The tiny red light pulsed, a silent accusation in the opulent silence of the Penthouse Perdana. Kirana felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach. Banyu’s warning, *They’re watching you. The producer,* echoed, now undeniably true. The forced intimacy with Zidan was one thing; constant surveillance by a murderous syndicate was another entirely. Her gaze flickered to Zidan, who was now meticulously folding a pristine white shirt, his movements precise, almost surgical. He hadn’t noticed her discovery, or if he had, he gave no sign. Kirana pocketed her phone, the message a burning weight against her thigh. She needed to be smarter, subtler. Every action, every word, would be observed. Every ‘clumsy’ moment could be scrutinized. The masquerade had begun. Two nights later, the Grand Palladium ballroom shimmered under the glare of a hundred camera flashes. The air thrummed with the frenetic energy of Jayakarta’s elite, a symphony of hushed conversations and the clinking of crystal. Kirana, draped in an emerald gown that clung to her frame like liquid moonlight, stood under the glare of a thousand eyes. Her smile was a studied curve, her hand resting lightly on Zidan’s arm, a pose perfected during hours of excruciating media training. He looked impossibly sleek in a tailored charcoal suit, his expression a carefully modulated blend of aloof charm. “Just remember,” Dewi Anggraini had hissed in the car, adjusting Kirana’s diamond earring. “Tonight, you two are the living embodiment of a fairy tale. Don’t break character. Our new studio slate depends on this.” Kirana scanned the glittering crowd, her smile never faltering. Her eyes, however, weren't searching for friendly faces. They sought a predator. And there he was. Sarmawan, in a bespoke midnight-blue suit, held court near the main stage, his laughter booming, drawing a cluster of investors closer. He exuded a magnetism that was almost tangible, a polished charm that promised grand visions and effortless success. Kirana felt a prickle of dread, a primal instinct screaming danger beneath the veneer of sophistication. He looked like the benevolent patron of the arts, not the puppet master pulling strings of murder. Zidan leaned closer, his voice a low rumble against her ear, audible only to her amidst the din. “Playing the part well, Mentari. Almost convincing.” “Same to you, Alamsyah,” she shot back, her smile widening for a nearby camera. “You look like you’re actually enjoying this charade.” The muscle along his cheek twitched. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m just a better actor.” The flashbulbs popped, capturing their mock-intimacy. They were Jayakarta’s darlings, the couple who had found love amidst tragedy. The narrative was perfect, designed to sell. And Kirana hated every glittering second of it. Sarmawan, as if sensing her gaze, turned his head. His eyes, dark and intelligent, locked onto hers across the room. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. He excused himself from his admirers and began to move towards them, a shark gliding through a school of lesser fish. “Showtime,” Zidan murmured, his hand subtly shifting, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin of her wrist. A silent warning. Sarmawan arrived, radiating warmth, his presence commanding. “Kirana, Zidan! My dear talents. What a splendid sight you two make tonight.” His voice was a smooth baritone, rich with false sincerity. He embraced Kirana with a brief, avuncular hug, then clapped Zidan on the shoulder. “The whole city is buzzing with your romance. Truly, a silver lining to such a regrettable incident.” He paused, his gaze lingering on Kirana’s face, a glint in his eyes that had nothing to do with admiration. “It’s a stark reminder, isn’t it, how fragile even the strongest among us can be? Especially our actresses. So delicate.” Kirana’s smile felt frozen. The words hung in the air, a veiled threat cloaked in concern. *Delicate.* A euphemism for easily broken, easily eliminated. She felt a surge of cold fury, but forced herself to laugh lightly, a sound like glass chimes. “Oh, Producer Sarmawan, you flatter me. I’m tougher than I look. My manager says I'm virtually indestructible.” She shot Dewi, who was beaming nearby, a conspiratorial wink. Zidan’s grip on her arm tightened almost imperceptibly, his expression unreadable. “Kirana has a resilience that often goes unappreciated,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, yet carrying a subtle edge that only Kirana would recognize. “She bounces back.” Sarmawan’s smile remained fixed. “Indeed. A rare quality. Do enjoy your evening, my dears.” He drifted away, leaving a lingering scent of expensive cologne and a chill in Kirana’s bones. “Did you hear him?” Kirana hissed, pulling her hand away the moment Sarmawan was out of earshot. “He all but spelled it out.” “He’s testing the waters,” Zidan replied, his eyes following Sarmawan’s retreating back. “Seeing how you react. Don’t give him the satisfaction.” Kirana’s gaze swept the room, searching. Sarmawan was now engaged in a hushed conversation with a bulky man in a ill-fitting tuxedo – not an industry type. His eyes were too sharp, his stance too rigid. A Naga Merah enforcer, no doubt. She needed to get closer, needed a way to listen. Her eyes lit on a nearby waiter with a tray of ruby-red ambrosia wine. An idea, reckless and immediate, sparked in her mind. “Excuse me for a moment,” she said to Zidan, her tone sweet, then turned and began to navigate the crowd. She moved with a practiced grace, her emerald gown flowing around her. As she neared Sarmawan and the thug, she feigned a stumble, her heel catching on an invisible snag in the plush carpet. A small gasp escaped her lips, and her hand, instead of reaching for balance, swung out, knocking the waiter’s tray. The ambrosia wine cascaded, a crimson splash across the thug’s pristine white shirt and the front of his jacket. “Oh, my deepest apologies!” Kirana cried, adopting an expression of frantic distress. “I am so terribly clumsy! Let me help you, please!” She fumbled for a napkin, her fingers brushing against the man’s lapel. In one swift, fluid motion, hidden by her voluminous sleeve and the ensuing chaos, she pressed a tiny, wafer-thin listening device onto the underside of his collar, just where it met his jacket. The thug grunted, annoyance etched on his face, but Kirana’s effusive apologies and the surrounding stares prevented him from making a scene. Sarmawan watched the interaction, his expression unreadable, a flicker of something that could have been suspicion, or perhaps just mild irritation, in his eyes. “Truly, my apologies,” Kirana repeated, making sure the device was secure before retreating, a demure, embarrassed actress. She rejoined Zidan, a triumphant glint in her eyes. “Sometimes, clumsiness has its uses,” she whispered, a subtle smirk playing on her lips. Zidan gave her a questioning look, but before he could press, Sarmawan stepped away from the red-stained thug, pulling out his phone. He moved to a quieter alcove, his back mostly to the room. Kirana caught the movement, her pulse quickening. She knew the device was working. She could almost hear the static hum of its connection to her disguised earpiece. Sarmawan’s voice, though low, carried clearly through the earpiece into Kirana’s ear. “Yes. The girl is more trouble than we thought. Arrange a permanent solution.”

Dinner with the Devil