“Good morning. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Clara Anindita, a Senior Financial Consultant with Nexus Advisory Group. Thank you for giving our team this opportunity today.”
The voice was so calm, clear, and formal. Without a pause, without a flaw, and without the slightest tremor of emotion.
At the far end of that grand, cold forty-fifth-floor conference table, Rayhan Pratama sat frozen. Every muscle in his body suddenly went rigid. His eyes fixed sharply on the woman in the black blazer standing straight in front of the projection screen. Her face was touched with elegant, understated makeup, her hair neatly pinned up, and a flawless business smile curved across her lips.
Clara Anindita.
No longer Clara Pratama. The last name he had once forced her to take had now been completely erased by the woman herself, without a trace.
Three years. It had been three years since the divorce papers, still bearing wet ink, had lain on his desk. And now, the woman who had once been his wife stood here, looking at him exactly as though she were greeting a stranger.
There was no hatred in those dark brown eyes, no resentment—but neither was there any love left.
Rayhan tightened his grip on the expensive pen in his hand until his knuckles turned white. The searing pressure in his chest suddenly rose again, hurling him back into the past. To that rainy night three years ago, when their cold marriage finally collapsed for good.
Three Years Earlier.
That night, the sky was wrapped in thick black clouds, leaving only a dim, dreary glow beyond the windows of the magnificent penthouse. Inside the spacious living room, the only sounds were the ticking of the wall clock and the roar of the storm outside.
Clara sat alone on the cold imported leather sofa. She stared at the cup of chamomile tea before her, untouched and cold for the past three hours. Her left hand gently crushed a thick brown envelope lying on the glass table. Beside it, a phone with a cracked screen lay dark and silent.
Three years.
For roughly 1,095 days, Clara had held the status of Rayhan Pratama’s legal wife. A marriage arranged by their late grandfather to save the Pratama family’s shares.
Clara had known from the first day she set foot in this house that Rayhan had never wanted her. He had agreed to the marriage solely because his grandfather threatened to disinherit him.
But Clara, naive at the time, had believed sincerity could soften even the hardest heart. For three years, she had played the role of an ideal wife. She prepared breakfasts that were never touched and waited for Rayhan to come home late at night, only to receive a cold look in return.
“Don’t expect anything beyond what’s written on paper.” Rayhan’s words from their wedding night still echoed clearly in her ears.
Back then, Clara had held on because of love. But tonight, at the age of twenty-six, that last line of defense shattered into pieces.
Beep.
Her cracked phone screen glowed faintly. It wasn’t a reply from Rayhan, whom she had been calling since the afternoon. It was a notification from the bank confirming that all of the Anindita family’s assets had officially been seized.
In less than a month, Clara’s world had been completely destroyed. Her father’s textile company had gone bankrupt because of a business partner’s betrayal. Two weeks ago, her father had died of a heart attack in the middle of the asset-seizure process. And yesterday afternoon, her mother had collapsed as well—an artery in her brain had ruptured, leaving her in a coma in the ICU.
Tonight, Clara had gone to Rayhan’s office and waited in the pouring rain just to ask for his help. But Rayhan had turned off his phone. He had deliberately ignored her, assuming Clara was merely putting on another dramatic display to demand his attention, as usual.
Clara closed her eyes. The pain in her chest was so intense that she could no longer cry.
Her tears had already dried up.
She picked up a pen, then signed the two sheets of paper she had taken from the brown envelope. A Divorce Petition. Clara asked for not a single cent in marital assets. She was giving up all her rights to the Pratama name.
Click.
The penthouse’s front door opened. Rayhan stepped inside, his suit slightly damp. His handsome face looked weary and cold. He removed his tie without sparing a glance at Clara, who was sitting on the sofa.
“Why aren’t you asleep yet?” Rayhan’s voice was flat, heavy with irritation. “And why did you keep calling me this afternoon? I was in an important meeting with investors. Don’t waste my time on trivial matters.”
Clara rose slowly. Her slender body looked so fragile beneath the magnificent crystal chandelier.
She wasn’t angry. She didn’t yell, either. She only said, “Let’s get a divorce.”