiveness suddenly exploded without warning. “You're my wife, Serena. If you want to stay out until midnight, the least you can do is report to me.”
Serena studied her husband's face intently. Instead of taking offense, the woman responded with a small laugh. A hollow, dismissive laugh.
“Report to you?” Serena repeated the word as though it were the most ridiculous joke she'd ever heard. “Julian. As far as I remember, how many times have you come home at two in the morning over the past three years because you were handling business matters? Did you ever report to me? No. Did you ever answer my calls when I was anxiously waiting for you? No.”
Serena took one step forward, erasing the distance between them, but her gaze felt cold enough to freeze bone.
“We agreed to minimize the drama, didn't we?” Serena said in a calm, deadly tone. “I never interfere in your personal affairs. You have your world, and I have mine. As long as I don't tarnish the Vance Group's name in front of the media, who I have dinner with and what time I come home... that's none of your business.”
Having said that, Serena turned around and walked calmly down the hallway.
Click.
The guest-room door opened, then shut again. A lock turned twice from the inside.
Julian stood frozen in the living room. His clenched hands trembled at his sides as he held back his emotions.
The room fell silent again. But Julian's head was roaring. For the first time, the CEO who always managed to bring his business rivals to their knees felt utterly defeated. Not by a complicated argument, but by the very logic he'd created himself—and that had now turned around to slowly choke him.