The Echo of That Night
The rain began to fall the very moment the door of the luxury sedan slammed shut, muffling Adrian Mahesa’s stifled curse into little more than a faint vibration within the soundproofed cabin. Droplets struck the windowpane, creating a thousand slithering silver trails, refracting the city lights into an abstract glare that hurt the eyes. Just like his thoughts at that moment—chaotic, fragmented, and heading in a direction he did not want to go.
In the passenger seat, Baskara, COO of the Mahesa Group and the only human being permitted to see the cracks in Adrian’s steel façade, simply let out a long sigh. He didn't need to ask. The thunder rumbling in his boss's jaw was answer enough.
“So, hell,” Baskara said, breaking the tense silence. His voice was flat, an anchor of reality in the storm of Adrian's emotions.
“That doesn't even begin to cover it,” Adrian replied. His knuckles whitened on the leather-wrapped steering wheel, each one the tip of an iceberg of fury. “Grandfather Subroto must have lost his mind in his final days.”
“Or just the opposite,” Baskara countered, his eyes fixed straight ahead. “You know your grandfather never did anything without reason. This isn't just a will, Adrian. It's a strategy.”
“A strategy to destroy his own legacy?” Adrian scoffed. He slammed his foot on the accelerator, sending the car surging through a puddle. “Forcing the Mahesa Group—a pillar of precision and classic luxury—to collaborate with… Kencana Mode.” He said the name as if spitting out something bitter. “A brand built on impulse and a gaudy explosion of color. It's an insult.”
Baskara turned to look at his friend's sharp profile. “That's not what this is about, and you know it. This isn't about a clash of brands. It's about Elara Kencana.”
The name hung in the air, charged with static electricity. Adrian didn't answer. His jaw tightened, a fortress he had built to hold back a tidal wave of unwanted memories. He hated the way Baskara could see right through him, dismantling the layers of defense he had so carefully constructed over the years.
“We'll draw up a proposal,” Adrian said, his voice once again cold and controlled, steering the conversation back to territory he dominated: business. “We will dominate this project. We’ll dictate the direction, the logistics, the image. She’ll just need to sign her name at the end. We'll make this collaboration look like a polite acquisition.”
“You think she’ll let you?” Baskara let out a small, humorless, gravelly laugh. “The woman you just faced in that glass-walled room? The one whose stare could have burned a hole through the will? She won’t go down without a fight, Dri. She'll turn every meeting into a battlefield.”
Adrian snorted. “Let her. I’m used to war.”
It was then that the radio, playing at a low volume, switched from business news to music. A slow, sensual jazz melody began to play, dominated by a wailing saxophone and the tinkling of a piano that sounded like raindrops in the dead of night.
A familiar melody. All too familiar.
Instantly, the world outside the car vanished. The roar of the engine, the chorus of horns, even Baskara's presence beside him—it all faded into a hazy background. All that remained was the music. And the music carried an echo.
The echo of that night.
Three years ago. A fundraising gala at an art gallery atop a skyscraper. It wasn't the event he remembered, but the interlude. On a private balcony overlooking a sea of city lights, he had stood there. Not as the CEO of the Mahesa Group. And the woman before him was not the CEO of Kencana Mode.
For one night, they were just Adrian and Elara.
The saxophone on the radio seemed to pull a fragment of memory from the depths of his mind. Elara's laugh, crisp and free, more melodious than any piano. The scent of her perfume, a blend of jasmine and something warm like vanilla, drifting on the night breeze. Adrian remembered how the city lights had danced in her dark eyes, creating a secret constellation only he could see.
“…so you admit it,” Elara's voice from the past whispered in his ear. “Behind all those stiff suits and that judgmental gaze, there's a man who can appreciate art that's a little… wild.”
He remembered his own smile, a genuine one that rarely made an appearance. “Only if the art is worth the risk.”
The playful glint in Elara's eyes. “And am I worth the risk, Adrian Mahesa?”
“Adrian!”
Baskara's voice jolted him back to the present. The saxophone on the radio was suddenly deafening. With a rough movement, Adrian slammed the off button, plunging the car's cabin into a silence even more suffocating than the music. His breathing was slightly ragged. A single drop of cold sweat trickled down his temple. His control had faltered.
“Are you all right?” Baskara asked, an eyebrow raised. He’d seen it. He’d seen the small tremor that had just shaken his friend.
“A bad song,” Adrian said, his voice sharper than he’d intended. He refocused on the wet road ahead, on the white lines rushing beneath the wheels.
Baskara was quiet for a moment, letting the lie hang in the air. “Three years ago. The ‘Art in Vogue’ gala. After that night, you were never the same. You built your walls higher, worked twice as hard. And you never once mentioned her name again until today.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Adrian cut in.
“Really?” Baskara pressed. “Because as I recall, you came home the next morning looking like a man who’d just seen a ghost. A very, very beautiful ghost.”
Adrian gripped the steering wheel tighter. The memories flooded back, sharper this time. Not just her laugh and her perfume. But her touch. The feel of the silk of her dress beneath his fingertips. The warmth of her skin as he brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. And then… the kiss. A kiss that began as a challenge and ended as a total surrender. The only moment in his adult life where logic had yielded to instinct.
The only moment he had felt completely out of control.
And it had scared him to death.
“Focus on the job, Bas,” Adrian commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Get the legal team ready. I want every clause in that will analyzed. Find the loopholes. Find the weaknesses. I want to know exactly where my grandfather planted the landmines.”
Baskara nodded, knowing when to retreat. “Right. But one thing, Dri.”
Adrian shot him a sideways glance.
“The biggest landmine in this project isn't written on paper,” Baskara said softly. “She'll be sitting across the table from you. And you've just proved to me that she still has the power to blow you to pieces.”
Adrian didn’t reply, but his silence was a deafening admission.
In another part of the city, in a chauffeur-driven car, Elara Kencana stared blankly at the same scene. The rain, the lights, the organized chaos. But all she could see was Mr. Tirtayasa's smug face and the flash of fury in Adrian Mahesa's dark eyes.
“Arrogant bastard!” Elara hissed, finally breaking the silence that had stretched for ten minutes since they had left the law firm.
Rina, Head Designer at Kencana Mode and her best friend since university, gently patted her hand. “I know, Lara. I know. Calm down. Just breathe.”
“Calm down?” Elara pulled her hand away, her voice trembling with pent-up emotion. “How can I be calm, Rin? My own grandfather, Eyang Subroto, just handed the fate of my company to that man! The man who looks at Kencana Mode as if we're a stain on his expensive shoes!”
“He didn't hand it over,” Rina corrected patiently. “He asked you to collaborate. There's a difference.”
“Oh, of course there's a difference!” Elara exclaimed sarcastically. “The difference between being shot dead and being slowly poisoned! Did you see the way he looked at me? Like I was a nuisance, a problem to be solved. He’s probably already got a hundred-page plan to take over everything, while I…”
“While you will come up with brilliant ideas that will blow his mind,” Rina cut in, her voice full of conviction. “Lara, Kencana Mode is you. Your passion, your vision. The Mahesa Group is a stuffy old corporation. They need your spark.”
Elara leaned her head against the cold window. “I just… I hate him, Rin. I truly, truly hate him.”
The hatred felt real, like a hot coal in her chest. A hatred she had nurtured for three years, a fuel for her ambition to prove she could build her own empire without the help or validation of the great Mahesa name. A hatred rooted in something far deeper than just business rivalry.
Rooted in betrayal.
Frustrated, she reached for her handbag, wanting to check her phone, to find any kind of distraction. As she unfastened the magnetic clasp, her fingers brushed against something soft and familiar. The small silk scarf she always kept in there. A habit.
She pulled it out, and with the fabric came a faint yet sharp scent that filled the air. Not her perfume. Not Rina's.
The scent belonged to Adrian. Sandalwood and bergamot. A clean, sharp, and intensely masculine scent. A scent that should have faded long ago, but had somehow clung to the fibers of the fabric for three years.
And just like Adrian in his car, Elara’s world crumbled in an instant.
The rain on the window became the sound of jazz music from a high balcony. The blurred city lights became a thousand points of light twinkling like diamonds on black velvet. And the silence in the car was filled by the echo of Adrian's deep voice.
She remembered the way he had looked at her that night. For the first time, his gaze held none of the cold analysis of a CEO sizing up a competitor. There was something else there. Admiration. Curiosity. Something that felt… fragile.
“Kencana,” Adrian had whispered, his voice hoarse, his finger tracing the abstract pattern on the dress she wore—one of her first designs. “Gold. It suits you. You shine brighter than all the lights in this city.”
Her heart had hammered in her chest then. A compliment from the most tight-lipped man
