Nayla learned long ago that silence was not weakness.
Silence was strategy.
By noon, she already understood three things about Arka Pradipta.
First, he valued efficiency more than loyalty. Second, he listened more to pauses than to words. Third—and perhaps most dangerous—he noticed everything. The movement of her pen, the rhythm of her breath, the way her eyes didn't drop when he spoke. For a man like him, observation was an act of control.
The rest of the day unfolded like a chess match disguised as routine.
Nayla followed him through meetings, each one colder than the last—air-conditioned rooms filled with people who smiled too wide and spoke too fast. Arka rarely raised his voice, yet every syllable he spoke carried weight. When he said, "Decide," someone always flinched.
By three o'clock, she'd memorized his patterns.
He didn't read slides; he read reactions.
He didn't shake hands; he measured grip pressure.
And when he dismissed people, it wasn't the words—that will be all—but the quiet afterward that killed the conversation.
When the last meeting ended, he turned to her. "How many minutes did I waste today?"
Nayla glanced at her tablet. "Fourteen. Mostly waiting for people who mistook your time for theirs."
"And how many seconds of yours did I waste?"
His tone was neutral. Dangerous in its calm.
"None," she replied, meeting his eyes. "You don't waste time, Mr. Pradipta. You repurpose it."
Something in his gaze shifted—interest, or amusement, she couldn't tell.
"Good answer."
He walked back to his office. She followed. The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable; it was alive, breathing, stretching. The air carried the faint scent of his cologne—clean, deliberate, like cedar and restraint.
When he sat, she placed the summary of the day's meetings on his desk. No unnecessary words, no polite filler. He scanned it, then paused on a line highlighted in gray.
"You noted that Mr. Li avoided eye contact during the data compliance discussion," he said. "Why?"
"Because he was lying."
Her tone was flat, not dramatic.
He looked up. "Evidence?"
"None," she said simply. "Just instinct."
"Instinct can't be measured."
"No," she agreed. "But it can be trained."
He leaned back, eyes narrowing as if to test her balance. "And who trained yours?"
Nayla hesitated—a deliberate pause, not confusion. "Life did. The kind that doesn't forgive mistakes."
Arka studied her for a moment that stretched too long. Then, softly, "Don't mistake me for life, Miss Anindya. I don't punish mistakes. I erase them."
Nayla didn't look away. "Then I'll make sure I'm never erased."
For the first time since morning, his lips curved slightly. It wasn't a smile—it was acknowledgment. "We'll see."
---
Later That Evening
The office emptied around six. Most employees rushed to escape the building's sterility, eager to reclaim color outside the glass walls. But Arka never left early.
Neither did Nayla.
She sat at her desk, cross-checking contract drafts under the sharp white light. The city below flickered like a circuit board—alive, restless, endless. In the corner of her eye, she saw his reflection through the glass wall of his office, moving like a shadow behind curtains of data and decisions.
Every few minutes, he spoke—short commands through the intercom.
"Bring me the Netra timeline."
"Delete the duplicate from the investor file."
"Confirm the courier for the Singapore shipment."
Each time she answered, her voice remained calm. Controlled. But inside, her pulse betrayed her. There was something magnetic about his precision, about the way he carved order out of chaos. He wasn't kind, but he was clear—and clarity, to someone like Nayla, was dangerously close to intimacy.
At 8:12 p.m., he finally left his office. Jacket off, sleeves rolled up, his watch gleaming under the light. He paused by her desk.
"You're still here."
"So are you," she replied.
"Difference is," he said, "I own the building."
"And I own my time."
He stopped. The response hung between them, sharp but not insolent.
He tilted his head. "You're not afraid of consequences, are you?"
"I'm used to them."
"Used to losing or surviving?"
Her lips curved faintly. "Both teach the same lesson, Mr. Pradipta. You learn to breathe underwater."
Arka's eyes held hers for several seconds, the way a predator studies the strength of prey. Then he said, "Walk with me."
He led her to the floor's private balcony—rarely used, soundproof glass sliding open to the night air. The city spread beneath them, a sea of light. The wind tangled her hair; she didn't fix it. Arka leaned on the railing, gaze fixed somewhere far below.
"Tell me," he said quietly, "why you really wanted this job."
She blinked, the question heavier than it sounded. "Because you don't like being lied to."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one that matters."
He turned toward her. "And what do you think of me now that you've seen behind the curtain?"
Nayla held his stare. "You're not cold, Mr. Pradipta. You're burned."
For a moment, silence was the only witness.
Then he spoke, voice lower. "Careful, Miss Anindya. When you see the fire in someone else, it's usually because you're standing too close."
She didn't move back. "Maybe I'm not afraid of heat."
The night pulsed with electricity. Somewhere far below, thunder rumbled—a warning, or perhaps an omen. Arka looked at her one last time before returning inside.
"Tomorrow, seven sharp," he said. "We start early."
When he disappeared behind the glass, Nayla exhaled slowly.
The city lights blurred like liquid gold. Her hands trembled—not with fear, but recognition. For the first time in years, she'd met someone whose darkness mirrored her own.
And deep down, under the calm she wore like armor, something dangerous began to stir.
Not affection.
Not yet.
Just the first ember of obsession—quiet, steady, waiting to burn.