The soft golden light of morning filtered through the thin curtains, casting long streaks across the small bedroom. The distant hum of motorbikes and the faint chatter of street vendors signaled the start of another day in Jakarta. Raka blinked the sleep from his eyes, his body stiff from another restless night on the thin mattress. With a sigh, he pushed himself up and sat at the small wooden desk by the window. Raka sat in front of his laptop, scrolling through job listings. The glow of the screen reflected in his tired eyes as he skimmed through endless postings. For the past year, he had applied to dozens of companies. All rejections. Most didn’t even bother replying. The ones that did? “We regret to inform you that we have chosen a more suitable candidate.” He clenched his fists. It wasn’t like he was lazy. He had skills. He had studied business. He had experience—more than these companies knew. But no one gave him a chance. Just then, his phone buzzed.

The night stretched long in the Santoso home, filled only with the distant hum of the Jakarta streets and the ticking of the old wall clock. The air was thick, suffocating, yet not from heat or humidity—this was the weight of something unspoken, something that had been festering between them for months. Raka sat on the edge of the bed, his elbows resting on his knees, fingers clasped together as if he were gathering courage. His body still ached from the warehouse, every muscle sore from the relentless demands of his job. But tonight, it wasn’t exhaustion that troubled him the most. It was the space between him and his wife. Nadine lay beside him, turned away, scrolling through her phone. The blue glow illuminated her delicate features, highlighting the sharp contrast between what she had once been to him and what she was now—a woman slipping further and further away. She had barely spoken to him all evening. He had tried to start a conversation over dinner, but all he received i

That evening, Raka sat in the small living room, exhausted. The flickering light from the old television barely held his attention as he stared blankly at the screen. The muffled sound of Nadine’s voice drifted from the bedroom, sharp and laced with frustration. He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but the walls in the Santoso home were thin—just like his patience. “I don’t know what I was thinking, Dina,” Nadine sighed heavily. “I let my mother pressure me into this marriage, hoping Raka would help lift our family out of debt. He was hardworking back then, at least he had a stable job.” A pause. Then a bitter laugh. “But now? He hasn’t worked in years. I don’t even see a future with him anymore. Every time I look at him, I see failure. My mother was right—he’s just another burden.” Raka’s hands curled into fists. Her words cut deep, not because they were unexpected, but because they confirmed what he had long feared—Nadine had given up on him. She had once believed in him. Bu

The Santoso family had never been powerful. They were an average Jakarta household—comfortable, but nowhere near the elite. And Rini Santoso, Nadine’s mother, had always wanted more. Tonight was her chance. The Mahardika family was one of Indonesia’s wealthiest and most respected business dynasties. Reza Mahardika, their golden son, had been pursuing Nadine for months. Now, his high-profile family dinner was the perfect stage for Nadine to finally choose him. And Raka? He was nothing in their eyes. “Are you really wearing that?” Rini sneered, looking Raka up and down. He stood near the entrance of their modest home, dressed in a plain black suit—not expensive, not impressive. The Santosos weren’t rich enough for luxury brands, but they still tried. Rini and Nadine wore their best, carefully selected to impress the Mahardikas. “Maybe we should leave him behind,” Nadine’s cousin muttered. “He’ll embarrass us.” Raka said nothing. He had learned that words meant nothing

The hum of the elevator was the only sound filling the silence as Raka stood straight in his tailored suit, hands clasped in front of him. The jacket clung to his broad frame, the fabric far removed from the worn hoodies and street threads he was used to. It felt strange, it was too smooth, too perfect. But he kept his face calm. As the elevator climbed to the top floor of Pratama Towers, his palms dampened. He wasn't just a street boy anymore. Today, he would be introduced to a room full of billionaires who managed a conglomerate that could buy and sell entire nations. Beside him, an assistant with a clipped voice and expressionless face finally broke the silence. “This floor is restricted. Only board members and invited persons may enter. They’re already waiting". Raka gave a slight nod. As he stepped forward walking through a corridor of glass, stone, and understated wealth. Every detail screamed of legacy, art pieces from across the world, minimalist decor, and hushed tones