The CEO's Spirit Rental

Chapter 2: Breakfast with the Enemy

Arman gripped the edge of the cold marble vanity, staring at the stranger in the mirror. The face was symmetrical, arrogant, and looked like it had never experienced the crushing weight of a late rent notice.

"Okay, Arman. Pivot. You’re a coder. This is just a new OS. You just need to figure out the commands," he whispered to his reflection. He turned toward the massive, mirrored doors he’d been leaning against. "Dara? You still out there?"

"I am standing exactly where you left me, sir," Dara’s voice drifted through the wood, sounding muffled but still incredibly sharp. "Is there a problem?"

"No! No problem. Just... quick question. If I were a bathroom, where would I be?"

There was a long, terrifying silence from the other side of the door.

"The master en-suite is directly behind the sliding panel to your left, Mr. Lim. The one you had installed specifically so you wouldn't have to walk more than six feet from your bed."

"Right. Obviously. I was just... checking the acoustics. You passed the test. Again."

Arman found the panel, slid it open, and gasped. The bathroom was larger than his entire old apartment. The tub looked like a small swimming pool carved from a single block of black obsidian. He splashed cold water on his face, trying to stop his hands from shaking. The jade ring glinted under the recessed LED lighting.

"Don't panic," he told himself. "You're rich. Rich people have it easy. You just have to act like a jerk and people leave you alone, right?"

He walked back out into the bedroom, where Dara was waiting with a valet who held a charcoal suit out like it was a holy relic. Arman stood still as they began to dress him. It was the most invasive experience of his life.

"Wait, wait. I can put on my own socks," Arman said, pulling back.

The valet froze, looking at Dara with wide, confused eyes.

"Is the silk not to your liking, sir?" Dara asked, her eyebrows inching upward. "You usually say that human touch is 'inefficient' for dressing, but you insist on the valet being present for the precision of the trouser crease."

"I... I’ve had a change of heart. I’m feeling very... pro-human today. Efficiently pro-human," Arman corrected, snatching the socks. "Go on. I’ve got the rest."

"Very well," Dara said, waving the valet away. She stepped forward and held out a sleek, transparent tablet. "While you finish, we need to go over the itinerary for the Astra-Global merger. It’s fifty-two pages. I’ve highlighted the points where you’ll need to be particularly aggressive."

Arman felt a cold sweat break out. "Fifty-two pages? Can we get a TL;DR? Give me the executive summary. Use small words. I haven't had my 'eighty-two degree' coffee yet."

Dara’s eyes narrowed into thin slits. "The TL;DR? Sir, you wrote the primary terms yourself. You said that anyone who couldn't memorize fifty pages of legal jargon didn't deserve to sit at your table."

"Well, I’m being... subversive today. Testing the limits of the corporate structure. Just give me the vibes, Dara. What’s the vibe of the merger?"

"The 'vibe,'" Dara repeated, the word sounding like poison in her mouth, "is that we are acquiring forty percent of their shipping hubs for thirty percent below market value because you found a loophole in their maritime insurance. If this goes through, you’ll effectively control the northern trade routes. If it doesn't, we lose the two-hundred-million-dollar earnest deposit."

Arman choked on his own breath. "Two hundred million? Dollars? Like, real money?"

"Unless you've started trading in 'vibes,' yes, real money." Dara stepped closer, her gaze intense. "Are you alright? Your pupils are dilated, and you’re fidgeting with your cufflinks. You never fidget. You usually sit so still it’s unnerving."

"I’m just... excited! Big day! Big money! Big... loops! Loops in the maritime stuff!" Arman did a weird little finger-gun gesture that he immediately regretted.

Dara stared at his hands as if they were two dying fish. "Right. The car is waiting downstairs. We have the preliminary briefing with the board in an hour. Have you decided on the catering?"

"Catering?"

"For the board members. You insisted on 'Artisan Sustainable Micro-Greens' last time, but then you fired the chef because the kale was too 'talkative' when you chewed it."

Arman’s stomach gave a loud, treacherous growl. He hadn't eaten since a half-stale granola bar yesterday morning. The thought of micro-greens sounded like a personal insult.

"Forget the kale," Arman said, his brain reaching for the one thing that always made him feel better. "I want pancakes."

Dara stopped mid-stride as they walked toward the elevator. "Pancakes? Like... soufflé pancakes from that Michelin-starred place in Ginza? I can have the jet bring a chef—"

"No, no. Not Ginza. Just... pancakes. You know the guy? Usually on the corner of the block near the old tech hub? The one with the cart? The ones with the condensed milk and the cheap chocolate rice? Martabak manis, but... the pancake style. Thick. Oily. Beautiful."

Dara looked like she was witnessing a glitch in the universe. "You want me to serve street food... to the board of Astra-Global? To men who drink wine that costs more than a mid-sized sedan?"

"Yeah! It’s a power move, Dara! Think about it," Arman said, leaning into his frantic inspiration. "It shows we’re... humble. Or that we’re so rich we don't care about their fancy standards. It’s 'disruptive.' That’s a business word, right? We’re disrupting the breakfast space."

"You hate the street," Dara said flatly. "You once told me that the smell of roadside cooking was the scent of 'failed potential.'"

Arman winced. Kendrick Lim sounded like a real piece of work. "Well, I’ve decided to embrace failed potential. It’s very 'in' right now. Get the pancakes, Dara. Lots of them. And don't forget the maple syrup. The real sugary kind. Not that organic tree-sap stuff."

"Mr. Lim, you are allergic to maple syrup."

Arman froze. His heart skipped a beat. "I... am?"

"It gives you hives. Hives that you once described as 'an aesthetic nightmare.' You have a standing order for synthetic agave only."

"Oh. Right. The hives. Well, I’ve been... micro-dosing it," Arman lied, his voice climbing an octave. "Building up an immunity. For... reasons. Science reasons. Just get the syrup, Dara. I’ll be fine. Trust the process."

The elevator doors opened into a garage that looked more like a museum for supercars. A driver in a crisp black uniform stood by a matte-black Rolls-Royce.

"Sir," the driver said, bowing slightly.

"Hey, man! Nice car," Arman said, reaching out to pat the driver on the shoulder.

The driver flinched back as if he’d been struck. Dara made a small, strangled sound in the back of her throat.

"I mean... move it, buddy! Time is money!" Arman barked, trying to channel his inner jerk. He scrambled into the back of the car, the leather smelling like a mixture of new money and old secrets.

As the car pulled out into the Jakarta traffic, Dara sat across from him, her tablet forgotten on her lap. She wasn't looking at the merger documents anymore. She was looking at him.

"Is there something on my face?" Arman asked, trying to look cool but failing as he struggled to find the button to roll down the window.

"You called the driver 'man,'" Dara whispered. "You haven't looked at the itinerary once. You’re asking for street food. And you’re smiling."

"Is it illegal to smile?"

"For you? It’s suspicious. You only smile when someone is about to get fired or when a competitor goes bankrupt. This... this is a 'happy' smile. It’s disturbing."

"I’m just having a great morning, Dara! Look at the sun! Look at the... traffic! Isn't it vibrant?"

"It’s a gridlock, sir. We’re going to be late."

"Then we’ll be late! We’re the bosses, right? The party doesn't start until the pancakes arrive."

Dara didn't respond. She just watched him. When the car finally pulled up to the glass-and-steel monolith that was Lim Industries, a swarm of assistants and security guards converged on the vehicle.

The lobby was a cathedral of corporate power. Everyone they passed bowed or looked at the floor. Arman felt like a king, right up until they reached the executive boardroom on the 60th floor.

The doors swung open to reveal a dozen men in suits that looked like armor. They all stood up in unison. The air in the room was heavy with the smell of expensive cologne and anxiety.

"Kendrick," one of the men said, a silver-haired shark with a predatory grin. "I assume the delay means you were squeezing another five percent out of the insurance adjusters?"

"Uh, yeah. Sure. Total squeeze. All the percent," Arman said, sliding into the massive chair at the head of the table. "But first, we have a very important guest arriving. The most important guest."

"The CEO of Astra-Global?" the man asked.

"No," Arman grinned as the door opened and a very confused-looking delivery boy walked in, clutching three large, grease-stained cardboard boxes. "The pancakes."

The room went silent. The smell of cheap margarine and fried batter wafted over the mahogany table. Dara stepped forward, her face a mask of professional endurance, and began to distribute the street food onto Hermès china plates.

Arman grabbed a plastic bottle of maple syrup that Dara had clearly bought from a convenience store on the way. He flipped the cap and began to pour a thick, golden river of syrup over his stack.

"Sir," Dara whispered, leaning down close to his ear. "The board is watching. And the hives... remember the hives."

"I feel great, Dara," Arman said, taking a massive, sticky bite. The sugar hit his bloodstream like a lightning bolt. It was the best thing he’d ever tasted. "Guys, dig in! It’s 'disruptive' breakfast!"

The board members looked at each other, then at the grease soaking into their expensive napkins. Slowly, awkwardly, they began to pick at the pancakes.

Arman leaned back, feeling like he’d won. He took a long, deep swig of the maple syrup directly from the bottle, letting the sweetness coat his throat.

He looked up to see Dara staring at him with an intensity that could melt steel. She wasn't looking at the pancakes. She was looking at his neck, waiting for the hives that weren't coming.

"Mr. Lim," Dara said, her voice dropping to a dangerous, quiet register. "You just drank half a cup of pure maple syrup."

"It's good for the brain," Arman chirped, licking his lips. "Very... fuel-efficient."

Dara leaned in even closer, her eyes locked onto his. "You don't have a single hive. You aren't sneezing. And you’re using your right hand to eat, even though you’ve been strictly left-handed since your skiing accident three years ago."

Arman’s fork froze halfway to his mouth. The jade ring on his right hand seemed to pulse with a mocking, green light.

"I... I’m practicing ambidexterity?" he tried, his voice cracking.

Dara didn't pull away. She reached out, her fingers hovering just inches from the jade ring. "Who are you?" she whispered, so low only he could hear. "And what have you done with my boss?"