Yor Regret is Too Late!

The clinking of silver spoons against chrysanthemum porcelain plates sounded like a death knell in Aria’s ears. The Maheswari dining room felt freezing that night, even though the AC was set to a normal temperature. The aroma of expensive Wagyu steak only made Aria nauseous. At the head of the table, Prasetya Maheswari sat with his back straight, staring at a test paper with a rare gleam of pride. "Perfect. A grade point average of ninety-eight. You truly are the jewel of this family, Aileen," Prasetya said, his voice heavy yet gentle as he spoke to the girl at his right. Aileen, wearing a peach silk dress that contrasted sharply with her porcelain skin, smiled sweetly. Her raven hair cascaded beautifully, shimmering under the crystal chandelier. "This is all thanks to Papa and Mama's support. I just don't want to embarrass the Maheswari name." "Of course, dear. Degrees and achievements are the breath of our family," Ratna, her mother, cooed, stroking Aileen's hand gently. Her eyes then shifted to the left side of the table. The warmth instantly evaporated, replaced by an icy gaze. "And you, Aria? Where is your paper?" Aria flinched. Her hands, hidden under the table, clenched together. She could feel the rough texture at her fingertips—calluses from needles and the heavy fabric scissors she used too often. She slowly pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from her dull uniform pocket. She placed the paper on the table with trembling hands. Prasetya grabbed it. In just three seconds, he flicked the paper onto the center of Aria’s plate, which was still full of food. The '42' in the math column stared back like a flaming red mockery. "Forty-two?" Prasetya let out a hollow laugh, a sound more painful than a shout. "Aria, tell me, what is inside that brain of yours? You and Aileen were born from the same womb, on the same day. Yet why did you grow up to be... a manufacturing defect?" 'Manufacturing defect.' The words struck Aria’s chest, leaving her breathless. "I... I studied, Papa. But the numbers always jump around in my eyes," Aria squeaked. Her voice was hoarse, nearly drowned out by the ticking of the wall clock. "Excuses!" Ratna snapped suddenly, making Aria jump. "You are just lazy. Look at your face, dull and unkempt. Your hair looks like a lion's mane. You have no academic achievements, no beauty to boast about. You are a stain, Aria! You make people wonder if we actually have two daughters or one daughter and a maid who was raised in the wrong house." Aileen remained silent, sipping her orange juice gracefully. There was no defense. Instead, the corners of her lips curled up slightly—a small victory only Aria’s eyes could catch. "Sorry, Mama..." "Don't apologize! Improve that grade or get out of this house. The Maheswaris don't need a fool who only knows how to daydream in the back cottage!" Prasetya cut in sharply. "You know it yourself—in this world, credentials are everything. Without them, you are nobody." Aria lowered her head further. She hid her hands under the table again. Beneath the table, she touched a scrap of fabric in her pocket—a dress design she had drawn secretly behind her math notebook. To her, the lines of fabric made far more sense than the calculus formulas her father worshipped as God. But she knew if she showed that sketch, he would burn it alive. The atmosphere returned to silence, filled only by the elegant clinking of silverware. Suddenly, Prasetya’s phone vibrated. He answered, and his expression shifted drastically. Tension, respect, and overwhelming joy washed over him. "Yes? Really? When?" Prasetya stood from his chair. "We will welcome him with open arms. Of course." After hanging up, Prasetya looked at his wife and two daughters with gleaming eyes. "Big news. The sole heir to the Pratama Group, Asher Pratama, is returning to Indonesia next week. He will be attending your school," Prasetya said, his voice trembling. Ratna covered her mouth in surprise. "Asher? That boy who used to... who used to be dirty and often played in our backyard because his grandfather gave him a scholarship?" "Yes. But he isn't that sun-baked poor kid anymore. His grandfather has made him the sole heir to all of the Pratama assets. He is returning as a prince," Prasetya turned toward Aileen with a look full of plotting. "And most importantly... he called his grandfather's assistant earlier. He said he wants to find his childhood best friend." Aria’s heart hammered. Asher. The name triggered memories of a boy crying under the mango tree because his leg was injured, and little Aria bandaging him with her first knitted handkerchief. "He’s looking for 'Ai'," Prasetya continued, beaming at Aileen. "Aileen, this is your chance. He must be looking for you. Who else is a girl named 'Ai' worthy of standing by his side if not you, the beautiful and brilliant one?" Aileen blushed, her eyes glinting with ambition. "I remember him a little, Papa. He’s the one I used to give my leftover cakes to, right?" Aileen lied smoothly. Aria looked up, eyes wide. "But Papa, the one who used to play with Asher was—" "Quiet, Aria!" Ratna cut her off with a low, threatening voice. "Don't you dare try to claim something that isn't yours. With your face and your brain, how could an Asher Pratama be looking for you? He is looking for the 'perfect Ai,' and that is Aileen." Prasetya nodded in agreement. "Remember this well. Next week, when he arrives at school, Aileen is his only childhood friend. Aria, if you dare to approach him or ruin this plan with your dowdy appearance, I won't hesitate to erase your name from the family register." Aria fell silent. Under the table, she clutched the old handkerchief in her pocket—the same one she used to bandage Asher’s wound years ago. Tears welled up in her eyes. Asher was back. But he wasn't looking for the girl they called a "stain." He was looking for a memory that her twin was now ready to steal.