The Debt Collector's Gala

The heavy scent of lilies and expensive cologne hung in the air of the Grand Hyatt’s ballroom, a stark contrast to the smell of rain and fried garlic Dimas had left behind only hours ago. He adjusted the cuff of his navy blazer, his fingers trembling slightly. Every time his phone vibrated in his pocket, a jolt of ice-cold adrenaline shot through his veins.

"Stop checking your pocket, Dimas. You’re going to give yourself a nervous tic," Hana said, appearing at his side with two flutes of champagne. She looked radiant in a deep emerald gown, her professional bun traded for loose waves that softened her sharp features.

"It’s a habit," Dimas replied, forcing a smirk. "When you’re used to the repo man being your most frequent caller, you stay alert."

"Is that a joke? Because your face isn’t laughing," Hana said, handing him a glass.

"I’m a creative, Hana. We’re supposed to be tortured and brooding. It’s part of the brand I’m building."

"Well, the brand is working. Half the people in this room are wondering who the 'Berlin Genius' is. You’ve got them hooked."

Dimas took a long sip of the champagne, the bubbles stinging his throat. They’re hooked on a lie, he thought. If they knew I spent the last hour begging a landlord through a cracked screen, they’d call security.

"You okay? You’ve been staring at that chandelier for thirty seconds like you’re planning to steal it," Hana whispered, stepping closer.

"Just calculating the weight. If it falls, does it hit Aris first? Because that’s a tragedy I could live with."

Hana laughed, a genuine, light sound that cut through the stifling corporate atmosphere. "He’s across the room, fuming. He tried to tell Pak Surya that your 'soul' pitch was a hallucination, but the old man told him to be quiet and watch the stock price."

"Glad I could be of service to the shareholders," Dimas muttered. His phone buzzed again. Final Warning: Locksmith on site. He swallowed hard.

"Dimas," Hana’s voice dropped, becoming softer, more intimate. "I know this is all part of the 'job,' but thank you. For earlier. I felt like I was drowning in that boardroom, and you… you gave me a way to breathe."

"I told you, we make a good team," Dimas said, his gaze lingering on hers. "The Queen and the Ghost."

"Maybe the Ghost should stop hiding for five minutes," she said, her eyes searching his. "The band is starting a slow set. Come on."

"Hana, I don’t think—"

"It’s a celebratory gala, Dimas. If the lead consultant doesn't dance with the CEO, people start whispering about internal friction. Do it for the optics."

"You’re using my own 'optics' argument against me? That’s low."

"I learned from the best," she said, leading him toward the center of the floor.

As the music slowed to a gentle, sweeping rhythm, Dimas placed his hand on the small of her back. She felt remarkably fragile under the expensive silk, a reminder that beneath the corporate armor, she was still the girl who used to share mangoes with him in the rain.

"You’re a good dancer," Hana murmured, her head leaning slightly toward his shoulder. "Where did a starving artist learn to waltz?"

"YouTube tutorials and a very lonely studio apartment," Dimas joked, though the humor felt thin. "You learn a lot of useless skills when you can’t afford a data plan for anything else."

"It’s not useless if it’s with me," she said softly.

Dimas felt the world outside the ballroom begin to fade. The debt, the eviction notice, the silver duct tape under his old suit—it all felt like a bad dream. For a moment, he wasn't a fraud. He was just a man holding a woman he had never truly stopped loving.

"Dimas?" Hana looked up at him, her expression vulnerable.

"Yeah?"

"Back at the satay stall… when you said you’d get used to being a team. Did you mean it? Or was that just the 'Berlin Consultant' talking?"

Dimas slowed his steps, the tension in his chest tightening. "Hana, I—"

"Because I’ve missed this," she continued, her voice barely a whisper over the violins. "I’ve spent ten years trying to prove I didn't need anyone. But today, seeing you stand up to Aris, seeing the way you look at the world… I realized I’ve been lonely. Really lonely."

"Hana, look at me," Dimas said, his voice raw. "I’m not the guy you think I am. I’m not some international visionary. I’m just—"

"You’re Dimas," she interrupted. "And that’s all I ever—"

The heavy oak doors at the back of the ballroom slammed open with a violent thud, the sound echoing like a gunshot through the hall. The music faltered and then died out in a dissonant screech of strings.

Two men in heavy leather jackets and muddy boots marched into the pristine space. They looked like a pair of bruises on a white silk sheet. One of them held a crumpled piece of paper, his eyes scanning the crowd with predatory intent.

"Dimas Wibisono!" the larger of the two roared, his voice booming off the gold-leafed ceiling. "We know you’re in here, you little rat! Stop playing dress-up and come get your trash!"

The glittering crowd parted like the Red Sea, gasping and whispering. Aris, standing by the bar, slowly began to smile, a look of pure, predatory joy spreading across his face.

Hana pulled back from Dimas, her eyes wide with confusion. "Dimas? Who are those men?"

Dimas stood frozen, his heart hammering against his ribs. The nightmare had finally caught up to the dream.

"Hey! Blue suit!" the man shouted, pointing a thick finger directly at Dimas. "Yeah, you! You think changing your clothes means your checks don't bounce? We’ve got your boxes on the sidewalk, Mas. Your landlord’s done with the excuses."

"Get them out of here," Pak Surya’s voice rang out from the head table, cold and commanding. "Security, why are these people inside?"

"We’re here because this deadbeat owes four months of back-rent and ten million in 'administrative fees,'" the second man sneered, stepping onto the dance floor. He tossed a handful of yellow papers into the air; they fluttered down like confetti, landing on the hemlines of designer dresses. "And we aren't leaving until we get what’s owed."

Hana looked at the papers, then back at Dimas, her face pale. "Four months? Dimas, what is he talking about? I sent you five million yesterday."

"It was already gone, Hana," Dimas whispered, his voice cracking. "I had debts. My mother’s hospital bills… I didn't have a choice."

"Well, well," Aris said, strolling forward, his hands in his pockets. "Our European specialist is a common squatter. Tell me, Dimas, is 'unpaid arrears' a popular trend in Berlin this season? Or is that just your personal 'soul' coming through?"

The room erupted into hushed, frantic whispers. Squatter. Fraud. Loser. The words pelted Dimas like stones.

"Hana, I can explain," Dimas started, reaching for her hand.

She stepped back, her expression shifting from confusion to a deep, cutting hurt. "You lied to me. You stood there and watched me bet my entire career on you, knowing you were one step away from the street?"

"I was trying to survive!" Dimas shouted, the frustration finally boiling over. "You wanted a ghost, Hana! You wanted someone with no trail! This is what no trail looks like! It looks like being invisible until the bill comes due!"

"We don't care about your drama, kid," the lead collector said, grabbing Dimas by the shoulder. The expensive navy blazer bunched under his grip. "We’re here for the settlement. And since you’re clearly broke, we’ll take it from your 'employer.'"

"Touch her and I’ll kill you," Dimas hissed, trying to wrench his arm free.

"Oh, we aren't touching the lady," the collector laughed, pulling a legal folder from his jacket. He didn't look at Dimas; he looked at Hana. "We were told the Rahman Group likes to keep things quiet. Especially when it involves 'unauthorized consultants' stealing sensitive data."

Hana froze. "What are you talking about? Stealing data?"

"This isn't just about a studio apartment, lady," the collector said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone that silenced the entire room. "We were hired by a legal firm representing your father, Mr. Rahman. They’ve initiated a 'Recovery of Assets' case against Mr. Wibisono here."

Dimas stared at him, his mind reeling. "Your father? I’ve never even met the man since high school!"

"Maybe not," the collector said, leaning in close so only Dimas and Hana could hear. "But he knows you. He’s the one who flagged your debt. He’s the one who told us where to find you tonight. And he’s the one who’s filing the police report for corporate espionage."

Hana’s breath hitched. She looked at the man, then at the silent, watching crowd, then at Dimas. "My father… did this?"

"He wanted to make sure you knew exactly what kind of 'miracle' you were buying, Miss Rahman," the collector said, his eyes glinting. "And he wanted to make sure this 'ghost' stayed buried for good."

As the security team finally rushed in to grab the collectors, the damage was already done. The music was gone, the "New Horizon" was a shattered dream, and Dimas Wibisono stood in the center of the ballroom, a exposed fraud in a stolen suit, watching the only woman he ever loved look at him like he was a stranger.

"Hana," Dimas whispered.

She didn't answer. She simply turned and walked away, her emerald dress trailing through the yellow debt notices scattered across the floor.