The ER waiting room reeked of antiseptic and fear, fluorescent buzz drilling into Ayla's skull. Rain hammered the windows like accusatory fists. The Batak elder—tall, weathered face etched with tribal scars under his ulos shawl—thrust the photo forward, the boy's innocent eyes mirroring Damian's exactly. "Raja Samosir demands justice, Horja Arkan. This child is clan blood. Hide him no more, or your fake bride pays."
Damian wiped blood from his split lip, stance widening like a shield before Ayla. His torn shirt gaped, revealing swirling Batak motifs tattooed across his torso—symbols of warriors long dead. "Lies, Paman Tua. DNA cleared me. Nadia's poison."
The elder spat on the linoleum. "We have new proof. The mother confessed before vanishing—your one-night sin in Toba. Marry low to bury it? Clan curses your line!"
Ayla clutched the contract, fresh ink smudging her fingers. Mom moaned on a gurney nearby, nurses stitching her wounds. Dad's surgery light blinked green—saved, for now. But this? A secret son? Her "husband" a fugitive from his roots?
"Enough," Damian growled, voice echoing. "Touch her, and Medan burns."
Two elders flanked him, grabbing arms. Chaos reignited—fists thudding, ulos ripping. Ayla screamed, "Stop! Police!"
Cops burst in, batons drawn, hauling elders out amid curses in Batak tongue. Damian slumped into a plastic chair, breathing ragged, eyes haunted. "They're gone. For now."
Ayla knelt before him, anger boiling over fear. "Truth. All of it. Or annulment tonight."
He met her gaze, walls crumbling. "Villa party, Toba, five years ago. Drunk night, girl from clan fringes. She claimed pregnancy—mine. I paid her off, DNA negative. She disappeared with cash. Nadia dug it up, twisted it. No son."
"Then why the photo?" Ayla snatched it—boy grinning by Lake Toba, same dimpled chin.
"Fake composite. Photoshop. Check the shadows." Damian's finger traced anomalies, voice weary. "Clan's hated me since I developed their 'ancestral' lands into resorts. This marriage? Buys time—board sees stability, stocks rise, I crush rivals."
Ayla's chest tightened. His hand brushed hers—electric, unintended. "You're using me."
"Mutual. Your family's breathing because of it." He stood, pulling her up. "Wedding tomorrow. Civil. Quick. Then we play house."
Dawn broke humid over Medan as they left hospital—Mom stable, Dad in recovery. Damian's jet-black Maybach waited, dents from thugs gleaming wet. Ayla's ring—simple platinum band he'd slipped on mid-chaos—felt like chains.
They sped to his penthouse atop Arkan Tower, skyline sprawling like his empire. Marble floors, floor-to-ceiling views of Masjid Raya and polluted Deli River. Maid served nasi goreng, but Ayla's stomach churned.
"Media blackout on tonight," Damian said, scrolling emails. "Nadia contained—for 24 hours."
Phone buzzed—unknown video: grainy footage of Damian at Toba villa, tangled with a woman, her belly swelling months later. Caption: *Father confirmed. Clan war imminent. Run, bride.*
Ayla shoved it at him. "Contained? This is viral!"
Damian's face drained. "Hacked. From my old server." He dialed furiously—lawyers, PR. But elevator dinged: Reno, the thug leader, flanked by suited goons, holding a briefcase.
"Delivery from Nadia," Reno grinned, tossing it. Inside: DNA report stamped official, 99.9% match—Damian's name bold. "Sign over 20% shares, or boy hunt goes public. Clan too."
Damian snatched the paper, eyes scanning. Forgery? Real? He crumpled it, lunging at Reno—glass table shattering in the brawl. Ayla backed into shadows, heart splintering.
As Reno fled laughing, Damian panted, bloodied knuckles. "It's fake. Must be."
But the penthouse door creaked open uninvited. A woman stepped in—gaunt, wild-eyed, cradling a sleeping boy. "Damian... he's yours. I lied before. Forgive me?"