The silence of the glass-floored restaurant on the tenth floor was broken by the delicate clinking of silver knives and forks against porcelain plates. Outside the windows, the glow of Jakarta's city lights stretched out like a field of fallen stars.
Aruna sat in the dimmest corner of the restaurant, hidden behind a row of broad-leafed ornamental plants. A tiny wireless earbud was tucked into her ear, concealed by her loose hair. Her task tonight was clear: to be an invisible whisperer.
Several yards in front of her, at a round table decorated with aromatherapy candles, Valerie sat across from Rangga.
"Your favorite writer when you were a teenager," Aruna whispered softly into the phone's microphone in her lap. Her hand clenched so tightly that her nails turned white. "Tell him it was Pramoedya. Not because of his romantic stories, but because of the way he portrayed human helplessness in the face of the times."
At the main table, Valerie touched her pearl earring, curved her lips into her most elegant smile, then repeated Aruna's words with perfectly measured pauses.
Rangga set down his wineglass. A warm light glimmered in his eyes. He leaned forward, propping his chin on his interlaced fingers.
"That's an answer I rarely hear from writers of today," Rangga said, his calm voice flowing through the hidden speaker in Aruna's ear. "Most of them only mention the names of popular European romance authors."
Aruna closed her eyes behind the pillar. A bead of cold sweat trickled down her nape. Every compliment that left Rangga's lips felt like a dagger being gently drawn across her chest—warming her even as it cut her.
"Writing is how we record the small history of ourselves, Mr. Rangga," Aruna whispered again, weaving the words from the deepest place in her heart. "If we only imitate what the market likes, we're erasing our own footprints."
Valerie delivered the line with a poetic gesture, lightly tapping the rim of her glass.
Rangga gave a small laugh—a bright, crisp laugh Aruna had never heard before. The man known for his coldness in the business world now looked at Valerie as though the woman before him were the only person who held the key to his soul.
"You always know how to surprise me, Valerie," Rangga said tenderly. He reached across the table and clasped Valerie's diamond-ringed fingers. "Tonight has made me even more certain that I want to take this second-book project international."
Valerie blushed and let him hold her fingers. But from where Aruna stood, she could see the tension in Valerie's shoulders.
Suddenly, a passing waiter accidentally bumped Aruna's shoulder. The phone in her lap slipped free, fell, and skidded out from behind the ornamental plants, coming to a stop right beside Rangga's table leg.
The phone's screen lit up brightly, displaying an ongoing voice call still connected to the wireless device in Valerie's ear.
The conversation at the main table stopped at once. Rangga looked down at the phone with its plain black case lying near his shoes. His thick brows drew together. He bent down and picked it up. His eyes read the contact name displayed on the glowing home screen: Valerie (Call in Progress—42 Minutes).
Valerie instantly pulled her hand from Rangga's grasp. Her beautiful face went as pale as paper.
Aruna held her breath. Every joint in her body suddenly went rigid. From behind the green leaves, she watched Rangga slowly shift his gaze from the phone's screen, sweeping across the dim corner of the room until his eyes met Aruna's irises directly.
No words were spoken. Rangga slowly rose from his chair, holding Aruna's phone in his right hand and staring at the woman wrapped in a cream-colored blouse with an expression that collapsed from admiration into sharp disbelief.
Aruna stepped out from behind the pillar. This time, she did not run. Beneath the glow of the restaurant's luxurious crystal lights, she stood tall, facing the gaze of the man who had just fallen in love with her words, but was now looking at her as a fraud.