The bedroom Farhan had prepared for Sekar was the very definition of sterile efficiency. Everything was arranged based on necessity, not aesthetics. The thick, solid door offered perfect acoustic isolation a private fortress within Farhan's grand fortress of control.
Yet after last night's brief physical contact, Sekar knew this fortress was still fragile.
Farhan had tested a physical boundary. And Sekar's reaction the tension in her muscles that nearly froze her in place was an embarrassing emotional betrayal. Absolute obedience was supposed to be flawless. Sekar knew that the anti-anxiety pills she carried were a constant reminder of her built-in fragility, a weakness she had suppressed since her teenage years.
The Marriage Contract was the best kind of medicine; its protocols were tranquilizers she didn't have to swallow.
Sekar stepped into her room unhurriedly, even after closing the door. Protocol did not permit haste. She took out a small wooden box from her handbag. Inside it was a tiny bottle of pills and a dark-covered journal an old analog object that captured her thoughts in neat handwriting.
Farhan Raksamudra possessed the finest archiving system. Everything was registered, mapped, and documented. This room, though private, surely had invisible eyes and ears. Sekar needed a blind spot a place the man who judged everything by its functional purpose would never think to look.
After examining the wardrobe, vanity, and safe, Sekar walked to the small kitchenette connected to her room. Behind the panel of the mini refrigerator, she found a gap. She carefully removed the lowest panel. The space was cold, dusty, and useless for storage. Farhan would never search in an inefficient spot.
Sekar pushed the box far to the back. Her action was quick, silent, and entirely emotionless. The act of hiding felt ironic. To maintain the role of Farhan's Perfect Secretary, Sekar had to lie. And lying, like anxiety, was a risk that had to be eliminated.
She returned to her normal routine: checking her mother's personal email, reviewing the weather reports for Farhan's business locations, then going to sleep.
Obedience was peace and peace was the price she had to pay.
Two weeks later, their lives had settled into an unnatural rhythm of stability. Farhan was satisfied that everything ran according to plan: profits steady, rivals silent, and his contract wife managing domestic and corporate duties with lethal efficiency. Yet Sekar's emptiness had begun to puzzle him.
"Project Vesta must be accelerated, Sekar," Farhan said suddenly as Sekar was arranging his work clothes that morning. He was in his private gym, speaking through the intercom, his voice laced with physical intensity.
Sekar was laying out a suit appropriate for the morning meeting at the stock exchange. Her heart instantly jumped. Vesta was a mid-term project, scheduled to finish in three months. Acceleration meant massive adjustments not only in paperwork but also in coordinating teams across three countries.
"How fast, Sir?" Sekar asked in a flat tone. No complaints, no panic only a request for specifications.
"By the end of this month. Four weeks, not three months," Farhan ordered. "We must announce the results at Raksamudra's anniversary. That will secure our position."
Sekar's stomach clenched. Her brain, though trained for high-functioning efficiency, began processing a cascade of conflicting variables: data to prepare, permits to expedite, teams that must work overtime without protest. All of it fell under her responsibility.
Anxiety was the water that filled her always threatening to spill over.
But years of living under pressure and pain had taught her to build a valve. When danger came, her mind diverted all emotional energy into hyper-logical focus. This was what Farhan perceived as perfection.
"Yes, Sir. I'll immediately adjust your and the team's schedules, prepare the preliminary presentation, and arrange a conference with the Finance Director in Dubai within thirty minutes," Sekar replied, her tone sharp and confident.
In the gym, Farhan smiled with satisfaction as he finished his final set of weights.
"That's the response I want. No drama. Only solutions."
When Farhan entered the main bedroom to get ready, he saw Sekar sitting at her desk. Her fingers moved rapidly over the keyboard, issuing crisp English instructions, organizing Farhan's agenda down to the minute. Her entire body was upright her focus shutting out every external stimulus.
Farhan watched her back. He knew the order he had just given was completely unreasonable designed to test the limits of Sekar's managerial capability. Anyone else would have negotiated, or at least complained. But not Sekar. She simply adapted sharper, colder, more professional.
What Farhan didn't see was the war raging beneath her silk blouse. Cold sweat dampened her back. Her heart raced, sending waves of heat and nausea signs she knew too well as the onset of a panic attack.
Her mind screamed: Too fast. Not enough time. Farhan will know if you make a mistake.
Sekar pressed her palms under the desk, her nails nearly piercing her skin. She used the technique she had trained herself to do listing tangible details: the room's temperature, the texture of the wooden desk, the sound of typing to anchor herself back to physical reality, away from the edge of fear.
"I want a comprehensive summary from the Dubai Director on the breakfast table, Sekar. Include projections of the board membership impact," Farhan said as he passed by her desk.
"It will be ready, Sir. I've already requested the data to be sent right after the call ends," Sekar replied without lifting her eyes from the screen, her voice flawless steady.
Farhan paused. "You look… energized. Does this new project make you comfortable?"
Sekar took a slow breath. "My professionalism requires me to approach every challenge with the same level of efficiency, Sir. No emotional factors involved."
Farhan let out a small scoff. He believed her. He saw no weakness only extraordinary strength, robotic precision, a mechanism he paid dearly for to give him peace.
"Good. Continue," he said before heading into the main bathroom.
As soon as the bathroom door closed, Sekar leaned back in her chair, her body trembling slightly. The panic attack had been contained. The valve had worked. But her energy was drained. Her mind too fast, her muscles too tense.
She needed to arrange Farhan's transport and schedule immediately, but her body froze. Her gaze drifted toward the mini fridge panel in the corner the place where her emergency pills were hidden. No. Taking them now was too risky. Farhan could step out any moment.
Sekar forced herself to stand. Each step felt heavy, as if she had just finished a forty-kilometer marathon. She managed to reach the private elevator corridor, putting on her professional smile the same mask she always wore greeting Farhan with a tablet in hand, ready to present the day's itinerary.
That day was brutal. Unscheduled calls, sudden contract revisions, and the sharp eyes of rivals in every meeting. Sekar handled everything flawlessly. No mistakes, no delays, no visible trace of anxiety.
Late that night, after they returned to the penthouse, Sekar still had to finish the final presentation Farhan demanded sending it precisely at 1:00 a.m.
"You truly are the best," Farhan said flatly, glancing through the document in his office. "Go to bed. Tomorrow's schedule starts at six. Earlier than usual."
"Yes, Sir," Sekar replied obedience absolute until the very last second.
Farhan closed his office door. Sekar stood for a moment in the silent hallway. All tasks completed. Farhan safe within his control room. The Contract fulfilled.
Only when she reached her bedroom door did the mask finally fall not because anyone could see her, but because she no longer had the strength to hold it up.
Instead of preparing for rest, Sekar walked straight into the bathroom the only room with a lock. She closed and turned it, then twisted the faucet to let the water run, creating a faint cover of sound.
Sekar leaned against the cold porcelain wall, her eyes shut tight. No tears came, only total exhaustion physical and emotional. She slid down, sitting on the chilled tile floor, clutching the sides of her head as dizziness crept in. In the dim shadows lit only by the light beneath the door, the perfect Sekar Ayu High-Functioning Mrs. Raksamudra was merely a young woman utterly spent, hiding from a world that demanded efficiency, and from the man who turned her obedience into his tranquilizer.
She cried in silence, her body trembling from the fourteen hours she had spent fighting her anxiety terrified that even the sound of her sobs might reach Farhan's room, three corridors away.