Sekar awoke from a deep sleep a sleep without alarms, without neck tension. A miracle she had never experienced since moving into the penthouse. For a moment, she was startled to find a light wool blanket draped over her shoulders, and the thick Delta Report no longer weighed on her lap. Sekar knew exactly who had done it, and Farhan's non-transactional gesture felt more threatening than even his most absurd requests.
A gentle touch without command was an anomaly in the Act. It was a crack, a breach in the logical wall Farhan had built, and it made Sekar uneasy. Farhan's weakness even if it was a subconscious need to 'maintain the anchor' was potentially dangerous. Farhan was the type who would annihilate anything he couldn't control, even his own vulnerabilities.
Sekar immediately leapt out of bed. The clock read 4:30 a.m. thirty minutes before Farhan's protocol began. Fifteen minutes were allocated to prepare Farhan, and the remaining fifteen her silent window.
She moved to her minimalist vanity. In the deepest drawer lay an antique jewelry box, far older than the room's modern aesthetic. It was the only item not listed in the inventory Farhan had checked when she moved in. He had reviewed her books and documents, but not her personal artifacts.
Sekar opened the box. Inside were no diamonds or gems, only a photo of her mother smiling beside her at graduation, a handwritten recipe in Sundanese script, and a small bottle of lavender oil. She drew a deep breath and performed her silent ritual a coping mechanism: closing her eyes, holding her mother's photo, allowing the fear of financial failure to flood her mind for ninety seconds, followed by a rigorous attempt to "switch off" the emotional response, conserving her energy.
Farhan had identified Sekar as high-functioning, a machine operating optimally under pressure. Yet he never knew that to maintain that optimal function, Sekar had to fight a brutal internal battlefield every early morning. Fifteen minutes was the time she allowed herself to acknowledge just how exhausting it was to be the perfect Sekar, before she had to return as Mrs. Raksamudra devoid of vulnerability.
Fifteen minutes passed. Sekar had just locked the jewelry box, grabbed a tissue to wipe the lavender oil from her fingers, when footsteps echoed in the corridor. Calm, yet carrying a disguised urgency the steps of a man who woke too early due to his obsession with control.
Sekar panicked. Her protocol dictated she must not be 'seen' before 5:00 a.m., as it would violate Farhan's self-imposed sleep schedule. She immediately turned, pretending to comb her hair in front of the mirror, ensuring her mask was perfectly back in place.
Her door had never been locked. That was Farhan's protocol: access must always be available. He entered without knocking, as the previous night, but this time he did not conceal his presence. Soft light from the bathroom cast his upright shadow against the wall.
"Early morning," Farhan commented, his voice deep and calm, yet commanding authority. He stood at the doorway, observing Sekar's reflection in the mirror.
"I am preparing your needs for the morning, Sir," Sekar replied, continuing her movements, her tone flat. "I believe I miscalculated the completion time. Apologies for this inaccuracy."
Farhan stepped closer, scrutinizing Sekar's posture, now stiff and upright again. He searched for the quiet pause that had calmed him the night before, but found only a battle-ready Sekar.
"No need to apologize for efficiency. It's just…" Farhan squinted, "…you look a little pale. Is something wrong?"
The words made Sekar's throat tighten. Earlier, holding her mother's photo, she had allowed herself a silent tear that she quickly wiped away. The fear that Farhan would witness her humanity triggered a physical reaction. Her heart raced.
In a panic, Sekar felt a bitter taste rise in her throat. Rather than let Farhan analyze her face, she created a physical distraction that could be logically explained.
She coughed. Not a soft cough, but one slightly hoarse and heavy, as if she had just inhaled dust or cold air.
Farhan immediately shifted focus from her eyes to her neck and shoulder posture. Business control returned. "Are you ill?"
Sekar used the cough as a pause to steady herself, reactivating her mask. "No, Sir. Just… a sudden temperature change when I moved from the bathroom area to the dressing area. I will ensure the temperature protocol is activated earlier tomorrow."
Farhan listened logically. A change in temperature was a manageable variable. Emotional weakness was not a variable he wanted. Sekar's answer reassured his system.
"You always have a solution, don't you," Farhan sighed, a mix of subtle satisfaction and frustration in his voice. He wanted Sekar to show need, but she displayed only flowcharts. "It's vital for the anchor to remain stable, Sekar. If you fall ill, the entire schedule and focus of Raksamudra Group are at risk."
"I guarantee function, Sir. My condition is my responsibility, as stipulated in the Act," Sekar affirmed, her tone cold and professional.
Farhan nodded, pleased. Sekar did not display excessive vulnerability, only minor technical issues. Yet he moved toward the nearest drawer the one containing the new silk robes he had purchased. He opened it, searching for something. He did not find what he sought for some reason, he assumed Sekar might keep extra vitamins there but he noticed an unopened sleep aid package in the corner. The medicine he needed to ensure Sekar had, though he was unsure if she ever used it.
He looked back at Sekar. "Good. Change clothes immediately and prepare my coffee on the desk. I need the data calm I spoke of last night."
"Yes, Sir."
Farhan turned toward the door. He stepped out, but paused at the threshold, glancing back at Sekar. His words were not threats, but affirmations of control over his domain home, office, and his partner's psychology.
"One more thing, Mrs. Raksamudra," Farhan said, his voice sharp, slicing through the dawn air. "In this house, I pay for efficiency, stability, and zero drama. Take care of yourself. No drama in this house."
Sekar held her breath. The words pierced the core of her pain, reaffirming that she was merely a functional object. Yet she nodded, maintaining perfect posture, while her hands trembled slightly behind her back.
"Understood, Sir. No drama," Sekar replied. Farhan's faint, sinister smile confirmed his admiration for Sekar's discipline in suppressing anything real. The smile felt cold, yet for Sekar, she had to take it as a compliment.
Farhan left. Sekar waited three seconds after the door click, allowing her body to relax briefly from the adrenaline surge. She touched the corner of her eye, ensuring no lingering tear remained, confirming the cough had successfully served as a cover.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Farhan admired the way she hid herself. Farhan loved the absence of her true self. And for that, she would continue to hide. Yet in the same drawer, Sekar realized she had forgotten one crucial element of her silent ritual. Farhan did not notice, but the small drawer containing her mother's photo was slightly open, revealing a cream-colored sheet. A piece of paper she had just written that morning. A fragment of the text read:
"He considers me an anchor, not a human. How long can I endure all this?"
Though the drawer was closed tightly, the small gap was enough to show the world if anyone observed carefully that Sekar's control system was slowly beginning to crack.