Jakarta's skyline gleamed like a sheet of polished steel, reflecting towers that clawed at the clouds. At the top of one of them stood Arka Pradipta, facing the floor-to-ceiling glass. His office mirrored himself: clean, sharp, and devoid of warmth. The digital clock in the corner read 06:41—too early for meetings, too soon for weakness.
He reached for a black tie draped over his chair and knotted it without a mirror. Every motion was precise, habitual, calming. On the desk, market data flickered on the monitors—numbers rising, falling, pausing as if to breathe. Arka studied them without blinking, reading not chance but pattern. His life had been built on seeing the unseen—whether in numbers, words, or people's carefully hidden lies.
The glass door slid open.
Juno, his chief of staff, entered with silent steps.
"Your schedule," he said curtly, placing a tablet on the desk. "Board meeting at eight. Singapore investors at nine-thirty. And—" He hesitated briefly. "—onboarding for the new secretary at ten."
Arka turned slightly. "Name?"
"Nayla Anindya."
Arka stored the name as if pinning it to a map. "Background?"
"Economics, cum laude. Former EA at a health-tech firm. Good references. Calm, discreet. Doesn't... stand out."
"Doesn't stand out?"
"She doesn't seek attention." Juno shrugged. "You like people like that."
Arka didn't respond. He signed a few papers without glancing down; he knew every line by heart. He had written much of the language himself—replacing words like flexibility with compliance, opportunity with authority. Language that fenced. Language that meant one thing only: his.
"Call Legal," he said. "I want an addendum to the Netra vendor contract. Stricter penalties—two percent delay equals ten percent cut. No leniency."
Juno nodded. He would execute without asking why. No one asked why with Arka; they only ensured why had already happened.
When Juno left, Arka's phone vibrated. A message from an old number he hadn't deleted—perhaps to remember a specific flavor of bitterness.
You're really going on Prime Ke next week? it read.
He turned the phone face-down. The past had a bad habit of showing up when the present was too quiet.
He pressed the intercom.
"Coffee," he said. Then, "No sugar."
The coffee arrived just as the sun climbed over the city. From this height, the highway below looked like a pulsing vein. Arka sipped the familiar bitterness. The soundproofed air wrapped the room like armor, separating him from the chaos outside. Here, control reigned. Here, commands were louder than prayers.
At eight, the directors entered one by one, carrying smiles that disguised fatigue. Arka sat at the head of the long table, pen between his fingers. When he spoke, his voice never rose; it didn't have to.
"Q3 report," he said.
The slides rolled. Numbers up. Muted applause. Arka raised a hand.
"The margin increased because of cost cuts, not innovation," he said, eyes on the CFO. "If we don't find a way to make money without slicing ourselves thinner, we're like a hospital proud of fewer patients—not because they're healthy, but because the doors are closed."
The CFO swallowed. "We're currently—"
"Next month," Arka cut him off. "Bring me a plan that doesn't borrow from the future."
His pen tapped the table once. In that silence, the sound was a verdict.
He turned to the COO. "East warehouse operations. Two percent leakage in stock. Small number, yes. But small leaks teach tolerance. I don't tolerate habits."
"Already addressed, sir. Tighter oversight, new vendor."
"Not the vendor," Arka said. "The habit."
The meeting ended without applause. When the room emptied, Arka remained still. That tight string in his chest—the sweet ache of control—thrummed quietly. Control was safety, but safety always had teeth.
At nine-thirty, the investors arrived with suits too tight and smiles too wide. They spoke of expansion, synergy, cross-border opportunities. Arka listened, then interrupted when their promises gleamed too long.
"I'm not interested in overused words," he said coolly. "Show me the worst-case scenario—then we'll see if I'm still interested."
They stammered, adjusted slides, displayed risks and mitigation charts. Arka nodded slightly.
"My team will reach out," he said, meaning: You haven't earned a yes, but not yet a no.
By ten, the office was quiet again. Arka studied his reflection in the glass—cold eyes, hard jaw, traces of a youth forced to mature too early. He twisted the ring on his finger—not a wedding band, just habit—and exhaled slowly, emptying his mind like sterilizing an instrument.
A knock.
"Sir," Juno's voice. "Ms. Anindya is here."
"Send her in."
The door slid open. The scent of rain lingered on her clothes. A woman stepped inside, pausing at the proper distance. Black hair tied neatly, a face free of embellishment. Her eyes met Arka's—calm, sharp, and far too steady.
"Nayla Anindya," she said. Her voice was low, clear, unshaken. "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir."
Arka didn't return the greeting. He preferred people to wonder whether they were welcome or merely tolerated. He pointed at the chair opposite him. "Sit."
He glanced at the file Juno had left: a concise CV, glowing recommendations, a standard NDA. Arka tapped the folder. "You read all this?"
"Yes, sir."
"What didn't you read?"
Nayla lifted her gaze. "What isn't written."
Something flickered behind Arka's eyes—not a smile, but acknowledgment.
"Good." He folded his hands. "Tell me three languages you'll use in this office."
"Formal for documents. Brief for meetings. And silence—for what's not said."
"And silence works?"
"Often more honest," she said.
The room stilled. In the glass behind him, their reflections looked like two chess pieces that refused to stay pawns.
"My work isn't kind," Arka said. "Long hours. High expectations. Mistakes are paid in full."
"I'm not looking for kind," Nayla replied. "I'm looking for clarity."
"Clarity requires consequence." Arka drew a folder from his drawer—a document HR hadn't seen. "This addendum is specific to your role. Beyond the NDA, it includes a deeper confidentiality clause. You'll have wide access. Anything you see or hear—even a wrong gesture in a meeting—belongs to this company."
Nayla accepted the document, scanning it swiftly. Her fingers didn't tremble.
"Questions?" Arka asked.
"Two," she said. "If I refuse, can I still work here?"
"Yes," said Arka. "Just not in this room."
"And if I accept," she said, closing the folder, "what do you expect from me on my first day?"
He studied her tone—no fear, only calculation.
"I want my schedule redone so no minute waits for anyone. Every meeting gets a one-page brief—three points: risk, decision needed, consequence of indecision. Filter my emails like blood through a kidney: discard the poison, circulate the useful. And—" He paused, considering if this next part was too honest. "—say the things others are afraid to."
"Understood." Nayla jotted a note. "This clause here," she tapped the document, "mentions hours outside the office. Does that mean I should always be available?"
"Availability is the default," he said. "That clause exists for the rare times when a decision must be made before others wake."
"And who wakes you if I don't?" she asked.
Arka turned to her fully for the first time, gaze sharpened. "No one."
Silence followed—not cold, but charged, a space waiting to be filled. The city's roar below became a hum. Arka studied her face—not conventionally beautiful, but orderly, composed, uncracked. And her eyes—yes, those eyes—did not lower too quickly.
"Do you have a past you'd rather hide?" Arka asked, as if taking inventory.
"Everyone does," Nayla said. "The difference is, I'm prepared when it knocks."
"Good." Arka handed back the pen. "Sign."
She signed without hesitation—no request to think it over, no copy to take home. Her signature was firm, unbroken. Arka watched the ink sink into paper. In a world made of pixels and numbers, something staying on the page was strangely satisfying.
"From now on," Arka said, "you don't wait for instructions. You anticipate."
"I understand."
"Prove it." He leaned back slightly, granting rare space. "You have thirty minutes before the Prime Ke meeting. Prepare a brief. Three scenarios: if they demand a guarantee stamp, a board seat, or raw data access. Include legal, reputational, and one unteachable risk."
Nayla stood. "Yes, sir." She gathered the files, then paused.
"Your coffee earlier—no sugar," she said. "I'll replace it with something that won't make you restless by eleven."
One of Arka's eyebrows almost moved. "You think I'm restless?"
"I think you don't have time for the wrong caffeine," she replied, and left.
The door closed. Arka looked at his half-finished cup, bitter as midnight. A small, unwilling smile touched his lips. People usually offered less on first meetings—less honesty, less courage. This woman offered precision.
He turned toward the city again. Somewhere out there, enemies waited. Some held proof, some waited for moments, some longed to see his empire fall. Arka feared none of them. He feared only one thing: complacency. Complacency had a soft voice. Sometimes, it sounded like a new assistant who knew his coffee.
The intercom buzzed.
"Sir," Juno said, "Legal has approved the Netra clause."
"Confirm." Arka cut the line. A new notification blinked: Brief: Prime Ke — Draft, Nayla. Fifteen minutes since she left. He opened the file.
Three points per scenario. Clear, concise. Legal risks cited by clause, not jargon. Reputational risks analyzed through potential media coverage. And the unteachable risk:
Psychological dependence on partners who offer convenience too soon.
Below it: Deals that come too easily often demand the highest price once we've grown comfortable.
Arka exhaled slowly. He reread the line, and a faint, private smile ghosted across his reflection.
A knock. Nayla entered again, this time with two cups.
"Your coffee," she said, placing one before him, "half-shot, medium roast. And tea for me. I don't drink coffee before meetings—my hands tend to be too honest."
"Honesty is dangerous?" Arka asked.
"In the wrong room."
Arka laced his fingers together. "You're not an ordinary secretary, Ms. Anindya."
"I'm not anything easy," she said evenly. Then, after a pause: "But I'm useful."
Arka turned the cup, inhaling the faint scent of wood and fruit.
"Show me," he said—not as a challenge, but as a contract.
Outside, the sun struck the glass, scattering a thousand cold shards of light. Inside, they sat across from each other—separated by a hand's width of polished table, dense as stone.
Arka pressed the intercom. "Prepare the Prime Ke meeting. Fifteen minutes."
He ended the call and looked at Nayla. "Remember one thing."
"What is it?"
"Everyone who walks into this room wants something from me," he said softly. "Your job is to make sure I never give it without making them pay."
Nayla nodded, calm eyes catching the glass's dark glint. "Understood."
Arka rose. "Let's go."
They walked side by side through the silent corridor, their footsteps muffled by thick carpet—but beneath that quiet moved a pulse, an unspoken current of something beginning. Beyond the door, the world waited. Behind Arka, the woman followed without asking permission.
In a world built of glass, power always looked simple. Yet, like ice—solid above, lethal beneath—it hid depths cold enough to kill. Arka knew. Nayla would learn.
And as they stood on its surface, one truth lingered—cracks never make a sound until it's too late to step back.