Farhan Raksamudra always designed a golden prison that didn't just confine Sekar physically, but also imprisoned her mind. The contract was a blueprint of control, and for Sekar, stepping out of the penthouse that morning felt like more than just a change of location. It was a defiance a total suspension of protocol, which, ironically, had been the only structure keeping her sane.
Now, she had one day, a costly and limited freedom, paid for with the promise of one hour of absolute obedience in the future. The concept of this exchange gnawed at her consciousness. Today's freedom was an illusion, a psychological trap engineered by Farhan. Yet Sekar decided to seize that illusion. She needed to test whether she still remembered what it felt like to breathe without the scales of control weighing on her shoulders.
Sekar chose to wear worn jeans and a cotton shirt, clothes that would never survive Farhan's criticism. She left the company car, the driver, and the silk robe behind. She took a taxi to the city center, opting for one of the oldest, least fashionable cafés she had once used to work on proposals back when she was just an ordinary secretary.
There, amidst the aroma of coffee and the hum of ordinary traffic, Sekar ordered a latte with double the sugar something strictly forbidden under Raksamudra's domestic health protocols. As she held the warm cup, her hands trembled slightly. Not from panic, but from the alien sensation. She had been so long accustomed to perfect structure that even the smallest act of anarchy like ordering an unhealthy drink felt criminal.
Sekar chose a table in the corner, where she could observe the flow of people unconstrained by billions of dollars of inheritance. This was true recovery: a space unknown to Farhan, where her integrity so often praised by him could relax. She didn't take notes. She didn't plan agendas. She simply breathed, slowly, letting the defenses she always wore ease, little by little.
"Oh my God, Sekar! Is that really you?"
Sekar flinched. She turned to find Dian standing there, her old friend's eyes wide, a mix of surprise and genuine delight. Dian, an editor at an art magazine, looked free and messy two things long forbidden by Farhan's life rules.
"Dian!" Sekar stood, trying to hug her, yet instinctively maintained professional distance. A bad habit from her contract life that couldn't vanish in a single day.
"You disappeared into the Raksamudra Group. Congratulations, Mrs. Raksamudra! You're filthy rich now," Dian laughed, slightly sarcastic but well-meaning. "And here you are, all alone, drinking a sugary coffee?"
Sekar offered a thin smile. "Just… a recovery day."
Dian sat in the empty chair across from Sekar. "Recovery from what? Being a CEO's wife?"
"From being secretary, editor, housekeeper, and business partner all at once," Sekar corrected, sipping her latte. The sharp sweetness reminded her of a life in which she didn't have to fight for every second of her time.
"I saw you in the media. You two are a strong pair. Farhan Raksamudra is always cold, but he always seems calm when you're by his side. He depends on you, Sekar. Everyone sees it."
Sekar felt a chill. Dian's words confirmed her instincts. Farhan had indeed made Sekar his psychological anchor. "We work hard. This… is a professional marriage, you know?"
"Of course. The black act. Everyone knows." Dian nodded, then leaned closer, her tone dropping. "But how are you, really? I mean, you always seem perfect. But are you happy? That strict control " Dian cut herself off. "Have you stopped taking the anti-anxiety meds?"
Sekar's heart leapt, even though she managed to mask her physical response perfectly. This was an alarm. Someone who knew her could see that beneath her high-functioning exterior, there was a deep chasm of anxiety. Only extreme necessity had convinced Farhan that Sekar was the 'perfect secretary' without emotional flaws.
"I'm fine, Dian. Everything is under control," Sekar replied, a cliché that sounded hollow even to her own ears. "The medication… I don't need it anymore. Structured life actually gives me calm."
Dian looked into Sekar's eyes. "Lies. Too rigid a structure doesn't calm; it suffocates. I see it. You didn't even allow yourself to cry when your mother was sick. Don't let that man turn you into his robot."
Suddenly, the light conversation shifted into a serious confrontation. Dian touched a wound Sekar thought had long been sealed. Sekar's weakness was past trauma, and she had used Farhan's obedience as a wall to never falter again.
"I have to fight for my own life. Farhan provides the facilities," Sekar said, her voice defensive. Anxiety crept in not from Farhan's presence, but from the old Sekar resurfacing.
Dian exhaled. "I hope so. I just miss the Sekar who isn't so tense. I miss your genuine laughter, not protocol smiles."
They continued talking about Dian's work, old memories, and past gossip. Sekar forced herself to engage, convincing herself she was safe, unsupervised, and truly free.
Two hours passed. Sekar nearly forgot about the will, the shares, and the total obedience hour. The warmth of friendship eased the paranoia Farhan had instilled. This was luxury. This was true therapy.
Dian stood, needing to return to work. "Good seeing you, Sekar. Call me, don't just be a corporate news headline."
"Of course, Dian. Thank you." Sekar escorted Dian to the door. After she left, Sekar sat back, feeling a light euphoria from emotional release.
She glanced at her phone. No call from Farhan. No sudden task messages. The control was truly gone at least for a few more hours.
Sekar reached for her wallet to pay the bill. Yet a new notification appeared on her phone, which she had kept silent to avoid office interruptions. It was an email from Farhan.
The subject line was short: Enjoy.
Sekar furrowed her brows. It was unprofessional. Too brief. And oddly… personal. She opened the email.
There was no text in the body, only a high-resolution attachment. A photo, taken surreptitiously from a very specific angle, capturing Sekar's table, her latte, and her face laughing freely with Dian exactly twenty minutes ago.
Farhan hadn't called. He hadn't sent a bodyguard. He had only sent undeniable proof that he had been watching her. Even in the most hidden place, in the plainest café, dressed casually, Farhan knew everything.
Sekar immediately scanned the surroundings, panic hitting mercilessly, far worse than any of Farhan's domestic compliance demands. Farhan hadn't just granted her freedom; he had given it under a magnifying glass. He had tested Sekar's limits, and sent confirmation: You are free, but remember you are always in my grasp.
Sekar quickly paid the bill and rushed outside, feeling an invisible pair of eyes on her back. She ran, gasping. The freedom was false. It was merely Farhan reaffirming that, even though the contract was technically cracked, his psychological control remained absolute.
Sekar stumbled toward a taxi. Her phone rang. It was Farhan's number, the one reserved only for extremely important personal calls.
She drew a deep breath, trying to steady her racing heart. Here it was. Control had returned, colder and closer than ever.
"Yes, Mr. Farhan?" Sekar asked, her voice professional though she trembled violently.
Farhan's voice came, soft and even, yet bone-piercing. "Just a reminder, Mrs. Raksamudra. I expect you to return fully recovered. Because…"
The pause was lethal, building anticipation that felt almost physical.
"…I have just decided, I will claim your total obedience hour tonight."