Clinking silverware echoed through the tense dining room, a sharp contrast to the suffocating silence hanging over the table.
Heavy scents of jasmine tea and roasted beef did nothing to mask the underlying dread.
Andra kept his eyes locked on his plate, ignoring the woman seated directly opposite him.
His chest tightened with every passing second.
This was supposed to be a simple family dinner, but he knew his father too well to believe in simple gestures.
Every movement Hardian made was calculated, a move on a grand chessboard where everyone else was merely a pawn.
---
Andra's mind didn't just remember things; it recorded them like a high-speed camera.
Every blink, every microscopic twitch of a facial muscle, the exact tone and frequency of a voice—it was all captured and stored.
This ability had made him a genius in business negotiations.
He could tell when a partner was lying by the tiny sweat bead forming near their temple or the slight hesitation in their speech.
He could read people like open books.
But when he looked at Wulandari, his recorder felt sluggish, as if there was nothing worth capturing.
She was so bland, so utterly devoid of presence, that she almost felt like a blank space in his mind.
And yet, he couldn't help but note the dullness of her skin, the lack of styling in her hair, and the way she kept her head bowed.
It was an insult to his intelligence that his father thought this woman could be his equal.
---
"You have been quiet all evening, Andra," Hardian, his father, remarked with a voice like grinding stones.
Slowly raising his head, Andra met his father's uncompromising glare.
"I have nothing to say to this absurdity," Andra replied, his voice dropping to a dangerous quiet.
Hardian did not even blink.
Beside him, Andra’s mother, Rahayu, nervously adjusted her pearl necklace, her eyes pleading for peace.
Across the table sat Wulandari.
Disappointment tasted like ash on Andra's tongue.
Looking at her was an exercise in frustration.
She was short, her posture slightly slouched as if she wished to disappear into the upholstery of the expensive chair.
Her skin was dull and dark, devoid of the radiant glow possessed by the women Andra usually associated with.
Worse, she wore a drab, high-necked brown blouse that looked like it belonged to a schoolmistress from the previous century.
Unattractive, plain, and practically a spinster by their social circle's standards.
Andra’s internal recorder—his curse and his gift—instantly filed away the details.
Height: five feet.
Hair: pulled back into a severe, unflattering bun.
Face: round, with a nose too wide and lips that lacked any hint of gloss.
Everything about her screamed mediocrity.
---
"This is not a negotiation," Hardian declared, leaning forward.
"Wulandari will be your wife."
Andra slammed his fist on the mahogany table, the sound echoing his internal fury.
Plates rattled, and a water glass tipped over, spilling a cold puddle across the polished wood.
"No," Andra snarled, standing up so fast his chair scraped violently against the marble floor.
"I will not let you ruin my life for some archaic sense of obligation!"
Hardian remained perfectly still, his calm demeanor only fueling Andra’s rage.
"You will do as you are told, Andra," the old man said, his voice level but laced with steel.
"This marriage has been decided."
---
Bitter resentment swirled in his chest, a toxic cocktail of anger and a terrifying sense of lost control over his own destiny.
He had built his career, his life, and his steel-clad defenses to escape this exact feeling of helplessness.
Years ago, he had trusted someone.
Elena had been beautiful, a stark contrast to the plain woman sitting across from him now.
Elena had possessed a smile that could melt glaciers, and she had used it to tear his heart out.
She had played the role of the sweet, supportive partner perfectly.
All the while, she was copying his files, gathering his proprietary codes, and preparing to sell them to his fiercest rival.
When the blow landed, it nearly destroyed his startup.
More than the financial loss, the betrayal had carved a permanent scar into Andra's soul.
It taught him that beauty was a lie, a shiny wrapping designed to hide rot.
Since then, he had calculated every risk, analyzed every human interaction, and locked his heart behind a fortress of cold logic.
His mental recorder became his shield.
He used it to scan people, cataloging their micro-expressions, their vocal inflections, and their body language to predict their next moves.
Nobody got close enough to hurt him again.
Now, his father was forcing a key into that lock, handing it to a stranger.
And not just any stranger, but a woman who looked like she couldn't even survive a mild breeze in his world.
---
Silence stretched in the dining room, thick and suffocating.
Wulandari’s parents, sitting beside her, looked down at their laps, their faces burning with embarrassment at Andra's outburst.
They were humble people, old family friends of Hardian from his early days in the provinces before the wealth and power had accumulated.
Andra saw right through them.
He assumed they wanted his family's fortune, a ticket to high society for their plain, unmarried daughter.
"Sit down, Andra," Hardian commanded, his eyes narrowing.
"You are embarrassing yourself and our guests."
"The only embarrassment here is this forced circus," Andra spat, though he slowly lowered himself back into his seat, his knuckles white against the armrests.
His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped beast.
Every instinct screamed at him to run, to reject this farce and walk out.
But his father held the purse strings of the corporation Andra had spent the last five years expanding.
One signature from Hardian could strip him of everything he had built.
It was a calculated chess move, and Andra hated that he had been placed in check.
Pak Baskoro cleared his throat, his voice shaky.
"Hardian, perhaps we should give them time," Baskoro suggested softly.
"We don't want to force..."
"There is no time to waste, Baskoro," Hardian interrupted smoothly.
"Andra is stubborn, but he knows what is good for him."
---
Glancing sideways, Andra caught Wulandari’s expression.
She hadn't flinched when he slammed his hand down.
She hadn't gasped or shrunk away.
Instead, she sat there like a stone statue, her gaze fixed on the floral pattern of her plate.
Her lack of reaction irritated him even more.
Did she have no pride?
Did she not care that she was being forced onto a man who clearly despised the very sight of her?
"Wulandari is a good woman," Rahayu tried to soothe, her voice trembling slightly.
"She will make a wonderful wife, Andra. She is kind, quiet, and—"
"And completely unsuitable for me," Andra interrupted, his tone sharp as a razor.
"We live in different worlds, Mother. She belongs in a quiet village, not in the city, and certainly not at my side."
He wanted to hurt her.
He wanted to see her cry, to see her reject this arrangement herself so he wouldn't have to play the villain alone.
If she had any dignity, she would stand up and leave.
But she remained seated, her hands folded neatly in her lap, hidden beneath the edge of the table.
"I am not a prize to be won, nor am I a charity case," Andra added, leaning back.
"If she wants a comfortable life, I can write her a check right now."
"Andra!" Rahayu gasped, horror coloring her face.
"Apologize this instant!"
Andra only laughed, a cold, humorless sound that cut through the room like a knife.
---
"Enough," Hardian said, the finality in his voice absolute.
"The wedding will take place in three weeks. The papers are already being prepared."
Andra's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
His mind raced, desperately searching for a loophole, a strategy, anything to dismantle this trap.
His unique ability, the mental recorder he had possessed since childhood, began to play back the entire evening in high-definition detail.
He saw the way his father's left eyebrow twitched when he spoke of the papers.
He saw the subtle nod of Wulandari's father.
He saw the exact angle of the spilled water creeping toward Wulandari's side of the table.
Every micro-expression, every shift in posture was logged into his brain, a database of human deceit and weakness.
He would find a way out of this.
He had to.
"You think you can force me," Andra said, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"I can strip you of the presidency of the company by tomorrow morning," Hardian replied without missing a beat.
"Do not test my patience, Andra."
The threat hung in the air, heavy and undeniable.
Andra felt the walls closing in on him.
His independence, the empire he had bled for, was being held hostage for this plain, silent woman.
He hated his father.
He hated this room.
Most of all, he hated the woman sitting opposite him, who seemed content to let others decide her fate.
---
Dinner ended in a tense, formal chill.
No one spoke as the dessert was cleared away untouched.
Hardian stood up to escort Wulandari's parents to the foyer, leaving Andra and Wulandari alone at the long table for a brief, agonizing moment.
Andra stood up, preparing to walk out without a single word to her.
He refused to acknowledge her existence any more than necessary.
As he turned to leave, Wulandari finally raised her head.
Her eyes, dark and surprisingly deep, locked onto his.
It was the first time they had made direct eye contact.
There was no anger in her gaze, no tears, and no submission.
As Wulandari's gaze briefly meets his, Andra's unique ability, his internal 'recorder,' captures an almost imperceptible tremor in her hand, a detail that sharply contradicts her outward composure, hinting at a hidden turmoil beneath her placid facade.