The CEO's Spirit Rental

Chapter 8: Dara's Intuition

The sun hadn’t even fully cleared the Jakarta skyline before the office felt like a pressure cooker. Arman sat at the massive desk, his finger throbbing beneath a designer bandage. The jade ring felt heavier than a lead weight.

"You’re staring at it again," Kendrick’s voice crackled through the tiny earpiece. The white cat was currently perched on the window ledge behind him, tail twitching like a metronome. "Stop. You look like a man staring at a ticking bomb."

"It feels like one," Arman muttered, leaning back. "My finger is literally bleeding, Kendrick. This thing is trying to fuse to my bone."

"Consider it a permanent promotion. Now, sit up. Dara is coming in with the morning briefs, and you have the posture of a wet noodle."

The door opened before Arman could snap back. Dara walked in, but she wasn't carrying the usual tablet. She had a physical file—old, yellowed, and smelling of damp basement air. She didn't go to her usual spot. She walked straight to the desk and laid a black-and-white photograph in front of him.

"Coffee’s on the way," she said, her voice oddly quiet. "But I think you should look at this first."

Arman squinted at the photo. It was a group shot from 2005. Two men stood in front of a shipping container, arms around each other's shoulders. One was clearly a younger version of Kendrick’s father. The other man had a face that made Arman’s heart stop.

"That's... that's a nice photo, Dara. Retro," Arman said, his voice cracking.

"Look at the hands, Kendrick," Dara said. She leaned over, her finger pointing to the man standing next to the elder Lim. "That’s Hadi Wijaya. Your father’s 'partner' who allegedly stole millions. Look at his right hand."

Arman didn't need to look. He knew. But he leaned in anyway. On the man’s finger sat a dark, familiar ring.

"It’s a green ring," Arman said, trying to sound bored. "Jade is popular in Indonesia, Dara. Half the uncles in Tanah Abang wear one."

"Not that one," Dara countered. "That’s the Sovereign Jade. I’ve seen the insurance manifests from the vault. There’s only one. It was supposed to be lost during the liquidation. So, tell me... how did it end up on your finger yesterday?"

"I found it," Arman lied. "In the back of the safe. I thought it looked... vintage."

"You told me it was a family heirloom last night," she said, her eyes narrowing. "You told me it needed oil. You were trying to pull it off, Kendrick. I saw the blood on the desk."

"I was just... checking the fit! My hands were swollen from the humidity."

"Don't lie to me," Dara said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "I’ve spent five years learning your lies. I know the 'merger lie,' the 'affair lie,' and the 'I’m-too-busy-to-care' lie. This is different. You’re looking at that photo like you’re looking at a mirror."

"Dara, you're overthinking this. Go get some caffeine. You’re getting conspiratorial."

"Follow me," she commanded.

"What? I have a board meeting in—"

"The meeting is at ten. It’s eight-thirty. Follow me to the archives. Now."

Arman looked at the cat. Kendrick-the-cat let out a low, warning hiss. Don’t go down there, Arman. She’s leading you into a corner.

"I’m the boss, remember?" Arman said to Dara, trying to regain his footing. "I don't usually 'follow' people to the basement."

"Fine," Dara said, turning toward the door. "Then I’ll just call the police and ask them to run a fingerprint check on the CEO of Lim Industries. I’m sure they’d love to know why his prints don't match the ones on his 2020 passport renewal."

Arman felt the blood vanish from his face. "Archives it is. Lead the way."

The basement of the Lim building was a labyrinth of climate-controlled rooms and rows of metal shelving. The air was cold—cold enough to make Arman’s breath mist. Dara led him to the very back, where the "Dead Files" were kept—documents from companies that no longer existed.

She stopped at a row labeled 2005-2007: Wijaya Liquidation.

"Why are we here, Dara?" Arman asked, his sneakers squeaking on the polished concrete. "This is ancient history."

"Is it?" Dara pulled a box from the shelf and slammed it onto a table. She began flipping through pages of legal jargon. "I spent all night digging. I found the original partnership agreement. Your father didn't just buy out Hadi Wijaya. He erased him. But there’s a clause here... a blood-claim clause regarding the Sovereign Jade."

"I don't care about clauses, Dara. I’m a businessman, not a historian."

"Stop the act!" Dara yelled. The sound echoed off the metal shelves, sharp and jarring. She stepped into his personal space, her face inches from his. "Who are you? You’re not Kendrick Lim. Kendrick doesn't know how to be kind. Kendrick doesn't eat street food. And Kendrick definitely doesn't look at me like... like he actually sees me."

Arman backed into a shelf, a stack of folders rattling behind him. "I'm just... I'm going through a phase, Dara. Everyone changes."

"People change their hair, Arman. They don't change their soul," she said. She caught herself, her eyes widening as she realized what she’d called him. "Wait... I didn't say Arman. Why did I think of that name?"

"I don't know! It's a common name!"

"No, it isn't. Not here. I saw it on a security log. A freelancer named Arman Wijaya was in the building the day the CEO went missing for two hours. The same day you started acting like a different human being."

"It’s a coincidence," Arman stammered. "Total fluke."

"Is it a fluke that you’re wearing the ring of a man your family ruined?" Dara’s eyes were shimmering now, a mix of anger and something that looked like heartbreak. "Is it a fluke that you defend me against people like Rudy Prakasa? The Kendrick I know would have joined in on the jokes. He would have called me 'adequate' and moved on."

Arman looked down at the ring. It was pulsing again, a low green throb that felt like a heartbeat. He looked at Dara, seeing the genuine pain in her expression. He was tired. Tired of the suit, tired of the cat’s voice in his ear, and tired of being a ghost in a dead man's life.

"Dara... if I told you the truth, you’d think I was insane," he whispered.

"Try me," she said. "Because right now, 'insane' is the only thing that makes sense."

"The ring... it’s not just jewelry," Arman started, his voice barely audible. He reached out, his hand hovering near hers. "I was broke. I was on the street. I met this old man at the market, and I—"

"Arman! Don't you dare!" Kendrick’s voice screamed in his ear. "She’ll ruin everything! She’ll take the money! She’ll call the psych ward!"

"I'm not Kendrick," Arman said, looking Dara directly in the eyes. "My name is—"

CRASH!

A massive stack of metal filing trays on the far side of the room slammed to the floor with the force of a gunshot. The sound was deafening in the enclosed space. Dara jumped, spinning around toward the noise.

"What was that?" she gasped.

In the shadows, a white blur darted across the top of the shelves. Kendrick-the-cat had knocked over an entire section of archives, sending hundreds of papers flying into the air like snow.

"Must be a cat," Arman said, his heart hammering. "Or a... really big rat. We should go."

"A cat? In the high-security archives?" Dara started toward the mess, her investigator instincts taking over. "Wait, I saw something white."

"Dara, forget it! Let’s just go back upstairs. I’ll tell you everything in the office," Arman pleaded.

"No, stay here," she said, her voice firm. "I’m going to check the security gate. If someone’s down here, we’re in danger."

She hurried toward the end of the aisle, leaving Arman alone in the cold.

"You're a complete idiot," Kendrick hissed in his ear. "I had to sacrifice a perfectly good set of vintage ledgers to stop you from throwing our lives away."

"She deserves to know!" Arman hissed back at the shadows. "She’s the only one who actually gives a damn about this company!"

"She gives a damn about my company. Not you. The moment she knows you’re a nobody from Tanah Abang, she’ll hand you over to the board to save her own career. Now, get back to the office and act like a billionaire."

Arman slumped against the table, his head in his hands. He waited for Dara to return, but five minutes passed in silence. Then ten.

"Dara?" he called out. "Is everything okay?"

There was no answer. He walked toward the exit, his mind racing with how to finish the confession he’d started. He reached the heavy glass doors of the executive suite and headed straight for the main desk.

He stopped.

The middle drawer of the mahogany desk—the one Kendrick told him never to touch—was hanging wide open.

Dara was standing by the window, her back to him. She was holding something small and rectangular.

"Dara?"

She turned around slowly. Her face was ashen, her lips trembling. In her hand, she held a battered, plastic ID card.

"I went to get your spare charger from the drawer," she said, her voice sounding like it was coming from miles away.

She held the card up. It was Arman’s real ID—the one he’d lost at the flea market. His face looked back at him, tired, unshaven, and very much not a billionaire.

"Arman Wijaya," Dara read from the card, her gaze moving from the plastic to the man in the charcoal suit. "Address: Jalan Kebon Sirih. Occupation: Freelance Coder."

She dropped the card onto the desk. The sound of the plastic hitting the wood was like a gavel.

"You’re not going through a phase, are you?" she asked, her voice cold as the archive room. "Where is Kendrick Lim?"

Arman opened his mouth, but no words came out. The jade ring gave one final, violent pulse of green light, and for the first time since the swap, Arman felt the weight of the world truly begin to crush him.

"Dara, I can explain," he finally managed.

"Don't," she said, backing away toward the door. "Don't say another word."