Chapter 2: The Proposal He Couldn't RefuseDaffa didn’t sleep. He spent the remaining four hours of his night staring at a crack in his ceiling, wondering if the severance package for "accidentally seeing the VP’s lingerie" was substantial enough to cover six months of rent. By 7:55 AM, he was standing in front of the massive, frosted glass doors of the executive suite. He wasn't carrying a briefcase; he was clutching a cardboard box containing his favorite stapler, a half-empty bottle of ibuprofen, and a desktop plant that was arguably more dead than his career.He took a breath, adjusted his tie—the one without the coffee stain—and knocked."Come in," a voice called out. It was crisp, calm, and utterly devoid of the panic from the night before.Daffa pushed the door open with his hip, the box feeling like a lead weight in his arms. Clarisse was sitting behind a desk the size of a small aircraft carrier. She looked immaculate. Not a hair out of place, her suit sharp enough to draw bl

Chapter 4: The High-Society MasqueradeArmand Bautista didn’t move. He stood in the center of the foyer like a monument to old money and cold ruthlessness, his eyes dissecting Daffa as if he were a flawed line in a budget report. The silence in the penthouse was heavy enough to crush a man of lesser resolve.“I am, sir,” Daffa said, pushing himself off the sofa. His legs felt like lead, but he forced a steady gait. “Daffa Wicaksana. I’d offer you a drink, but I think your daughter is still recovering from the shock of your early arrival.”Armand’s eyebrows climbed toward his silver hairline. “He has a tongue, Clarisse. I suppose that’s one point in his favor. Most of your previous suitors tended to turn into puddles of sweat when I looked at them.”“He’s not a puddle, Father,” Clarisse said, her voice regaining its icy composure as she stepped to Daffa’s side. She slipped her arm through his, her fingers digging into his bicep with a pressure that clearly signaled don’t screw this up.

Chapter 6: The Water Cooler ConspiracyThe red light of the security camera felt like a laser burning through Daffa’s skull. His hand, which only seconds ago had been exploring the curve of a Vice President’s thigh, now felt heavy and numb. He slowly stepped back, his shoes clicking against the concrete floor with a sound that felt like a gavel striking.“Clarisse,” Daffa whispered, his voice cracking. “How fast does that footage upload to the server?”Clarisse was frantically pulling her hair into a semblance of a ponytail, her fingers shaking so violently she dropped her silk tie. “Real-time. It’s a closed-circuit loop, but the cloud backup triggers every five minutes.”“Five minutes?” Daffa looked at the camera, then at his watch. “We’ve been in here for... oh God, we’ve been in here for forty minutes.”“Stop talking,” she hissed, finally smoothing her skirt. Her face was a mask of pure, unadulterated panic, the ‘Ice Queen’ facade shattered into a million jagged pieces. “Go back to

Chapter 8: The Mandatory Romantic RetreatThe drive up to the Puncak highlands was an exercise in suffocating silence. Clarisse stared out the window at the passing pine trees, her hand still shoved deep into the pocket where she had hidden the crumpled note. Daffa watched the reflection of her face in the glass—pale, rigid, and completely detached.“You’re going to burn a hole in that pocket if you keep clutching that note, Clarisse,” Daffa said, his voice cutting through the hum of the car’s engine.“I told you, Daffa. It’s a prank. Drop it,” she replied without turning around.“Pranks don’t come on vellum with your family’s private crest. And pranks don’t make you look like you’re waiting for a firing squad.”Clarisse finally looked at him, her eyes sharp. “We’re here to sell a romance to the board’s weekend retreat, not to play detective. Can you focus on the job?”“The job just involved me smashing a tablet over Julian’s head and dodging a blackmail attempt,” Daffa countered, pul

Chapter 10: Project ScapegoatThe steam from the bathroom followed her out, a humid ghost that clung to the edges of the room. Clarisse stood there, a vision of domestic softness in her white robe, two steaming mugs of coffee in her hands. The smile on her face was something Daffa had started to believe in—a rare, unguarded expression that made him think he’d finally found the woman beneath the ice.Then she saw the tablet in his hand.The smile didn't just fade; it died. It was a slow-motion collapse of every muscle in her face until she was back to the version of Clarisse Bautista he had met in the elevator: cold, calculated, and perfectly unreachable."Clarisse," Daffa repeated, his voice sounding hollow, like a bell rung in a vacuum. "I’m going to ask you one more time. What is Phase 2?"Clarisse didn’t move. She didn't drop the mugs. She didn't even blink. "Daffa, put the tablet down. We can talk about this.""Talk?" Daffa let out a jagged, breathless laugh. He turned the screen