Fourteen days. That was how long the silence had lasted since I kicked Dave out of his own car in front of my boarding house gate. Fourteen days that felt like hell.
I should have been focusing on my graduation preparation. I should have been booking a MUA, fitting my kebaya, or helping Mama choose her Corvelle bag so the color wouldn't clash with Papa’s new wife—oh wait, Papa hasn't remarried—he just has a mistress. But I couldn't focus on any of that.
My mind was trapped in a broken loop. I kept replaying Dave’s voice: "The factory is collapsing. We’re in debt." He was sacrificing himself for money. For an old factory in Surabaya. For family honor.
I sat on the floor of my room, surrounded by bank statements and asset documents I had stolen—or rather, "borrowed"—from Papa’s safe a lon
