Medan's streets choked with exhaust and the sizzle of street food vendors under a relentless sun. Ayla Sari hustled toward Universitas Sumatera Utara, her faded jeans ripped at the knees, long black hair knotted in a hasty bun. At 22, she carried the weight of worlds: her dad wasting away in Harapan Sejahtera Hospital, bills piling like storm clouds, her mom scraping by in their cramped Merdeka rental. Part-time barista by day, night classes in economics—dreams deferred, but fire undimmed.
Her cracked phone buzzed: *Ayla, pay the bill TODAY or dad's ventilator goes off.* Nurse's warning. Tuition loomed at 50 million rupiah; loan sharks circled at 200 million. She quickened her pace past becak drivers haggling, sweat beading on her sun-kissed skin.
A sleek black Mercedes purred to a stop beside her, window gliding down. Damian Arkan stared out—30, chiseled jaw like carved teak, obsidian eyes cold as Lake Toba's depths, Armani suit screaming power. CEO of Arkan Group, Medan's property titan, known for crushing rivals and snapping up land from desperate farmers.
"Get in," he commanded, voice low thunder.
Ayla froze, pulse racing. "Excuse me? I don't know you, and I'm late for class."
His driver opened the door. "Five minutes. Business."
Curiosity clawed her fear. Damian Arkan—newspaper kingpin, ruthless climber from nothing. Why her? She slid in, leather seats swallowing her like luxury quicksand. The car glided toward Kesawan, Medan's old quarter pulsing with life.
They settled in an upscale cafe, robusta coffee aroma thick. Damian ordered black for himself, orange juice for her—no questions. "Ayla Sari. Dad's 500 million hospital debt. Your tuition. Shark loans. I know it all."
She choked on air. "How? Stalker much?"
"I own Medan. And I need you." He slid a leather folder across. "Contract marriage. One year. Fake wife on paper. I clear every debt, fund your dad's treatment, your degree. Plus one billion compensation. Divorce clean—no strings."
Ayla laughed, bitter and sharp. "Marriage? To you? This isn't some K-drama, mister. I'm broke, not desperate enough for that circus."
Damian's lips twitched—a predator's smirk. "Perfect fit. Innocent, poor, no ties. Stabilizes my board—stocks wobble after my broken engagement to Nadia Pratiwi, shipping heiress. They whisper I'm 'unstable,' no heir. You? Photo-op bride. Done."
Her cheeks burned under his gaze, tracing her lips, her simple curves. "Why me? Medan's full of socialites drooling for you."
"You look real. Not plastic. Sign, and your life's remade."
She flipped the contract: ironclad clauses—no intimacy except show, secrecy absolute, *no falling in love*. Laughable. With this glacier?
But dad's pale face haunted her. Mom's tears. Pen trembled in her grip.
Cafe doors slammed open. Nadia Pratiwi stormed in—glamorous viper in designer red, blonde extensions whipping, eyes venomous. "Damian! Marrying this slum rat?!"
Damian rose coolly. "Nadia. Out."
"You'll regret! I know your dirty secret—the bastard kid you're hiding!" Nadia's screech turned heads; phones whipped out.