The penthouse door closed behind them with an almost inaudible sound. That sound marked the boundary separating Sekar from her public role as Mrs. Raksamudra, worn all night, returning her to her private roles: Perfect Secretary and Contract Wife.
Fatigue, the residue of adrenaline from her confrontation with the Rival, crept under Sekar's skin. The Rival had pierced her mask with a single whisper. Yet, in Farhan's control room, there was no room for vulnerability. Instinctively, Sekar returned to protocol. High heels removed, suit jacket hung neatly, she took the concise Board of Directors report she had prepared on the way home.
"Tonight went quite well, Mr. Farhan," Sekar began, her voice calm and flat. She walked to the small desk in the corner of the living room, as if she had just finished a five o'clock workday.
Farhan Raksamudra, having removed his tie and poured a single whiskey at the mini bar, did not answer immediately. He observed. All this time, he had been waiting for Sekar to show an anomaly complaint, frustrated expression, or at least, after the verbal duel, a human request for rest.
But there was none. Sekar was a precision clock, freshly recalibrated. Her obedience felt total, almost metaphysical.
"Did you mind that I watched you last night?" Farhan asked, sipping his drink. His tone was not accusatory but an analytical examination of an intriguing specimen.
Sekar looked up. "The Contract Deed states my role as Mrs. Raksamudra in public situations to ensure corporate stability. I fulfilled what was required. If I objected, I would destabilize it, violating Clause C, Section 1. That is not how I operate."
Sekar shifted some papers a minor adjustment, yet demonstrating focus. Every movement was dominated by invisible calculation: minimize emotional energy, maximize efficiency.
"I'm talking about the Rival's words to you," Farhan pressed. "The whisper that made you smile in such a strange way."
Sekar's pause lasted a split second, imperceptible to ordinary eyes, but Farhan, obsessive-compulsive, noted every heartbeat. "He doubted my motives. I turned that doubt into recognition of my professional value to you, Sir. Tactically, we won the second round."
Farhan stepped closer, mind filled with questions he shouldn't ask: Aren't you angry? Don't you want to scream? Why accept this objectification so coldly?
In Farhan's history, anyone entering his orbit always wanted one of two things: love (seen as drama) or rebellion (loss of control). Sekar wanted neither. She only wanted to perform her duties, earn her pay, and survive.
Farhan realized that Sekar's extreme obedience, almost devoid of emotion, was a perfect soothing for him. His world was full of uncertainty volatile business, eruptive emotions, looming betrayals. Sekar, with robotic perfection, offered the certainty he craved.
"Sekar," Farhan called a rare, title-less pause.
Sekar stopped checking the report and looked at him. Her expression a subtle mask: ready to receive instructions, ready to process orders, not ready for emotion.
"Isn't there something you want to say beyond your duty? As a human," Farhan asked. A breach of rules he violated the Deed he himself wrote, seeking an emotional crack he believed sealed.
Sekar clasped her hands in front of her, a gentle yet solid defensive gesture.
"There is, Mr. Farhan," Sekar replied, head slightly bowed. "Considering our success in securing legitimacy of 51% of shares tonight, I can finish reviewing your 'Vesta' project two days ahead of schedule. I'll place it on your desk tomorrow morning."
The answer was a fortress. Sekar built a mental wall sky-high. She refused to give Farhan any vulnerability. He felt pushed back by her extraordinary efficiency.
"I see. Only work," Farhan muttered, voice hollow.
"Work is what we contract, Sir," Sekar reminded, not challenging, merely quoting legal documentation.
Farhan walked to the window, gazing at the city lights. Sekar's calm behind him was comforting, yet distant. He wanted to touch imperfection, but Sekar had removed it.
"Take a short break," Farhan suddenly ordered. "I mean, let go of your secretary status. We are home, not the office. Take some leisure. I want to see how a contract wife fills her silent pause."
Sekar frowned, puzzled by the ambiguous instruction. Domestic protocol never included unstructured 'leisure time.'
"Very well, Sir. I will do what I do every night. Prepare for rest, as scheduled at ten PM." Sekar walked down the corridor to her bedroom, separate from Farhan.
Her rhythm did not change. She did not hurry, nor was she anxious. She moved like water, following the container Farhan defined, without showing herself.
Sekar nearly reached her door when Farhan moved quickly. Not hastily, but decisively, like a dominator testing limits. He approached her in the cold corridor.
"You must stop acting like a perfect secretary all the time, Sekar," Farhan said, standing too close, too close to remain professional.
Sekar looked up. At this distance, she could smell whiskey and Farhan's perfume. Anxiety controlled since Rival's whisper returned. A new danger: Farhan crossing his own physical boundary.
"I I don't understand your instruction, Sir," Sekar said, voice slightly hoarse, restraining herself from retreating.
"The instruction is simple," Farhan whispered, dominant and intimidating. "Be my contract wife."
In the Deed, 'wife' meant public legitimacy. Yet in this private space, its definition was dark and undefined.
Farhan lifted his hand. Sekar's heart leapt. She thought he demanded a ridiculous romantic touch. But he only brushed a stray strand from her professional tie.
The touch was small, almost casual, yet its impact immense. Sekar felt a lethal jolt, tensing from head to toe. Dizziness, familiar with anxiety, began to overtake her body.
Sekar forced herself silent, exhaling slowly, suppressing her bodily reaction under the Deed's control.
She looked at Farhan, eyes neutral again. "Any additional instructions for the domestic contract wife protocol, Sir? I require written specifications to ensure no misinterpretation."
Sekar did not rebel. She returned to obedience, demanding rules. Her shock vanished in an instant. She was locked behind the fortress of compliance.
Farhan lowered his hand, slightly frustrated. He felt Sekar's physical refusal barely visible muscle tension. Sekar swallowed the reaction, confusing him. He expected rebellion, debate, or a drop of drama.
"No. No additional instructions," Farhan said flatly, eyes narrowing at the enforced calm. He saw Sekar tense enough for him.
"Good night, Mr. Farhan," Sekar said, pure formality. She entered her room, closing the door as if saving herself from an impending collapse.
Farhan remained standing in the silent corridor. He attempted touch, searching for traces of love or resistance. All he got was obedience returning quickly. Not a victory of dominance, but a faint confusion.
You don't love me. And you don't even dare hate me. Farhan thought. Why is this obedience so soothing to me?
Farhan knew Sekar was certainty in his uncertain world. Sekar's obedience was a fortress he had built, which now, strangely, began to imprison him in needs he did not understand.