Zioh clearly struggled to control his emotions since returning to Indonesia. Sometimes, he was gentle, calm, peaceful, even joyful. But when his phase shifted, he no longer felt like himself, at least not the Zioh I had known.
He became like a blade that didn’t hesitate to strike, or a machine built to cause pain.
And…
He seemed most prone to becoming like that when he was withme…
It forced me to tighten my grip on my emotions and sharpen my senses because I never knew when he would strike.
It felt as if I were living in a permanent state of red alert, on guard, wearing bulletproof armor.
And I shouldn’t have felt this way next to my hero.
I rubbed my arms over and over as the cold air from the air conditioner seeped through my jacket.
Zioh reached forward and turned up the temperature. I bit the inside of my cheek, and I wanted to thank him, to speak, but fear kept me silent.
Then, my thoughts were pulled away by the sound that filled the car.
Music.
The speakers were filled with the sound of “Strong” by One Direction. The song’s sound awakened something inside me, making me hold my breath, sending a stinging bloom behind my eyes. This song—we used to sing it together.
Slowly, he reached across, his fingers brushing my cheek. His touch was soft and tender, but his eyes trembled when they met mine. For a moment, his gaze dropped, tracing down and lingering. Then he shook his head with a quick movement, and pulling his hand away.
I let out a quiet sigh, fighting the wave of heat and longing inside me. I tried smiling to myself, letting the music wash over me.
Now he was gray, dominated by white—
“Am I your little secret now?” His sharp, low voice greeted me, dragging me back.
My head snapped toward him. His eyes were cold again, burning into me. “Secret?” I whispered. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t want Tsabinu to know.” He glanced at me, then back to the road. His breath grew heavier.
Zioh… you are like a book I can’t read.
“I don’t understand, Zi,” I said, still looking at him. “What should Mas Bibu know? He already knows you’re my boss now.”
The car stopped at a red light, and his head whipped toward me. His jaw was tight, and his brows furrowed. He looked furious, deeply offended.
A heavy breath left him. He shook his head and shut his eyes for a second.
And then—silence.
The rest of the drive to his penthouse passed without asingle word.
« -- * -- »
He strode upstairs ahead of me, quick and distant. At the landing, he spoke without looking back. “Give me ten minutes, I want to shower.” The bedroom door shut behind him, leaving me stopped at the top of the stairs. I lingered on the fading traces of his presence, breathing out in a tremble.
My body was heavy, and my thoughts wandered back and forth. What was happening to us? I honestly didn’t understand and didn’t know what to do.
After a few minutes, my gaze drifted to the first hallway on this floor, and then I remembered—the painting. That night, when I first came here, I saw it in the hallway: a frame lying against the wall, turned to face the corner.
Now, I was compelled to see it. I needed something—anything. So, slowly, I moved. Step by step, I approached it.
My heartbeat spiked as I drew nearer to the frame still lying there. When I stood before it, I studied it closely. The painting wasn’t large. Its wooden edges were painted black, and a wire stretched across the back. Hesitantly, I crouched and picked it up, turning it over.
