Entangled in Lust

17. The Barcelona Exit

Five days. That was how long the silence lasted after I slammed his apartment door last week.

Five days that felt like five centuries. I stared at my iPhone screen until my vision blurred. I hoped for just one notification. Maybe an "I'm sorry," a "I miss you," or even a simple "Hey."" But the screen remained black, cold, and mute.

I went through my routine like a robot running on low battery. I drove to campus, sat in class listening to the lecturer drone on about Monetary Policy, but my brain was a void. My socialite friends invited me to brunch in Senopati; I declined. Mom asked me to accompany her for a dress fitting for her charity gala; I claimed a migraine. I even flunked a Microeconomics quiz. I couldn’t tell the supply curve from the c***k in the wall I stared at for an hour.

I expected him to grovel. I expected a giant bouquet of flowers like usual. I thought he would show up at my boarding house or my Dad’s house. He’d have that guilty puppy look he perfected in our sophomore year.

But on the sixth day, exactly at 2:00 PM, my phone finally buzzed. My heart leaped, then free-fell into the pit of my stomach as I read the preview. It wasn't an apology. It wasn't a plea for forgiveness. It was a royal decree.

Lucas: Come to the penthouse now. We need to talk. And please bring the spare access card.

"Bring the spare access card." Five words. No heart emoji. No "Babe" or "Honey." In that second, I knew. The "us" I had been fighting for was already dead. I wasn't going there to make up. I was going there to attend the funeral.

The private elevator ride to the 45th floor felt like a slow ascent to the gallows. The gold-mirrored walls reflected my image: a girl with puffy eyes and messy hair tied in a careless bun. A sharp contrast to the opulence of this place.

I punched in the code—his mother’s birthday. The doors opened for the last time.

Swoosh. The stale smell of stale cigarettes and alcohol from last week was gone. It had been replaced by the sharp scent of citrus floor cleaner and expensive leather. And then I saw it. A sight that made my knees weak.

Suitcases. Five large Louis Vuitton trunks sat in the hallway, their classic monogram on display. They looked like soldiers ready for action. Cardboard boxes were stacked neatly by the door. They used strong tape marked "FRAGILE." The shelves that held his Baccarat crystal collection were empty. The polaroids of us that usually stuck to his red Smeg fridge were gone without a trace. The apartment didn't look like a home anymore. It looked like a cold VIP airport lounge.

Lucas walked out of the master bedroom. He wasn't wearing his wrinkled work shirt or smelling like party leftovers anymore. He was dressed in a crisp white linen shirt rolled up to his elbows and sand-colored chino pants. His face was freshly shaved, his jawline sharp and clean. His hair was styled perfectly with pomade. He looked handsome. Painfully so. He looked like a travel magazine model ready to conquer the world. He looked... relieved.

"You're moving?" I asked. My voice sounded small, absorbed by the thick carpet in the empty room.

Lucas didn't turn to look at me. He was busy checking an inventory list on his iPad Pro. "I'm leaving," he corrected flatly. "The international movers are coming in an hour to take the heavy cargo."

"Leaving? To where?"

"Barcelona."

He finally looked up. His eyes were clear, devoid of the red veins and stress I saw last week. But they were also empty. No warmth. No guilt. "The company audit is done. The assets are safe. Papa wants me to take over the European operations immediately. The directive came out this morning."

"Immediately?" I took a step forward, my legs feeling like lead. "Like... when?"

"Tonight. My flight is at 9 PM. First class on Garuda to Amsterdam, then connecting to Barcelona."

The blood drained completely from my face. "Tonight? And you’re telling me now?"

"I didn't want a scene, Cell," he said calmly, placing the iPad on the marble island. His tone was casual, as if he were just going to Bandung for the weekend. "I know how emotional you get about goodbyes."

"Emotional?" I laugh bitterly. "You're moving to another continent, Lucas! You're leaving me! How am I supposed to react? Prepare a PowerPoint presentation to make you happy? Throw you a farewell party?"

Lucas sighed deeply. He walked towards me. His expression softened, but his eyes stayed calculating. Something that made me uneasy.

"Listen to me," he said softly. He stood right in front of me. The scent of his Tom Ford Oud Wood cologne floated around me. It used to feel safe and comforting, but now it turned my stomach. "I have to marry Sofia. It’s Papa’s absolute decision. It’s a business decision, Cell. This merger is worth trillions. I can't refuse unless I want to be written out of the will."

"So we're done, right?" I asked, choking back the sob rising in my throat. "You chose the money over me."

"Who said we have to be done?"

Lucas smirked. A confident, arrogant smile that suggested he controlled the entire world. He reached out, touching my arm, his hand traveling up to my shoulder with a familiar intimacy. "I'm marrying Sofia on paper. In front of the public, the media, the shareholders. But my heart? My needs? That’s still you, Cell. You know me. I wouldn't last a week with a stiff, conservative, boring girl like Sofia."

I stared at him, confused, my brain trying to process his toxic words. "What do you mean?"

"Come with me," he whispered seductively, his voice dropping. He pulled me closer by the waist until our bodies touched. "I can rent you an apartment in the Eixample district, Barcelona. It’s only ten minutes from my new office. Or if you want to stay in Jakarta to run your Dad’s business, that’s fine too. I can fly back once a month on the private jet. We can still be together. We can vacation in the Maldives, Paris, wherever. No one needs to know."

My ears rang. He wasn't breaking up with me. He was offering me the position of a mistress. He wanted me to be the dark secret hidden behind the luxury of his life, while Sofia played Queen in his castle.

"You're insane," I hissed. I tried to push his chest, but he held me tight. His grip on my waist hardened.

"Come on, Marcella, don’t be naive," Lucas said with a soft chuckle. He leaned in, his warm breath tickling my cheek. He tried to kiss me. "This is a win-win solution. You still get me, you get the facilities, and you don't have to deal with the headache of my complicated family. You want this too, right? You can't live without me, Cell. For three years, your world has revolved around me."

"Let go!" I gathered all my strength and shoved him roughly. I pushed him hard enough that he stumbled back two steps and bumped into the edge of the marble table.

Lucas's face changed drastically. The seductive smile vanished instantly. His eyes darkened with offense. His ego was bruised by the rejection. "Don't play hard to get, Marcella!" he snapped suddenly. His voice echoed in the hollow room.

"I'm not playing hard to get! I have dignity, you asshole!" I screamed back.

"Dignity?" Lucas laughed cynically. A condescending sound. He stepped forward again, pointing a finger in my face. "Get a grip, Cell. You’re the one who’s been obsessively in love with me all this time. You’re the one always begging for my time, begging for my attention."

"I never begged!"

"You begged!" he cut in sharply, his face flushing red. "And just so you know, you should be grateful I’m even offering you this position. Only I..." he paused for effect, "...only I am the kind of high-class man willing to pick up a broken-home girl like you!"

The world seemed to stop spinning. Those words hit me harder than any knife, cutting straight into my deepest insecurity.

"What do you mean?" my voice trembled violently.

"Do you think a good family wants a daughter-in-law from a messy divorce?" Lucas stared at me, disgusted, like I was dirt on his loafers. "Everyone knows your Dad is a cheater and your Mom is a status-obsessed maniac. My family is actually embarrassed that I’m dating you. They say your 'breeding' is defective. But I defended you, Cell! I accepted you even though your family is damaged goods. I became your anchor. And now you dare to refuse my offer? You think you have other options?"

Tears spilled from my eyes—not from sadness, but rage. A rage so blinding, my hands shook and my vision turned red. So all this time... this is how he saw me? Not as an equal partner. Not as a lover. But as a defective item, he picked it up out of pity.

"Am I that low in your eyes?" I asked quietly, staring straight into his cold eyes.

Lucas scoffed, straightening his collar. "I'm just being realistic. You need me. I'm the only one who makes you feel whole."

I wiped the tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand, roughly. I straightened my spine, summoning every ounce of pride he just tried to crush.

"I can live without you, Lucas," I said, my voice sharp, cold, and deadly. "I have money. I have a brain. I have my Father's last name, which carries just as much weight as yours. I can do whatever I want in this world without the permission or pity of a manipulative bastard like you."

"Oh, really? We'll see."

"Yes, we will see!" I shouted. "I don't need your validation. I don't need your 'protection.' And I certainly will not be your mistress, waiting for my turn like a w***e!"

I reached into my Chanel bag with shaking hands, grabbing the penthouse access card. The card I once thought was a symbol of love now felt like it was burning my skin. I threw it with all my might, right at his face. Smack! The hard plastic hit his cheekbone before clattering onto the marble floor.

"This is the end of us," I said with finality. My breathing was ragged. "I hope you're happy with your choice. I hope you enjoy your fake life. And I hope... one day you feel the pain I feel right now. The pain of being betrayed and degraded by the person you called home."

"Cell, wait—don't be crazy—" Lucas tried to reach for my hand again, realizing he had gone too far.

"DON'T TOUCH ME!" I shrieked hysterically.

I turned and sprinted toward the door. My legs felt wobbly in my heels, but I forced them to move. I slammed the heavy teak penthouse door with everything I had. BLAM!

I pressed the elevator button with wildly trembling hands. I felt like vomiting. As the doors closed, the metal box started to descend from the 45th floor. My defenses crumbled completely.

I slid down to the cold floor of the elevator. I hugged my knees and sobbed. I cried loudly, wailing inside that soundproof box.

I wasn't crying for Lucas—he was dead to me. I cried for myself. Crying for naive Marcella. She spent three years loving a man who secretly mocked her family's tragedy.

Floor after floor passed on the digital indicator. 40... 30... 20... The elevator took down a girl who seemed to have it all—money, beauty, status, and luxury cars. But inside, that girl realized she had nothing. She was alone. Discarded like trash because she came from a "broken family."

When the elevator doors opened in the lobby, I scrambled to stand up, wiped my face, and put my cold mask back on. But my heart knew, no amount of makeup could cover this ruin.