Midsummer, the sky a clear blue without a single wisp of cloud. The sun blazed fiercely over the Mugello Circuit, Scarperia e San Piero, Italy. The 5,245-meter track was packed with tens of thousands of spectators who had come from various countries to watch the Italian MotoGP series.
Under an air temperature reaching 34 degrees Celsius, the riders had to endure 23 laps on their bikes. The Mugello Circuit has 15 corners—9 right turns and 6 left turns—with an average track width of 14 meters, and one straight stretch spanning 1,141 meters, notorious as the deadliest overtaking point. The audience held their breath watching them glide smoothly, speed down the straight, weave sharply through the chicane, roaring forward at speeds reaching 350 km/h on the longest straight.
A rider of Indonesian-French descent wearing a black-neon green racing suit kept gunning the throttle on his Yamaha YZR-M1 Monster Energy 1000cc. He led at the front, clocking the fastest lap. Initially, the number 93 Yamaha had gone almost unnoticed—having started from 12th position—until the final twenty minutes, when he tore through Arrabbiata 1 and 2, reaching tenth position, then seventh at the Scarperia corner, then fifth at the Correntaio corner. And he kept surging forward at breakneck speed.
The crowd's attention now focused as the Yamaha rider began to slip past the Repsol Honda ridden by a Spanish rider at the Bucine corner. Both bikes shot down the straight at 280 km/h.
The green-black Yamaha attempted to overtake the Repsol Honda from the outside, and suddenly the red Ducati slid over, blocking the Yamaha's path. They overtook each other on the track at high speed. Now they were side by side at the Casanova–Savelli corner, their tires almost touching. The spectators momentarily held their breath, watching the two riders separated by mere centimeters.
The final lap of the race was nearly complete. The Ducati rider was one step ahead of the Yamaha, victory almost within his grasp. Upon reaching the last corner—the Bucine corner—both riders leading the race tightened their grip on the handlebars. The red Ducati rider could see the Yamaha rider glance briefly his way—a look full of calculation. The crowd's attention immediately snapped toward the Yamaha, which suddenly overtook from the inside at 270 km/h, roaring past the finish line toward the chequered flag.
The spectators cheered and screamed in exhilaration. Several paddock staff ran toward him. The rider dismounted from his bike and removed the helmet he was wearing. The sun illuminated his face with elegance. A man in his late twenties with sharp features and a strong jawline. Enveloped in captivating handsomeness, a cold aura in his expression.
While walking toward the podium, the man waved to journalists, media crew, and fans eager to capture his moment. At the same time, a beautiful woman immediately embraced him.
The woman wore a knee-length high-waist cream-colored dress that accentuated the curves of her body. Her black hair cascaded freely down to her back, accompanied by graceful gestures. After the embrace ended, the two kissed intimately right in front of the public and cameras.
The woman was Helena Aurelia Wijaya—the rider's wife.
Maxime stood on the highest podium, joyfully spraying a bottle of champagne. The smile etched across his face radiated an atmosphere of arrogance and excessive self-confidence. Once again, victory was his. The trophy of honor was his once more—but that was not what he pursued every time he won a race, but rather a sense of satisfaction. The satisfaction when you can defeat others, the satisfaction when you are at the highest peak of popularity. And now, Maxime had all of it.
·
That night, the Jakarta sky was gray, without a single twinkling star. The full moon reigned above, casting its pale light, illuminating the cracks of dark alleys in the Senayan area untouched by light.
He stood alone in the darkness of night. His eyes gazed emptily out the slightly dusty window of the Agora hotel, staring at the high-rise buildings along Jalan Gatot Subroto, congested with motor vehicle traffic below—occasionally puddles left from the afternoon rain. A familiar sight inseparable from the city of Jakarta.
The man possessed a calmness capable of controlling his body and feelings. An Asian man with a handsome face accompanied by a touch of sweetness on the other side. He had jet-black hair with sharp features, yet could appear full of gentleness—if he so desired. He stood 175 cm tall with a slender yet well-built body. The hotel room lamp was on, and the man turned his head toward the bed. His eyes briefly squinted against the light.
"Still not asleep yet?" his voice was flat.
Felicia Anastasia—the woman who was with Kenan Pradipta in the hotel room at The Agora, Slipi, Central Jakarta, tonight. A 25-year-old woman with a captivating face typical of Medan-Javanese descent. Implicitly, the woman always let Kenan know that she was always ready to provide whatever pleasure he desired, whenever Kenan wanted. As long as the man stayed with her, remained by her side.
Felicia approached Kenan. Her pair of hands wrapped around the man's waist, hugging him from behind.
"What are you really thinking about, anyway?" Felicia asked softly.
Without turning, Kenan answered, "Nothing."
But Felicia knew exactly what the man was thinking.
"Are you bored? Come on, if something's bothering your mind, just tell me—I'm ready to listen."
Kenan closed his eyes, let out a long sigh, trying to ignore Felicia.
The woman tried again. "Or you could talk about another topic, like... about your mom? Or your dad?"
Both of Kenan's eyelids flew wide open at the word 'dad' being mentioned.
"My dad? Dad..." Kenan repeated several times, his eyes still staring far out the window.
Kenan Pradipta was born and raised in Bandung, specifically in the Ciumbuleuit area. Kenan's father—Yahya Pradipta served as the Head of the Finance Sub-Division at the Bandung City Hall when he disappeared, right after it was revealed that infrastructure development project funds amounting to Rp7.2 billion were reported missing.
Kenan still vaguely remembered the small family celebration at their modest house on Jalan Sersan Bajuri when his father received a promotion. At that time, he was only about four years old. Who could have guessed that his father's position would one day be splashed across the pages of Kompas and Pikiran Rakyat as headline news—a crime of embezzlement. After his father vanished, Kenan and Ladia Nirmala—his mother—were ostracized in the RT and RW community where they lived. They decided to move to Jakarta, specifically to a cramped rented house in the Tanah Abang area. Three years later, Ladia died suddenly of a heart attack—the doctor said it was due to exhaustion from overwork.
There was one thing Kenan never knew until the day of his mother's death: when he disappeared, his father left behind divorce papers. Kenan's name was listed there as the child who follows the mother—and Yahya had already crossed out his signature. All Ladia had to do was sign it and submit it to the civil registry. But Ladia never did. There was word that Kenan heard that his father had another woman.
Now, for the first time, Kenan allowed his thoughts to drift to memories he had all this time pushed out of his mind, which he had always avoided thinking about. Over the past fifteen-plus years, not a single person had ever been interested in knowing the story of his family—until finally today. This woman named Felicia was the one curious about his past.
"When I was three years old, my dad left me. Three years later, my mom followed. The difference is, mom left while saying goodbye," Kenan said with a gloomy expression.
He then turned, staring deeply into Felicia's eyes.
"My dad left my mom with the responsibility he abandoned. He left the two of us."
Kenan reached out, lifting Felicia's chin so he could gaze at her more intensely. But the look in his eyes was cold.
"A bastard man who easily comes and goes as he pleases. And a bastard man like that usually breeds another bastard too."
Felicia's eyes welled up with tears.
"Are... are you going to leave me too?" she asked hoarsely, her voice almost caught in her throat.
Kenan smirked, his eyes cynical. "What do you think?"
He wanted Felicia to try guessing for herself.
Felicia's tears spilled over. "You're so cruel, you know that!"
"You know it yourself," Kenan smiled slightly, admitting it calmly.
Kenan released Felicia's hands that were still wrapped around his waist. He walked over to the white sofa near the window, picking up his black coat that had been lying there haphazardly.
Kenan felt there was nothing else he needed to do with this woman. That was why he didn't want to linger.
"Don't leave me, please! I'll do anything for you. Kenan... I love you so much..." Felicia whispered pleadingly, her hand gripping Kenan's tightly.
But Kenan brushed her off somewhat roughly until her grip broke free. He walked away without a single word, leaving Felicia drowning in sobs.
The woman actually already knew it would end like this. Yet Felicia kept trying to hold on to Kenan so he would always be by her side, even if she had to give up her honor.
The woman knew it would end up like this, but Felicia kept trying to hold on to Kenan so he would always stay by her side, even if she had to give up her honor to that man.
There are two types of women most easily found in this world, namely: women who love a man because they are comfortable with his gentle attitude and treatment. And the second are women who love bastards and ignore those who offer sincerity. Someone once said, If you fall in love, you will close your eyes and open your heart. Perhaps that is why love is said to be blind, unable to see and unable to hear. Over time, this will cause a person to become foolish, regardless of their IQ and EQ level. Once they fall too deeply in love, that person will become foolish if they find the wrong person and keep on loving them.
·
Several days after Maxime's victory at the Mugello Circuit, they were still staying at Hotel Villa d'Este—a five-star lakeside hotel in Cernobbio, Lake Como, Italy. Their suite faced directly onto the water, with a white marble balcony and silk curtains fluttering gently in the Alpine mountain breeze.
Today Helena decided to make use of the hotel kitchen facilities specially loaned to her. Over the past two weeks, she had secretly taken Italian cooking classes from Chef Massimo—the executive chef of the Michelin-starred restaurant on the hotel's ground floor. Today was her final exam: making beef lasagna Bolognese from scratch, without the help of a sous chef.
Now, Helena stood at the suite's dining table, hands on her hips, waiting anxiously. Maxime sat in a chair—his hair still wet from a shower, wearing a casual white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
"How's my cooking?" Helena asked, her eyes sparkling.
Maxime took a few spoonfuls of the lasagna. Chewing. His eyes widened slightly.
"Delicious," he praised briefly, then took another bite. And another. Usually, he only ate a little—to maintain his weight for racing. But this was his third mouthful, and he hadn't stopped.
Helena smiled in satisfaction—until her eyes narrowed in delight.
This was the result of the cooking course she had secretly attended over the past two months. Even though she was actually skilled in haute couture—an inheritance from her father, Galen Roi Wijaya, a renowned Indonesian designer. But when it came to the kitchen? She once nearly burned down her apartment kitchen when she was dating Maxime. Now, she could make lasagna that her husband finished without a single complaint.
Maxime eventually stopped eating. He looked at Helena, who was still propping her chin on both hands on the table—gazing at him as if he were the center of the universe.
"I know I'm handsome. But please... don't look at me like that."
Helena scoffed. "Don't be so full of yourself, Max. I'm looking at your ugly face, not admiring you." But her eyes sparkled, and her smile couldn't disappear. "I'm just thinking... what demon possessed me back then that I ended up as your wife."
Maxime just listened. Helena did like to talk like that—rough on the outside, but soft on the inside.
"What kind of spell did you cast on me..." Helena continued, her voice softer, "...that I can't hate you?"
Maxime finished his last bite. Then he looked at Helena—straight, serious.
"So... are you happy with me?"
"Do you love me?" Helena asked back—deflecting. Asking for a confession before she was willing to admit anything.
Maxime leaned his body forward. His warm fingers touched Helena's cheek—a gentle caress on that high cheekbone.
"I love you," he answered. Sincere. No trace of small talk.
Helena caught Maxime's hand on her cheek. She gripped it tightly—as if afraid to let go.
"I'm always happy with you..." she said softly. "...as long as you love me."
Maxime smiled in satisfaction. He slowly pulled his hand back—not letting go, but reversing the position, so that he was now the one holding Helena's hand.
"Get ready," he said. "We're going home to Jakarta tomorrow morning. Flight's at 8."
"I haven't finished packing," Helena complained—but still smiled.
"Ask the assistant for help," Maxime answered curtly.
He stood up, walking toward the balcony overlooking Lake Como. Its water was bluish-green under the late afternoon sun. The mountains in the distance were still blanketed in thin snow.
From behind, Helena let out a sigh—but not a sigh of exhaustion. The sigh of someone who was happy.
·
That night was colder than usual. Kenan lit a cigarette—Sampoerna Mild—in a corner of Exodus Club, inside Kuningan City Mall, South Jakarta. A cocktail glass of Long Island Tea remained nearly untouched, only occasionally glanced at lazily. If it weren't for a promise to meet Joni—his old friend from his days hanging around the Blok M area—Kenan wouldn't have come to this club. Sitting alone while being eyed by several people wanting to try approaching him—yeah, just to be a bed partner.
From a distance, someone was watching him. A curious gaze. Kenan noticed—he was someone who could tell the difference between merely looking and genuinely being interested. Because Kenan knew, he was always the center of attention. Just wearing tight black jeans and a thin long-sleeved gray t-shirt, his slender neck was visible. There was no man or woman who could resist glancing at him—unless their eyes were blind.
Before long, Kenan saw the guy asking around to one of his friends at the table next to the bar. Who knows what they were talking about. After that, the guy walked toward him. Kenan could see through the corner of his eye—he took a sip of beer as the guy sat on the barstool to his left.
"Alone?" the guy asked with a grin. His eyes looked Kenan up and down.
Kenan didn't answer. He inhaled his cigarette, blew out the smoke slowly. Didn't turn.
"I'm Daniel," the guy introduced himself.
Kenan turned, smirking. "I know."
"You know me?" Daniel was surprised and curious at once.
Kenan smoked again, blew the smoke to the side. His gaze was arrogant, his eyes flickering under the disco lights.
"I know you, Dan. A month ago, your men got beaten up because they took your girl. Then you ordered your other men to destroy the car you gave to that girl of yours—when you found out your girl used that car to meet another guy."
Daniel's eyes lit up. Angry. Kenan was clearly belittling his dignity. But Kenan only chuckled softly.
"Funny, isn't it. You gave your girl—a whore—a car. But she instead invited another guy to enjoy that car. Then you ordered people to wreck the car. Funny, right?"
Bam!
Daniel was already about to punch Kenan in the face. But Kenan was faster. A kick to the stomach—Daniel fell off the stool, crashing face-first to the floor. Several Exodus Club security guards glanced their way, but they seemed reluctant to deal with it since it was just a minor scuffle.
Kenan picked up his cocktail glass, stood, and walked arrogantly toward Daniel.
"Look here, coward. You can't even handle your own woman properly!"
Some patrons shouted, some laughed. Kenan poured the remaining cocktail onto Daniel's shirt.
"YOU DOG!" Daniel yelled. He got up, fists clenched, teeth grinding.
Just as his hand was about to fly, someone held him back from behind—the club bouncer.
"Don't cause trouble in here!"
"I'm the one causing trouble? He started it!" Daniel protested.
Kenan interjected, his voice calm. "I started it, you say? Weren't you the one who attacked me first? You failed to hit me, then you threw a tantrum like a child, then you accuse me of starting it? You're talking nonsense."
"WATCH YOURSELF, WHORE! I'LL GET YOU BACK ONE DAY!!" Daniel shouted as he was escorted out by security.
Daniel's figure was replaced by Joni—his hair dyed brown, wearing a black shirt.
"You're at it again, Ken," Joni remarked, slipping in beside Kenan, both hands in his pockets.
"I didn't start it. That idiot did," Kenan denied.
Joni let out a long sigh. Typical. Kenan was always calm after getting into trouble. Not a trace of anger on his face. He really was adept at controlling his emotions.