The Stranger Who Became My Boss

Chapter 3 : Pride

I walked toward his office armed to the teeth, ready for battle. If this was going to be the final fight for the dignity of loyal employees like us, then so be it. I was prepared to give everything I had until my very last breath.

"Las, I'm going in." I greeted Lastri, the General Manager's assistant. Everyone had to check in with her before meeting Mister X.

Then I stepped inside.

Of course he was there. It was his office, after all.

He sat behind his desk, his attention fixed on the laptop in front of him. I noticed the old wooden desk Mr. Bimo used had already been replaced with a sleek white metal one. Even the nameplate had changed. Mr. Bimo's name was gone, replaced with his.

Across from him, Ms. Ida sat in the chair on the right. Even though there was a sofa available, she had chosen the chair directly in front of his desk, leaving me no choice but to take the seat on the left. The two of us sat facing Mister X, separated by nothing but his desk.

"Good afternoon, Sir." I greeted him first.

He didn't even look up. "Alright, Namira. Ms. Ida told me you're the one who handles the overtime request forms. Is that correct?"

"Yes, Sir. I've been responsible for them for the past six years. I—"

"Take a good look." He cut me off before I could finish. "Is this the form?"

I inhaled slowly and accepted the sheet he handed me. It was a blank overtime request form.

"Yes, Sir. This is the form." I returned it to him.

"Do you know the overtime trend over the past two years?"

"I'd have to check the data first, Sir." To be honest, I'd never created that kind of graph before. Neither Ms. Ida nor I had ever been asked to prepare reports like that.

"You don't need to." He turned his laptop toward me. "Look."

A graph filled the screen. The overtime trend had risen by eighty-five percent over the past two years.

I closed my eyes for a second. Eighty-five percent. That wasn't just an increase. It was significant.

From a financial standpoint, it could represent a serious expense for the company. Of course, we'd still need to determine whether those overtime hours had actually improved productivity. If they had, then the company had spent its money wisely. But if they hadn't... then the overtime system had become nothing more than a loophole employees could exploit. And I was the one responsible for administering it. If the system truly had been abused... then I was responsible for allowing it to happen.

"I've verified every overtime request against the attendance records," I explained. "There are no fake overtime claims. Everyone worked the hours they reported, and the company is obligated to compensate them according to policy. I also double-check every calculation before submitting it to Ms. Ida. As far as payroll is concerned, there hasn't been any financial loss caused by—"

"That wasn't my question, Namira." Once again, he interrupted me. "Do you think they actually need to work overtime?" His eyes remained fixed on mine. "Do you believe the company should be paying them for those extra hours?" He paused. "Or are you working together with them so everyone benefits?"

I stared at him. That accusation... it crossed the line.

"Sir Gio can verify that Namira completely redesigned the overtime request form back in 2014," Ms. Ida quickly interrupted before I could respond. She reached out and gently stopped me again, trying to calm the room. "Before that, the form only included the employee's name, ID number, date, and the starting and ending times of the overtime shift. In 2014, Namira believed something was missing. There was no proof of what employees had actually accomplished during those extra hours."

I had completely forgotten about that. My anger had made me lose sight of it. Ms. Ida truly was the best supervisor anyone could ask for.

"So she fought to revise the form." Ms. Ida smiled faintly. "She added a remarks section where employees had to explain the work they completed during overtime. The proposal was rejected by the directors at first, but Namira kept pushing until it was finally approved."

"I know." Mister X nodded. "That's exactly my point." He looked back at me. "You identified the problem..." His voice remained calm. "But your solution only solved half of it."

"So you identified the problem..." His voice remained calm. "But your solution only solved half of it."

"Sir, Namira has already done everything she could to make sure the process complied with company regulations, but—"

"Ms. Ida." He interrupted her once again. "If I'm asking Namira a question, I'd like Namira to answer it." He folded his hands on the desk. "Or are you her guardian because she isn't capable of speaking for herself?"

Ms. Ida fell silent.

The anger I'd been holding back rose straight into my throat. I drew a long breath before letting it out slowly.

Fine. Then let me show you exactly who you're dealing with.

"I understand that Mr. Gio wants a clearer framework to determine whether overtime is genuinely necessary or merely a way for employees to increase their income." I met his gaze without hesitation. "So... what would you like me to do?"

Perhaps this was only a test. Maybe he simply wanted to know how well I understood human resources.

"The first thing you need to do is redesign the overtime request form." He reached for a completed form lying on his desk. "Add a detailed work description." He slid the paper toward me. "And the results of that work should be documented before the remarks section." He tapped the form with his finger. "Look at this."

I lowered my eyes.

It belonged to an employee named Adi—a reporter.

"He worked overtime from 4:31 p.m. until 8:05 p.m.—roughly three and a half hours." His tone remained steady, almost like a lecturer explaining a case study. "According to company policy, he received fifty thousand rupiah for working until eight o'clock, plus an additional one thousand seven hundred rupiah for the extra five minutes, since overtime after eight p.m. is calculated at twenty thousand rupiah per hour."

He looked directly at me. "That comes to fifty-one thousand seven hundred rupiah for a single overtime session."

He picked up another form. "He worked overtime three times that week." Another form. "Nine times in a month." Then he placed the entire stack in front of me. "So he earned approximately four hundred sixty-five thousand rupiah in overtime pay."

His finger stopped at the remarks column. "My question is... did you notice this?"

I looked where he was pointing.

Every single form contained the exact same explanation: Write articles for the magazine.

All nine of them.

Well... of course they did. He was a reporter. Writing articles for the magazine was literally his job. He was responsible only for the North Jakarta area.

Then suddenly...

Oh, damn.

"Do you understand now?" His voice cut through my thoughts. "He only covers one region." He leaned back in his chair. "Our magazine is published only twice a month. The advertisements are mostly recycled from previous editions. They're practically copy-and-paste jobs. Only a few pages change—usually the feature section profiling public figures."

He raised six fingers. "That means, in an average month, he writes approximately six pages of original content. That includes reporting and drafting." He paused. "The editing is done by another team, not by him."

I couldn't say a word.

"So tell me this." He leaned forward again. "With twenty-two regular working days in a month... does he really need to work overtime nine different times... just to produce six pages?"

His voice remained composed, but every question struck harder than shouting ever could.

"For only two magazine issues." Another pause. "And this is a senior reporter we're talking about."

He tossed the stack of forms onto the desk. Not at me. But somehow... it felt as though every sheet had landed squarely against my chest.

For the first time that day... I couldn't argue.

He was right.

Our overtime system was far too lenient. It should have been reviewed a long time ago.

How had I never noticed something so obvious?

Then again... who was I? I was only an administrator. Even Mr. Bimo, the former General Manager, had never questioned the system either.

"Redesign the form today, Namira." His voice pulled me back to reality. "Follow the layout I just explained. The additional fields must match exactly. When you've finished, bring it to me for approval before it's printed."

He shifted his attention to Ms. Ida. "And Ms. Ida... I'd appreciate it if you let your administrator complete this task on her own."

I lowered my head. Because this time... I truly was wrong.

"I'll review it first thing tomorrow morning." He closed the folder. "Email me the draft, along with one completed sample form."

"Yes, Sir." That was all I could say.

A knock sounded at the office door.

"Sir, the Marketing team is ready for the meeting."

"Alright." He stood. "I'll be there in a moment."

Ms. Ida and I rose from our chairs. She politely excused herself before leaving. I simply nodded.

My chest felt unbearably heavy.

For the first time... I wondered whether the company had been losing money because of a system I had failed to improve.

It was seven o'clock that evening, and I was still at the office, working overtime. Ms. Ida and everyone else had gone to the welcome party for the new General Manager, but I hadn't gone. I simply wasn't in the mood. I told Ms. Ida I wasn't feeling well, and she had no idea I was staying behind to work overtime. If she found out tomorrow, she'd probably scold me.

"Namira, you're still here?"

I jumped. Mister X.

Strange. Wasn't it his party? Why hadn't he left yet? I'd assumed everyone was gone except for me, the office boy, and the security guards.

"I'm not going, Sir," I answered without looking away from my laptop.

"Would you like to come with me?"

How nice of you. A few hours ago you were throwing overtime forms onto the desk.

"No, thank you, Sir." I kept typing. "I'm finishing the employee overtime request form. You wanted it on your desk first thing tomorrow morning."

I deliberately emphasized the last few words. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him walk away without another word.

Offended? I couldn't care less. If he didn't like my attitude, he could fire me. At least I'd receive severance pay. After all, I was a permanent employee.

I returned to work. A few minutes later, my phone rang. It was Ms. Ida. Of course. She was probably calling to make sure I'd taken my medicine. Whenever I got sick, she fussed over me like a mother.

"Hello, Ms. Ida?"

"Wang, I'm stopping by your boarding house tonight. I'll bring your favorite rice porridge and your usual medicine."

She really was the best person I had.

"No need. I'm still at the office."

"What? You i***t! If you were planning to work overtime, you should've told me!"

"Sorry." I smiled faintly. "I just didn't feel like going to the party. You know why."

"You're still upset about earlier?" She sighed. "You should've come. It was actually fun. You're always the one who keeps everyone laughing." She paused. "Besides, the new GM didn't even show up."

I frowned. "He didn't?"

That was strange. Just two hours ago he'd offered me a ride to the party, yet he hadn't gone himself.

"Yeah, weird, isn't it?" she continued. "It's his own welcome party, but he's the one who skipped it." She laughed. "But we're not complaining. We've got the company credit card. Dinner's on the house! Come over, Wang. The food's amazing."

"No thanks." I chuckled. "That guy really is strange."

I didn't mention that Mister X had invited me to ride with him. Ms. Ida would only tease me and say I was reading too much into it.

After giving me another round of motherly advice, she finally hung up. By then it was already nine o'clock. My work was finished. Time to go home.

I stepped outside the office and opened my ride-hailing app. It was getting late. This wasn't usually how long I stayed. Finding a driver at this hour could be difficult, especially since our office complex was tucked away inside a business district. Drivers often rejected the trip because it took several extra minutes just to reach the pickup point.

"Namira."

Someone called my name. I turned around. I'd already walked out to the roadside while waiting for a ride request to be accepted.

"Mr. Gio." I gave him a polite nod. "Good evening, Sir." Then I continued walking. I had no interest in making small talk with him.

I tried booking another ride. Rejected. Again. And again. Almost fifteen minutes passed. Late at night, getting a ride from this area was always a challenge.

Beep. Beep.

A car horn sounded beside me. The vehicle stopped. The driver's window rolled down.

Seriously? It was Mister X.

"Good evening again, Sir." I forced a smile.

"Get in, Nam." His voice was calm. "It's late."

Before I could refuse, he rolled the window back up.

Damn it.

Left with little choice, I opened the passenger door and climbed in. "Thank you, Sir." I fastened my seat belt. "You can just drop me off at the main road. I'll catch a minibus from there."

"It's alright." He started the engine. "We're headed the same way."

I blinked. "Oh? Where do you live, Sir?"

Instead of answering, he smiled. "And where do you live?"

Seriously? A moment ago he claimed we were going the same way. Now he was asking me for my address.

"I live around the Pramuka area."

He nodded casually. "I'll be passing through there."

That still didn't answer my question. Fine. Whatever. I wasn't actually interested in knowing where he lived anyway.

I turned my attention to the road ahead. Then, by accident, I caught his reflection in the window. I stared at it for a moment.

He was just as handsome as he'd been ten years ago.

Without realizing it, I smiled.

Who would've thought? Back then, we were nothing more than two strangers who passed each other every day without ever exchanging a single word.

And now...

I was sitting in his car.

"Namira," his voice broke the silence, "do you live alone, or are you staying with your parents?"

I blinked, startled. "I live in a boarding house, Sir."

He nodded, eyes still fixed on the road. "Be careful when you work late. It's dangerous. Women who regularly work overtime are often targeted by street robbers."

"Yes, Sir."

Silence returned, filled only by the soft hum of the engine. His cologne lingered in the air—the same scent. My heart recognized it instantly, pulling me back ten years into the past.

I stared ahead as if watching the traffic, but I wasn’t seeing the road at all. I was lost in memories. A handsome young man with a comforting scent sat beside me now, yet he didn’t belong to me. He belonged to someone else—the woman represented by the ring on his left ring finger.

The man from ten years ago... he was the one who belonged to me. Not in reality, only in my imagination. The man beside me now was merely a disguise—a reminder that reality could never be as beautiful as fantasy.

"Nam... Nam... Namira."

I felt a gentle shake on my shoulder and opened my eyes. We were already in front of my boarding house.

Oh no. I’d fallen asleep.

"I'm so sorry, Sir!" I said, flustered, reaching for the door handle. Before I could open it, something stopped me—his hand.

My heart skipped a beat. Mister X was holding my hand.

"Nam," he said softly, "just a second."

Then—click.

He unfastened my seat belt.

Oh, God. How stupid could I be? I’d completely forgotten I was still wearing it. No wonder the door wouldn’t open. It had nothing to do with him holding my hand—I was just panicking.

"I'm sorry, Sir," I muttered, lowering my head in embarrassment before quickly stepping out of the car. I shut the door and ran straight toward the boarding house gate without looking back.

Once inside, I hurried up the stairs as fast as I could. My room was on the second floor. The moment I reached it, I rushed out onto the small balcony.

I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to see... was he still there?

He was.

His car remained parked in front of the building. Five minutes passed before he finally drove away.

"Oh, Namira..." I covered my burning face with both hands. "You're such an idiot."

First I’d fallen asleep. Then I’d forgotten to unbuckle my seat belt. Did I snore? Please tell me I didn’t snore. How embarrassing.

Wait...

Something suddenly occurred to me.

How did Mister X know where my boarding house was? Had I actually told him the address? As far as I remembered, I’d only said I lived somewhere around the Pramuka area.

Had I told him while I was half-asleep?

No... I couldn’t remember.

I must have. Otherwise, how could he have driven me here? That had to be it. There was no other explanation.

I went back inside my room and closed the door behind me.

What an exhausting day.

First, I met Mister X again after ten years. Then I was scolded by the very man I’d spent a decade waiting for without ever knowing his name. And finally, that same man drove me home—a man who had managed to stir my heart as effortlessly as someone swirling a glass of cendol.