His Gentle Revenge On The Cruel Wife

Moving In

The penthouse was cold.

Not just in temperature, but in the way the marble floors echoed under Pinkan’s heels. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed all of Jakarta spread out below, glittering like broken glass. But there were no pictures on the walls. No books on the shelves. No sign that anyone actually lived here.

Andre’s place felt like a museum. A beautiful, expensive museum where touching anything would set off alarms.

“You’ll stay in the guest room,” Andre said, walking ahead of her. His voice was calm, polite even. Too polite. “For now.”

For now. The words stuck in Pinkan’s throat like a blade. She dropped her single suitcase on the floor. She didn’t have much. Just three changes of clothes, a laptop with a cracked screen, and the photo of her mother she kept face-down in her bag.

The guest room was huge. King-sized bed with white sheets so crisp they looked untouched. Bathroom attached, with towels folded into perfect squares. It looked like a five-star hotel. Impersonal. Unlived in.

“You have your own keycard,” Andre continued, setting a small black card on the dresser. His movements were precise, controlled. “My schedule is irregular. Don’t wait up for me.”

Pinkan crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not here to be your wife. I’m here because of the contract.”

Andre turned to face her. For the first time since they met at that godforsaken club, he wasn’t smiling that gentle, dangerous smile. His expression was unreadable. Like a mask.

“I know,” he said softly. Too softly. “But people will expect to see us together. Dinners. Charity events. Photos for the press. That’s part of the deal, Pinkan.”

“I don’t do public displays.”

“You don’t have a choice.” He stepped closer. Not touching her, but close enough that she could smell his cologne. Something expensive, something sharp like cedar and smoke. “You signed the paper. You’re Mrs. Kadeva now.”

She hated how her name sounded in his mouth. Like he was tasting it.

That night, she didn’t sleep. The bed was too big, too empty. The silence was deafening. She kept hearing noises from down the hall. Footsteps. The clink of glass against marble. Once, she thought she heard her name whispered.

At 2 AM, she gave up and went to the kitchen for water. The penthouse was dark except for the city lights streaming through the windows, painting everything in blue and gold.

Andre was there.

He sat at the kitchen island in a black t-shirt and sweatpants. No tie, no suit jacket, no armor. He looked younger like this. Less like a CEO, more like a man. Dangerous in a different way.

He had a glass of whiskey in his hand. And he was staring at her. Not looking away, not pretending he wasn’t waiting.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked. His voice was rough from disuse.

“Your house is too quiet,” she said, grabbing a glass from the cabinet. Her hands shook slightly. She hated that he could see it.

“Mm.” He swirled his whiskey, watching the amber liquid coat the glass. “You’re used to noise?”

“I’m used to hospitals,” she said before she could stop herself. The words slipped out, raw and honest. “Beeping machines. Nurses doing rounds. My mother breathing through the oxygen mask.”

Andre didn’t answer right away. He just watched her drink the water, his eyes tracking the movement of her throat.

“SGH called me today,” he said finally. “Your mother was moved to the private wing this afternoon. Best oncologist in Asia. She’ll start the new treatment protocol next week.”

Pinkan froze. The glass in her hand shook so hard water spilled over the rim onto the marble counter.

“You… you already did it?” Her voice cracked. “The payment?”

“I said I would,” Andre replied. Like it was nothing. Like 50 million dollars was the cost of a cup of coffee.

“Thank you,” she whispered. The words felt foreign in her mouth. She didn’t thank people. She didn’t owe people. But Andre had just bought her mother another month. Another chance.

Andre stood up slowly. He walked around the island until he was standing right in front of her. Close enough that she had to tilt her head up to meet his eyes. His pupils were blown wide in the dim light.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he murmured. “You’re my wife now.”

His hand lifted. For a second, Pinkan thought he was going to touch her face. Her heart slammed against her ribs so hard it hurt. She should’ve stepped back. She should’ve reminded him of the contract clause about no touching without permission.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

Andre’s fingers brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. His touch was light, careful. Almost gentle. His thumb lingered against her temple for half a second too long.

“Goodnight, Pinkan,” he said.

Then he walked away, leaving her alone in the dark kitchen with her heart still racing and her skin burning where he’d touched her.

Three days passed. Andre was gone most of the time. Business trips to Singapore, meetings in his office on the floor below, things he never explained. But every night, he came home. And every night, he found her awake in the kitchen.

He never asked why she couldn’t sleep. He just poured her a glass of water and sat with her in silence until she went back to bed.

On the fourth night, there was a dinner.

Not at home. At a restaurant on the 70th floor where the waiters bowed when Andre walked in and the menu didn’t have prices. Cameras flashed outside. Gossip blogs would eat this up for weeks.

“Smile,” Andre said under his breath as they posed for photos on the red carpet. His hand rested on the small of her back. Firm. Possessive. Burning through the thin fabric of her dress.

“I’m not your prop,” Pinkan hissed, keeping her smile fixed for the cameras.

“No,” he said, his smile dazzling for the press. “You’re my wife.”

His fingers pressed slightly harder against her back. A warning. A reminder.

She smiled wider.

Later, in the back of his black car, she pulled away from him the second the doors closed and the privacy partition rose.

“Don’t touch me unless I say so,” she reminded him, her voice shaking with anger. “That was the deal. Clause three.”

Andre leaned back in his seat. In the dim light, his eyes looked darker than she’d ever seen them. Almost black.

“I’m not touching you, Pinkan,” he said quietly. “I’m claiming you.”

The car fell silent except for the hum of the engine.

When they got home, he didn’t go to his room. He followed her down the hall to the guest room and stood in the doorway while she kicked off her heels and started unzipping her dress.

“You’re shaking,” he observed from the doorway.

“I’m angry,” she lied, yanking the zipper down too hard.

Andre stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The click of the lock was loud in the quiet room. Final.

“Pinkan,” he said, and her name sounded different this time. Lower. Rougher. Like he was holding it in his mouth. “Look at me.”

She turned slowly.

He was right in front of her now. No space between them. Close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. His hand came up, not to her face this time, but to her throat. His thumb pressed lightly against her pulse point.

He could feel it. Her heartbeat. Fast. Scared. But not pulling away. Not pushing him off.

“You’re not afraid of me,” he whispered. His breath was warm against her lips. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Pinkan opened her mouth to lie. To say yes, she was terrified, to push him away and remind him of the contract.

But the truth came out instead: “I’m not.”

Andre’s expression changed. Something dark and hungry flashed in his eyes, like a predator finally realizing its prey wasn’t going to run.

“Good,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. His grip tightened, just a fraction. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind her he could. “Because I don’t think I can be gentle for much longer.”

He let go. Turned. Left the room without another word, closing the door softly behind him.

Pinkan sank to the bed, her hands shaking so badly she had to press them between her knees. Her throat still tingled where his fingers had been.

The contract said one year. Twelve months. Then they’d walk away, the money would stay, and she’d be free.

But lying there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, she had a terrible feeling that Andre Kadeva had no intention of letting her go after twelve months.

And worse—far worse—part of her didn’t want him to.