The Marriage Contract Act had been filed away in Farhan's safe, but the clauses within it had taken root deeper in Sekar's mind than any printed ink could. For the past four years, Sekar had lived according to professional rules, but now, her entire existence including the very air she breathed was subject to the Absolute Control of Farhan Raksamudra.
A few days later, in her small apartment that now felt alien, Sekar packed up her life. The process was as efficient as how she organized financial reports without sentimentality, without wasted pauses. Sekar's life was obedience, and that obedience was now paid in cash. She traded her freedom for financial certainty for her mother.
At the bottom of her drawer, among nearly empty perfume bottles and spare pens, Sekar found the small object she was looking for: a tiny bottle of white pills meant to control the storms raging within her chest anti-anxiety medication. She had rarely used it since becoming Farhan's secretary. The external stability created by Farhan always worked better than any psychiatrist's prescription.
Sekar held the bottle. All this time, the pills had been an emergency promise, a safety valve if she reached Zero Point. But now, her emergency promise was no longer chemical. It was Farhan himself. This contract, with its fifty pages of brutal and detailed rules, was a blueprint for perfect order. If every minute of her life was controlled, there would be no room for random variables, and without random variables, there would be no panic attacks.
With decisive motion, Sekar walked to the trash. The bottle landed atop discarded papers. She threw away her sedatives. It was symbolic: Sekar vowed to fully comply with Farhan's system. She would make Farhan's control her new internal fortress.
That afternoon, Sekar arrived at Farhan's penthouse. The glass-and-steel building dominating the Jakarta skyline was not a home, but an unspoken statement of power. Farhan greeted her in the central hall. No warm welcome or help with her belongings. Only audit and rapid transition.
"I've ensured your belongings arrived on schedule, Sekar," Farhan said, his voice calm. He held a digital tablet not to check the stock market, but to review the new domestic Standard Operating Procedure (SOP).
"Domestic SOP?" Sekar asked, slightly confused. She knew there would be rules, but the term was usually only used in factories or server rooms.
"Of course," Farhan replied. "This house is an extension of Raksamudra Group's control. And you are a work partner, coincidentally with the status of a wife, for this project. Domestic duties don't mean you must perform housework we have staff. But it does mean compliance with the schedule, appearance, and privacy boundaries that I require. This is outside office hours. Read carefully."
Farhan slid the tablet toward Sekar. The screen displayed a detailed list that made the clauses of the Act seem friendly. The list included details such as:
Night Bathing Time (No more than 20 minutes)Personal Phone Use (Maximum 30 minutes per day, for family purposes only. Weekly Audit Log)Communal vs. Private Areas (Your bedroom, now a 'Designated Privacy Area,' must remain clean to hospital standards. The rest is 'Communal/Emergency Office Area'.)Night Dress Code (Neat robe in communal areas, simple and appropriate pajamas in private rooms).
Sekar read the list without blinking. Though her mind was busy processing how someone could formulate an SOP for sleeping at night, her face still displayed unparalleled professionalism.
"I understand everything, Mr. Farhan," Sekar said, returning the tablet. "I will start adjusting today as well."
Farhan nodded, satisfied. "Efficiency. That is what we pursue. And I must remind you, I value silence. We will have dinner in the dining room precisely at 19:30. Not because of family tradition, but because it is an efficient break to discuss tomorrow's work plan."
Since Sekar moved in, Farhan felt the foundation of his empire more stable. He had the most reliable controlled variable ever, now occupying every space in his life. Decisions, meals, meeting schedules, and now even sleeping schedules all ran under the architecture of Sekar's control, perfected by Farhan's obsession.
A week passed. Sekar's life became a rhythmic motion. She rose precisely at 05:00. Breakfast was already served, and she was at the work desk when Farhan arrived in the dining room at 06:30. At night, after assisting Farhan with late-night emails, Sekar retired to her room at the time Farhan had specified.
Sekar excelled in this role. Yet, a new conflict emerged, a battle at a deeply personal frontier: Sekar had lost her silent pause.
The silent pause was a quiet moment she needed to perform her small rituals. Rituals of calm, which could include a hidden deep breath, writing a single line of feeling in her diary, or simply five minutes staring out the window without thinking of responsibilities.
With Farhan's protocol, every second not used for work was counted as sleep time. Even five idle minutes between the 10th email and the daily report were considered waste, which could be filled with a brief discussion with Farhan about competitor strategy.
That night, at 22:45, Sekar tried to find a pause. Farhan was in the library, talking to a consultant on the phone. Sekar returned to her room, retrieved her small diary from a hidden drawer. She only needed two minutes to write: "Today's pressure: 8/10. Successfully contained."
The moment her pen touched the paper, her door was knocked once sharp and cold. Sekar knew it was Farhan.
She quickly hid the diary, placing it under a stack of presentation documents she had deliberately put on the desk for deception.
"Come in, Sir," she said, regaining her perfect posture.
Farhan entered. His eyes scanned the room. Farhan didn't care about interior design; he cared about anomalies. He saw Sekar, standing beside the desk, wearing her loose, plain cotton pajamas. Old, polite, yet unremarkable pajamas. Exactly as stated in the guide:
Farhan held a freshly printed document one he had certainly worked on while on the phone. He walked toward Sekar.
"I've finished the latest adjustments on tomorrow's presentation. You must read this before bed," he said. Sekar took the paper. Their fingers nearly touched, and the tension was sharper than a knife.
As Farhan turned to leave, his gaze fell on Sekar's attire.
"Sekar," he called. His tone was not angry, but carried an authority far more intimidating.
"Yes, Mr. Farhan?"
"Those pajamas."
Sekar bowed her head. "Is there a problem, Sir? I made sure they meet the criteria you mentioned: 'simple and appropriate.'"
Farhan sighed, impatient. "The purpose of the SOP is to ensure everything in my control room conveys order. That cotton pajama… Sekar, it's cheap. This is Raksamudra. We must ensure our image of perfection is integrated, even in silence. This is not about politeness. It's about visualization."
Farhan stepped closer, narrowing his eyes. "Starting tomorrow, I want you to wear the silk robe that will be sent. In muted colors, like dark gray or maroon. When you walk in the Communal Area, you must reflect the brand value. I don't want any domestic appearance undermining the precision image."
Sekar froze. Even her sleepwear, the last manifestation of personal rights, now had to be regulated for 'brand value.' She felt the walls closing in, crushing the air around her. This was no longer about stocks; this was the shrinking of the soul.
"Understood, Mr. Farhan?" he pressed, noticing her pause was too long.
Sekar struggled to swallow. Fear returned suddenly, slipping through the hole she had tried to cover with Farhan's contract. If she couldn't even breathe while dressed for sleep, how could she survive two years?
"Yes, Sir. I understand. Silk pajamas," Sekar replied. Her voice sounded flat, but there was a weight in her throat that strained her vocal cords.
Sekar knew she had to breathe. She had to inhale. But she was too afraid to show any physical response in front of Farhan.
Farhan nodded, turned, and left. Sekar waited until the door closed perfectly and she heard Farhan's footsteps recede. She looked back at the paper in her hands. But her lungs were now screaming.
Sekar had held her breath too long. Her head began to throb, and her disciplined body finally betrayed her.