The room was far too spacious, yet Rayhan suddenly felt the air around him closing in.
“It’s just the two of us now, Clara,” Rayhan said. He walked around the conference table, closing the distance between them. His eyes traced the face of the woman who had once always greeted him at their front door with a warm smile.
But now, the light makeup on that face concealed everything Rayhan had once known about her.
Clara didn’t take a single step back as Rayhan approached. She remained standing straight, her posture flawless. “If this concerns the project, I’m ready to listen. Please go ahead, Mr. Rayhan. But if it’s outside the scope of work, I’m sorry, our team’s working hours are very limited.”
It felt as though an invisible nail had pierced Rayhan’s chest. Clara had spoken those formal words without a trace of hatred—and that was precisely what made Rayhan feel so small.
“Clara, you don’t have to be this formal with me.” Rayhan tried to control his voice so he wouldn’t sound desperate, even as his sky-high ego began cracking in several places. “We—we used to—”
“Mr. Rayhan, please don’t make me uncomfortable,” Clara interrupted gently. A thin, utterly dry smile formed on her lips. “Let the past remain in the past. Even rice goes bad if you leave it sitting for days. Would you eat rice that had already spoiled?”
Rayhan clenched his fists at his sides.
“In this room, we’re a client and a service provider,” Clara said without the slightest hesitation. Her dark brown eyes met Rayhan’s directly, radiating the maturity and composure of a woman forged by a storm of suffering. “I’m here as a professional representing Nexus Advisory Group. And I expect the same professional treatment from Pratama Group.”
Rayhan choked back a response. He wanted to deny it, to assert his power as the man Clara had once worshiped and pursued for years. But Clara’s gaze melted away every bit of Rayhan’s arrogance.
The woman standing before him was no longer the twenty-six-year-old girl who had handed him divorce papers in the middle of a stormy night, her eyes swollen and her body trembling. This woman was independent, standing on her own two feet and fully in control of her emotions.
“Is there anything else regarding the share restructuring that I need to note, Mr. Rayhan?” Clara asked again. Her voice was flat, leaving no opening for a personal conversation.
Rayhan drew a deep breath, restraining the turmoil of emotion and the burning in his chest. His pride refused to let him show how shaken he was.
“No,” Rayhan replied coldly, trying to pull his authoritative mask back into place. “Send me the revised draft tomorrow morning.”
“Of course. Excuse me, Mr. Rayhan.”
Clara dipped into a slight bow, a formal gesture that kept an unmistakable distance between them, then turned away. Her measured, rhythmic footsteps crossed the marble floor before the thick glass door finally closed behind her.
Rayhan was alone in the cold conference room.
He walked slowly toward the enormous glass window overlooking the high-rise buildings of Jakarta. He raised a hand and touched the cold glass.
In his mind, the steady rhythm of Clara’s footsteps still echoed. Strange feelings erupted in his chest. Anxiety, anger, jealousy, and regret unlike anything he had ever felt before began to take over his thoughts.
Rayhan gave his own reflection in the glass a bitter sneer.
He had once thought Clara’s absence would make it easier for him to breathe. But today, seeing that woman within reach yet completely beyond his touch, Rayhan finally realized one thing. The game had changed.
Clara used to be the one running after him. But this time, he was the one left behind.