Chapter 1
The chandeliers glittered like diamonds above the ballroom, casting golden reflections across a sea of silk gowns and black suits. The air smelled of expensive perfume, champagne, and expectation. Dozens of cameras flashed as the couple of the year took the stage — two names powerful enough to make headlines even before their vows were spoken.
Alana Wiratama walked down the aisle with the grace of a goddess carved from ice. The train of her ivory gown rippled behind her like a silken tide, each step echoing against marble floors. The crowd sighed, enchanted by her beauty.
But behind that flawless face lay a woman who wanted to be anywhere but there.
At the altar stood Darren Wijaya — every inch the perfect heir. His suit was tailored to precision, his expression calm, confident, untouchable. When their eyes met, it wasn’t love that passed between them. It was calculation. A silent agreement that tonight was a merger, not a marriage.
When the priest said, “You may now kiss the bride,” Darren leaned closer, his lips barely brushing hers. It looked perfect for the cameras — a picture of elegance and devotion. Yet the moment it ended, Alana’s eyes went cold again.
The applause thundered.
The journalists cheered.
And the lie began.
Later that evening, their reception overflowed with politicians, business magnates, and celebrities. Laughter filled the hall, glasses clinked, and the couple danced under glittering lights for the world to see.
Darren held Alana by the waist, his grip just tight enough to appear loving.
“Smile,” he murmured near her ear.
Alana’s lips curved slightly. “I am smiling, Mr. Wijaya. You just don’t know what for.”
She knew the cameras were watching. Every step, every look had to be perfect. The entire empire of two families rested on their performance. Yet beneath the music and lights, there was only emptiness.
By midnight, when the crowd began to thin and the fake laughter faded, Alana slipped away to their penthouse suite. Her heels clicked softly against the marble, echoing like distant memories of freedom. She removed her earrings, her tiara, the heavy gown — all symbols of a love she didn’t have.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.
A message.
A photo.
It was Darren — laughing, sitting close to another woman in a private restaurant. His hand rested on the woman’s waist, his lips close to her ear. The timestamp was painfully clear: 11:23 PM.
The reception had ended at ten.
Her chest tightened, though not from heartbreak. No — she had expected this. From the very beginning, she knew what kind of man she had married. Still, seeing it confirmed, on the night that was supposed to mark their union, left a hollow ache somewhere deep inside her.
She poured herself a glass of champagne and stared out the window at the city below.
Jakarta shimmered, alive and sleepless.
“Cheers,” she whispered to the reflection of her wedding ring in the glass. “To the perfect marriage.”
The next morning, the tabloids exploded with praise.
Indonesia’s Golden Couple: Darren Wijaya & Alana Wiratama Tie the Knot in a Fairytale Ceremony!
Every photo captured them smiling, holding hands, kissing under a canopy of roses.
No one saw the cracks beneath.
Alana sat before her mirror as stylists fixed her hair for a magazine shoot. Her phone buzzed again — this time a news alert, showing Darren at an international business event, alone, already wearing his charm like armor.
She smiled faintly. “You play well, Darren,” she whispered.
The makeup artist looked at her reflection and smiled, unaware. “You’re lucky, Alana. He’s every woman’s dream.”
Alana’s laughter was soft, almost kind. “Maybe that’s the problem.”
Outside, the city roared with life, headlines bloomed, and two families celebrated their new alliance.
But inside, beneath the flawless makeup and shining lights, Alana Wiratama’s heart began to write its own quiet tragedy — one that the cameras would never see.
