Chapter 2: Silk and Steel
1438 Words
Elara Dwijaya
For three whole seconds, the concept of language abandoned us.
Saskia and I just stood there, frozen, watching the man step fully into the classroom. Lyra was perched in his arms, her small hands wrapped securely around a neck that looked like it could withstand a hurricane.
My assumption about the "Expat Sugar Daddy" disintegrated instantly.
The man wasn't a foreigner. He was Asian. Local. But he was the specific kind of local you usually only saw in high-end business magazines or brooding in black-and-white cologne commercials.
The sleeves of his black button-down were rolled precisely to his elbows, and every time he shifted Lyra’s weight, the muscles in his forearms corded beneath the skin like steel cables.
Gulp.
The sound of my own throat working was mortifyingly loud in the quiet room.
He stopped right in front of my desk. With practiced ease, he lowered Lyra to the ground, keeping a hand on her back until her black shoes were firmly planted on the tiles. It wasn't the clumsy handling of a distant father; it was the fluid motion of a man who did this every single day.
"Apologies, Ms. Elara. Did my daughter cause trouble today?"
His voice.
It was a low baritone, rich and polite, scraping against my nerves in the most pleasant way possible.
I jolted. Beside me, Saskia blinked rapidly, as if snapping out of a mass hypnosis.
"Ah... uh, no. Not big trouble. Just a misunderstanding. Please, have a seat."
My hand trembled—just a fraction—as I gestured toward the empty wooden chair next to Lyra.
He nodded, offering a smile so faint it might have been a trick of the light, and sat. His posture was impeccable. Back straight, shoulders relaxed, occupying the space with a natural authority that made the small classroom furniture look ridiculous.
SCREEECH!
The sound of metal legs dragging against the floor shattered the atmosphere.
Saskia moved with the speed of a striking cobra. She had grabbed a student chair from the front row, dragged it right next to mine, and planted herself down. She propped her chin on her hands, eyes wide, staring unblinkingly at our guest.
I shot her a glare that could have peeled paint. Under the desk, I kicked her shin.
"What are you doing?" I mouthed, my eyes narrowing.
"Supervision. Proceed," she whispered back, grinning like a cheshire cat.
I suppressed a groan. Supervision, my foot. She was window shopping.
Inhaling a sharp breath, I tried to summon the ghost of my professionalism. I extended a hand across the desk.
"We haven't been properly introduced. I'm Elara Dwijaya. Lyra's homeroom teacher."
He took my hand. His palm was warm, the skin slightly rough. These were working hands, not the manicured paws of a man who only signed checks.
"Dio Atmanta. A pleasure, Ms. Elara."
His grip was firm but brief. Just as I was about to pull away, another hand shot out from my periphery.
Saskia intercepted Dio’s retreating hand mid-air. Dio flinched slightly, his dark brows rising in surprise.
"I'm Saskia! Teacher for Class 1B. Next door neighbor. Nice to meet you, Mr. Dio!" she chirped, flashing a smile bright enough to blind air traffic.
Dio let out a short, awkward chuckle.
"R-right. Nice to meet you, Ms. Saskia."
I rubbed my temple. Saskia really had no brakes.
After that absurd introduction, I pulled my chair closer to the desk, forcing the meeting back on track. Dio shifted his attention entirely to me.
A faint scent drifted across the desk. Citrus, mint, and a hint of roasted coffee beans. It wasn't an overpowering cologne that screamed for attention; it was subtle, clean, and dangerously comforting.
"I'll explain the chronology, Mr. Dio," I said, keeping my voice steady.
He nodded. His hand moved instinctively to smooth down Lyra’s messy bangs.
I recounted the incident in the corridor. Gafa’s cruel comment about her mother. The explosion of emotion. The punch.
As I spoke, I watched his jaw. For a split second, the muscle there ticked—a flash of tension, hard and sharp. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared.
He turned to Lyra. There was no anger in his eyes. Only a profound, aching sadness.
His large hand rubbed gentle circles on her small back.
"Lyra," he said softly.
The little girl looked down at her shoes, her fingers twisting the hem of her uniform skirt.
"We talked about this. Hitting isn't the way. If someone hurts you, use your words. Tell Ms. Elara. Or tell me."
"I know, Daddy..." Lyra’s voice was a tiny squeak.
"I'm sorry."
"I know you are." He didn't scold her. He didn't lecture her about reputation or manners. He just leaned down and kissed the top of her head.
"We'll talk more at home."
The sight made something in my chest tighten painfully.
No shouting. No public shaming. Just a father who understood that his child was hurting. It was a stark contrast to the cold, transactional dinners at the Dwijaya household.
Saskia nudged my elbow gently. I knew she felt it too. The bar was on the floor for men these days, and this guy just pole-vaulted over it.
Dio turned back to me. His gaze was direct, sincere.
"Please convey my apologies to Gafa’s parents. It wouldn't be fair if only they had to apologize for the insult."
"Of course, Mr. Dio. I'll pass it on when his mother picks him up tomorrow," I replied.
I forced a professional smile, ignoring the fact that my heart rate was currently exceeding the recommended limit for a sitting activity.
"Thank you, Ms. Elara. If anything else happens, please don't hesitate to call."
We all stood up. The air in the room seemed to thin out as he rose to his full height. He extended his hand to me one last time.
"Thank you for your cooperation," I said, shaking it briefly.
And naturally, before our hands had fully separated, Saskia’s hand was already hovering in the air, waiting for its turn.
Dio smiled—a genuine, amused quirk of the lips this time—and shook Saskia’s hand as well.
"Good afternoon, Ms. Elara. Ms. Saskia."
He took Lyra’s small hand in his. The little girl turned back at the doorway, waving her free hand.
"Byeee, Ms. Ela... Ms. Kia..."
"Bye, sweetie," I called back.
We watched them walk away—the broad, protective back of the father and the tiny frame of the daughter—until they disappeared around the corner of the corridor.
Silence returned. The only sound was the lazy whirrr-click of the old ceiling fan.
"Insane."
Saskia slid down in her chair, looking like a melted popsicle.
"Lyra's dad has god-tier specs. I thought he’d be some ancient fossil!"
I started stacking the papers on my desk, trying to hide the smile tugging at my lips.
"You weren't the only one. I was surprised too."
Saskia spun the chair Dio had just vacated, then fixed me with a narrowed, detective-like squint.
"Hey, El. He's a widower, right?"
"How would I know?"
"Gafa said Lyra has no mom. That means single dad. Or divorced? Or widower?"
Saskia’s radar for these things was terrifyingly accurate.
"Yes," I answered, snapping the attendance book shut.
"As far as I know, single parent."
Saskia stood up, hugging her lesson plan to her chest, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
"If the widower looks like that... I volunteer as tribute."
"Hush! You're wearing a uniform, Kia. Maintain some dignity," I scolded, gently pushing her shoulder toward the door.
"Oh come on, Elara. I've been single for four months. This is me trying to intercept destiny."
She stopped in the doorway, pivoting to look at me with intense scrutiny.
"Wait a minute... don't tell me you have a crush too?"
Heat.
A flush crawled up my neck faster than I could stop it. Damn it. My body was a traitor.
I sped up, walking past her.
"Don't be ridiculous. He's a parent."
Saskia’s laughter echoed down the empty hallway behind me.
"Hahaha! Your face is red! I knew it! If you don't want him, pass him to me! I accept donations!"
"I can't hear you! La la la!" I covered my ears, marching toward the parking lot.
I tried to keep my face neutral, but the image of Dio smoothing down Lyra’s hair kept replaying in my mind like a slow-motion film reel.
Impossible not to be interested, I chided myself internally. But know your place, Elara. He’s a guardian. You’re the teacher. Don't make your life more complicated than it already is.
- Writer
