“I agree. But please save my father right now!”
Liam’s voice trembled, shattering the cold silence in the VIP room. His eyes were red, reflecting the tears he was desperately holding back. Every inch of his body rejected the decision. His conscience screamed that he was pawning his own dignity.
But when the image of his father—now lying there with his head drooping and an oxygen tube attached in the ICU—flashed through his mind again, Liam realized he had no other choice.
His dignity meant nothing compared to Mr. Budi’s life.
Mr. Adrian Wijaya did not smile in triumph. The middle-aged man merely nodded slowly, a cold, measured gesture heavy with authority. He waved toward the personal guard standing rigidly in the corner of the room.
“Bring the documents over to Liam. Make sure the best medical team takes over Mr. Budi’s treatment this very second,” Mr. Adrian ordered in a firm, unwavering tone.
The broad-shouldered guard stepped forward. He placed a thick leather folder filled with documents on the glass table, along with a gold-plated pen.
Liam stared at the pen as though it were a dagger ready to pierce his chest.
His hand shook violently as he reached for it. On the final page, his name was written beside Yuni Wijaya’s.
Mrs. Sari, Liam’s mother, clutched her chest, breathing in ragged gasps. The older woman sobbed beside the sofa, gripping the edge of the worn kebaya she was wearing.
“Liam. Oh God, son. Forgive your father and me. Because of the debt and this illness, you have to—”
“It’s okay, Mom. This is the path I have to take,” Liam interrupted softly.
He tried to strengthen his voice, even though his heart had already shattered into pieces. With one long, deep breath, he signed the agreement.
The black ink drying on the paper seemed to lock his fate in place at that very moment.
The next day, at nine in the morning, Room 701 VIP in the Main Building of RS Medika Nusantara became the strangest and most heartbreaking stage for a charade.
There was no red carpet.
No rows of grand floral boards bearing congratulations from officials or business associates.
There was no romantic music playing, as there usually was at a wedding.
The only sounds were the constant hum of the heart monitor and the occasional beeps of medical equipment. The sharp smell of antiseptic filled the entire room.
Liam stood stiffly beside the hospital bed.
He wore an inexpensive black suit he had hurriedly bought at a supermarket near the hospital that morning. The suit hung slightly loose around the shoulders and still carried the strong smell of freshly manufactured fabric.
The white shirt beneath it was buttoned all the way to the top, making his neck feel even tighter and drier.
On the bed, Yuni Wijaya lay helplessly.
The conglomerate heiress who usually appeared only in the pages of elite lifestyle magazines now looked so fragile. Her face was as pale as cracked, expensive porcelain, framed by long black hair neatly arranged across the white pillow.
Her body was wrapped in an elegant white silk wedding dress, deliberately put on her by a private nurse.
Yet the dress’s beauty looked horrifying beneath the respirator tubes attached to her mouth and nose, along with the various medical wires connected to the monitor beside the bed.
A marriage officiant from the local KUA sat on a folding chair near the bed. He held a religious book and the marriage certificate in his hands, while his awkward expression was difficult to hide.
In the corner of the room, Mr. Adrian and his wife, Mrs. Helena Wijaya, stood side by side.
Mrs. Helena’s face was swollen from crying. Tears continued to stream down her cheeks as she gazed at her only daughter, who remained unconscious.
Meanwhile, Mr. Adrian stood straight, his expression unreadable.
“Brother Liam Adiprana, son of Budi Adiprana,” the officiant’s voice echoed softly through the silent room, competing with the monotonous beeps of the heart monitor. “I marry you to Yuni Wijaya, daughter of Adrian Wijaya, with a dowry consisting of a set of prayer garments and gold jewelry, paid in full.”
Liam drew a deep breath.
His chest thundered. His heartbeat raced like the pounding of war drums.
He looked at Yuni’s tightly closed eyes.
This woman was his wife from this moment on.
A stranger who could not even look him in the eyes or simply nod when the marriage vow was spoken.
The officiant cleared his throat and waited.
Liam had practiced the words three times in the hospital mosque at dawn, whispering them to the cold tiles until they stopped shaking. Now his tongue felt like wood.
He thought of his father behind the ICU glass.
Then he spoke in one breath, exactly as he had been taught.
“I accept the marriage of Yuni Wijaya, daughter of Adrian Wijaya, to me, with the stated dowry, paid in full.”
The officiant turned to the two witnesses.
“Valid?”
“Valid,” they answered together.
“Alhamdulillah.”
Mrs. Helena broke into quiet sobs. Mr. Adrian closed his eyes for a moment, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders that no one else in the room could see.
The officiant led a short prayer. Liam raised his palms with everyone else, but he could not follow a single word.
When it was over, the private nurse handed him a small velvet box. Inside lay a plain gold ring.
Liam lifted Yuni’s left hand from the blanket.
It was so light.
He slid the ring onto her finger. It was too loose. It slipped down to the knuckle and caught there, as if even the gold did not know whether it belonged.
“It’ll fit someday,” Liam murmured, so quietly that no one heard him.
Behind him, Mrs. Sari stepped closer to the bed. With trembling fingers, she touched her new daughter-in-law’s hand, the way a mother-in-law should on her son’s wedding day.
She pulled back at once.
“Oh, God,” Mrs. Sari whispered. “Liam, her hand is so cold.”
Her face crumpled.
Liam quickly guided his mother away from the bed, toward the corner of the room, before her tears could reach the ears of the Wijaya family.