You're Eyeing My Future Husband

The iron gates of Arga's private estate groaned as they swung open, a sound that felt like a prison sentence echoing in the quiet morning air. Zara stared out the tinted window, her fingers digging into the expensive leather upholstery. This wasn't a home. It was a fortress of glass and cold stone, perched on a hill like it was looking down on the rest of Jakarta. It was exactly the kind of place a man like Arga Putra Wijaya would live-somewhere high enough to ignore the screams of the people he crushed on his way up.

"Get out," Arga said. His voice wasn't harsh, but it lacked even a shred of warmth. He didn't offer her a hand. He didn't even look at her as he stepped out of the SUV, adjusting his cuffs as if he hadn't just bought a human being to save his stock prices.

Zara stumbled out, her legs still feeling like jelly. The humid air hit her, but she felt a chill that went straight to her bones. She looked down at her dress-the silk was stained, the hem torn from her frantic run through the park. She looked like a ghost haunting a palace.

"I can't stay here," she whispered, the reality of the situation finally clawing at her throat. "I have nothing. No clothes, no phone... they took everything, Arga."

Arga stopped at the top of the marble stairs and turned around. The sun caught the sharp angles of his face, making him look more like a statue than a man. "You have me," he said, and for a second, the words sounded like a promise. Then he added, "And as long as you belong to me, you'll have everything you need to play the part. My housekeeper, Bi Inah, will take you to your room. Don't leave it until I tell you to."

"Belong to you?" Zara's voice rose, a sharp, jagged edge of anger cutting through her exhaustion. "I am not a piece of furniture you bought at an auction, Arga! I am here because you and my sister turned my life into a graveyard!"

Arga took a slow step down toward her, his shadow falling over her like a shroud. "Listen to me carefully, Zara. Right now, outside those gates, you are a scandal. You are the girl who cheated on her fiancé with the rival CEO. Inside these gates, you are the future Mrs. Wijaya. You want to fight me? Fine. But do it while wearing something that doesn't smell like a cheap hotel and regret. Bi Inah!"

An elderly woman appeared at the door, her face a mask of practiced neutrality. She bowed slightly, her eyes flickering toward Zara with a mix of pity and curiosity.

"Take her upstairs. Burn that dress. Get her whatever she needs," Arga commanded before walking past them both into the house, his mind already back on the phone calls he had to make to the board of directors.

Zara followed the housekeeper through the cavernous hallway. Everything was too clean. Too white. The floors were polished to such a high shine that she could see her own broken reflection staring back at her. She felt like an infection in a sterile room.

The bedroom they gave her was larger than her entire apartment back home. It had floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a sprawling garden, but all Zara could see were the bars of the fence in the distance.

"Miss... I will prepare a bath," Bi Inah said softly.

Zara didn't answer. She walked to the window and pressed her forehead against the cool glass. She thought about Dion. Was he at the church right now? Was he telling the guests that his bride was a whore? She thought about Intan, probably sitting in their living room, sipping tea and acting like the grieving sister while she counted the days until she could take Zara's place in the spotlight.

The anger was the only thing keeping her upright. It was a hot, pulsing thing in her chest, replacing the heart that Dion had stepped on.

She stripped off the ruined dress, letting it fall to the floor like a dead skin. In the bathroom mirror, she saw the marks on her skin-faint bruises on her arms where Arga had held her, and the invisible ones that hurt much more. She scrubbed her skin until it was raw, trying to wash away the scent of that hotel room, the scent of a man who was now her only lifeline.

When she came out, wrapped in a thick robe, a new dress was waiting on the bed. It was deep emerald green, modest but obscenely expensive. Beside it was a new phone and a stack of legal documents.

A knock at the door made her jump. Arga walked in without waiting for an answer. He had changed into a fresh suit, looking like the king of the world once again.

"Sign these," he said, tossing a pen onto the bed.

Zara picked up the papers. *Prenuptial Agreement. Non-Disclosure Agreement. Marriage Contract.*

"You've been busy," she snapped, scanning the lines. "Clause 4: The marriage shall be maintained for a minimum of two years. Clause 7: No public displays of affection unless requested for media purposes. Clause 12: Any breach of silence regarding the night of the 14th will result in total forfeiture of assets."

"It's standard," Arga said, leaning against the doorframe.

"Standard for a business merger, maybe. Not for a life." Zara looked up at him, her eyes burning. "You're so afraid of the truth, aren't you? You're a billionaire, a genius, a 'self-made man,' but you're terrified that people will find out you're just a man who couldn't control himself."

Arga was across the room in three strides. He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. His eyes weren't cold anymore; they were dark with a simmering fury. "I told you, I was drugged. You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to tie my name to a girl from a failing textile family? I had plans, Zara. This marriage is a cage for me just as much as it is for you."

"Then let me go," she whispered. "Let's tell the truth together. We can take down Bram. We can take down my sister."

Arga let go of her, a harsh laugh escaping his lips. "You're naive. The truth doesn't sell. A scandal sells. A romance sells. If we tell the truth, my company's value drops forty percent by noon. My father will use it as an excuse to kick me out and put his puppet in my seat. I didn't build this empire to let it burn because of a drop of poison in a whiskey glass."

He pointed at the papers. "Sign them, Zara. Or walk out that gate right now with nothing but that robe. Make your choice."

Zara looked at the pen. She thought about her father's face when he slammed the door. She thought about the way Dion had looked at her like she was something he'd stepped on in the street.

She grabbed the pen and signed her name in jagged, angry strokes. *Zara Marligh Wijaya.*

"There," she spat, throwing the pen at his feet. "You own me. I hope you're ready for what that means."

Arga picked up the pen and tucked it into his pocket. "The wedding is in three days. It will be small, private, but loud enough for the press to hear. Until then, stay in the house. My lawyer will handle the 'reconciliation' story with your family."

"My family?" Zara felt a surge of nausea. "They don't want a reconciliation. They want me gone."

"They want money, Zara. And I have more of it than they can imagine. Your father will be singing your praises by tomorrow morning once he sees the check I sent to 'save' his factory."

Zara felt a fresh wave of disgust. Her father had sold her for a textile factory. Her sister had sold her for a thrill. And Arga had bought her for a reputation.

"You're all the same," she said, her voice hollow. "You all have a price."

Arga walked toward the door, but he paused at the threshold. "Welcome to the real world, Zara. It's a lot easier to survive when you know what everyone costs."

As the door clicked shut, Zara sank onto the bed. She looked at the emerald dress. It was beautiful, but it felt like a shroud. She picked up the new phone. Her finger hovered over the contact list. It was empty, except for one number: *Arga.*

She opened the browser and searched for her own name. The headlines were already shifting.

*Mystery Girl Identified: Zara Marligh, Fiancee of CEO Arga Wijaya?*

*The Secret Love Story: Why the Wedding of the Year was Almost Canceled.*

The lies were spreading like a virus, rewritten by Arga's PR team to turn a tragedy into a fairy tale. She scrolled down and saw a photo of Intan, posted an hour ago. It was a selfie of her sister smiling, captioned: *So happy for my big sis! Love always wins! #WeddingBells #FamilyFirst.*

Zara threw the phone against the wall. It didn't break, but the sound echoed in the empty room.

"I'm going to kill you, Intan," she whispered to the shadows. "I'm going to take everything you love and turn it to ash."

The next two days were a blur of tailors, lawyers, and silence. Arga was rarely home, and when he was, he ignored her. He was a ghost in his own house, a man obsessed with the numbers on a screen and the voices on his conference calls.

But on the third night, the night before the "wedding," he came to her room. He didn't knock this time. He looked disheveled, his tie hanging loose, a bottle of expensive scotch in his hand.

"Drink?" he offered, sitting on the edge of her bed.

Zara was sitting by the window, staring at the moon. "I don't drink anymore. Not after the last time someone gave me a glass."

Arga winced, a flicker of genuine emotion crossing his face before he masked it with a swig from the bottle. "Fair enough."

"Why are you here, Arga? Come to check on your investment?"

"The press will be at the registry tomorrow. We need to look like we're in love. Or at least, like we don't want to strangle each other." He looked at her, his gaze intense. "Can you do that? Can you pretend for an hour?"

"I've been pretending my whole life," Zara said, turning to face him. "I pretended my sister loved me. I pretended my father was a good man. I pretended Dion was my soulmate. Pretending you're not a monster will be easy compared to that."

Arga stood up, walking toward her. The room felt smaller as he approached. The scent of woodsmoke and expensive cologne filled her senses, a scent that was starting to become dangerously familiar.

"You think I'm a monster," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Maybe I am. But in this city, monsters are the only ones who don't get eaten."

He reached out, his hand hovering near her face. For a second, Zara thought he was going to touch her, and her heart skipped a beat-not out of fear, but out of something she couldn't name. Something dark and magnetic.

But he just tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers were cold.

"Tomorrow, the world will see you as a queen, Zara. Wear the crown. Even if it cuts your head open."

He turned to leave, but Zara called out to him. "Arga?"

He stopped.

"Why me? You could have picked anyone. You could have paid off a hundred girls to play this part. Why the one girl who has every reason to ruin you?"

Arga looked back at her, his eyes unreadable in the moonlight. "Because," he said softly, "you're the only one who looks at me and sees exactly what I am. And I'm tired of being the only one who knows."

He left before she could respond.

Zara stayed by the window long after the lights in the house went out. She thought about his words. He was tired. The billionaire, the lion of the business world, was exhausted by his own mask.

But she couldn't let herself feel sorry for him. Sympathy was a luxury she couldn't afford. Tomorrow, she would walk down the aisle and swear a lie to a man she hated. She would enter a den of lions, and she would have to learn how to bite back.

She looked at her reflection in the dark glass. Her eyes were hard now. The girl who cried in the park was gone.

"Let the game begin, Arga," she whispered.

The morning of the wedding was gray and drizzling, a fitting sky for a union born in a hotel room and sealed in blood. Bi Inah brought in the dress-a simple, elegant white column that cost more than a year of Zara's old salary.

As Zara put it on, she felt like she was putting on armor. She didn't wear a veil. She wanted to see everything. She wanted everyone to see her eyes.

The ceremony was at a small, private chapel on the outskirts of the city. There were no friends. No family-except for Arga's parents and Zara's family, who had been "invited" as a show of unity.

When Zara walked into the foyer of the chapel, she saw them.

Her father was wearing a tuxedo, looking proud and smug. Her mother was dabbing her eyes, acting the part of the emotional mother of the bride. And Intan... Intan was wearing a bright pink dress, standing next to her parents with a wide, fake smile.

But beside Intan stood Dion.

Zara's breath hitched. Why was he here?

Dion looked at her, and for a second, she saw a flash of regret in his eyes. Or maybe it was just greed. Now that she was marrying a Wijaya, she was no longer "used goods"-she was a connection.

Arga appeared beside her, his hand sliding firmly around her waist. He felt the tension in her body.

"Smile, Zara," he whispered in her ear. "The cameras are watching."

They walked into the chapel together. The flashes of the paparazzi outside were like lightning. Zara kept her head high.

As they stood before the registrar, Zara felt a strange sense of detachment. She heard the words, but they didn't mean anything. *To have and to hold. In sickness and in health.*

"I do," Arga said, his voice steady and clear.

The registrar looked at Zara. "And do you, Zara Marligh, take this man..."

Zara looked at her family in the front row. She saw Intan's eyes, narrow and jealous. She saw her father nodding, thinking about his factory.

"I do," she said.

The words felt like a curse.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."

Arga turned to her. He didn't hesitate. He leaned in and pressed his lips to hers. It wasn't a soft kiss. It was a claim. It was a message to the world: *She is mine.*

Zara didn't pull away. She leaned into him, her hands clutching his lapels. If she was going to be a villain in this story, she was going to be the best one they'd ever seen.

As they walked out of the chapel as Mr. and Mrs. Wijaya, the crowd of reporters surged forward.

"Mr. Wijaya! Is it true you've been dating in secret for a year?"

"Mrs. Wijaya, how does it feel to be part of the most powerful family in the country?"

Arga didn't stop. He shielded her with his body, ushering her into the waiting car.

But before the door closed, Zara caught Intan's eye. She didn't smile. She just looked at her sister with a cold, dead stare that said: *Your turn is coming.*

Inside the car, the silence returned. Arga loosened his tie and leaned back, closing his eyes.

"That's over," he said. "Now the real work begins."

"Work?" Zara asked, wiping the lipstick from her mouth.

"The gala is tonight. All my rivals will be there. Bram will be there. We need to show them that we're untouchable. If anyone asks about the hotel, you tell them we were celebrating our engagement early. Do you understand?"

"I understand," Zara said. "But I have my own work to do tonight."

Arga opened one eye. "And what's that?"

"I want to talk to Bram. Alone."

"No," Arga said instantly. "He's dangerous. He's the one who set us up, Zara. He wants to see you fall."

"Then let him see me," Zara said, her voice dropping to a dangerous level. "Let him see exactly what he created. You wanted a wife who could play the part, Arga. Let me play it."

Arga looked at her for a long moment. He saw the cold fire in her eyes, the same fire he had seen in the mirror every morning for the last five years. He realized then that he hadn't just bought a victim. He had bought an ally who might be more ruthless than he was.

"Fine," he said. "But if you slip up, I won't save you."

"I don't need you to save me," Zara said, looking out at the rainy streets of Jakarta. "I need you to get out of my way."

The car sped toward the mansion, the new Mr. and Mrs. Wijaya sitting side by side, miles apart in spirit but bound by a darkness that was only just beginning to unfold.

Tonight was the gala. Tonight, the world would see the new Zara. And tonight, the first head would roll.

Zara touched the teardrop earring in her pocket-the one Arga had found in the hotel. She had asked Bi Inah to find the matching one. She was wearing them both now. A reminder of the night she died.

"Get ready, Arga," she whispered to herself. "The monster is out of its cage."