Girl In Love (Indonesia)

The rain came down in sheets that night, the kind that turned New York City into a blurred watercolor of neon lights and wet asphalt. Elena Marquez stood under the awning of the old brick building on 47th Street, clutching her coat tighter against the chill that had nothing to do with the weather. Inside the bar behind her, the music still thumped faintly, some sultry jazz remix that had felt perfect an hour ago when she'd let herself laugh too loud, drink too much, and pretend the world wasn't falling apart.

She shouldn't have come here. She knew that now. But grief had a way of making bad decisions feel like the only ones left.

Her mother had died three weeks earlier. Cancer, quick and merciless in the end. The hospital bills were still arriving like cruel postcards from a life Elena could no longer afford. The apartment lease was up in thirty days, and her savings, meager to begin with, had vanished into funeral costs and final medications. She'd sold everything she could: the silver necklace her mother had worn every day, the antique lamp from her grandmother, even the little collection of first-edition paperbacks she'd treasured since college.

Tonight she'd come to this bar because a friend had said, "You need to breathe, Elena. Just one night where you're not thinking about tomorrow."

So she'd worn the red dress her mother had always loved, the one that hugged her curves and made her feel dangerous. She'd let her dark hair fall loose, painted her lips crimson, and ordered whiskey she couldn't really afford. And then she'd seen him.

Alexander Voss.

He'd been sitting alone at the far end of the bar, nursing something amber in a crystal glass. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a charcoal suit that looked custom-made because it probably was. His hair was dark, slightly tousled as if he'd run his hands through it too many times. When their eyes met across the crowded room, something inside her had shifted, like a lock clicking open after years of being jammed.

He hadn't smiled at first. Just watched her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. When she finally looked away, heat crawling up her neck, she felt him move before she saw him. He crossed the room like he owned it. Maybe he did.

"May I buy you another?" His voice was low, smooth, with the faintest trace of an accent she couldn't place, something European, polished.

She should have said no. She had exactly forty-seven dollars in her wallet and rent looming like a guillotine.

Instead she said, "Only if you tell me why a man like you is drinking alone in a place like this."

He'd laughed then, a quiet, surprised sound that did something dangerous to her stomach. "Because the alternative was going home to an empty penthouse and staring at the same four walls until morning."

They talked. Or rather, they traded truths wrapped in flirtation. He told her he ran a company that built things, skyscrapers, tech empires, futures people bet their lives on. She told him she was a graphic designer who hadn't designed anything beautiful in months because grief had stolen her color palette.

He didn't offer sympathy. He just listened. Really listened. And when the bar started to empty and the rain began in earnest, he leaned close and murmured, "Come with me. Just for tonight. No strings. No tomorrow if you don't want it."

She knew better. She really did.

But his hand on the small of her back felt like the first solid thing she'd touched in weeks. And when he kissed her in the backseat of the black car that waited outside, slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing every inch of her mouth, she stopped thinking altogether.

His penthouse was on the top floor of a building that overlooked Central Park. Floor-to-ceiling windows, marble floors, art on the walls that probably cost more than her entire life. She barely noticed. All she saw was him, shirt buttons coming undone under her fingers, the way his breath hitched when she scraped her nails down his back, the low growl in his throat when he lifted her against the bedroom wall and whispered her name like a prayer.

They didn't sleep much. When they finally collapsed, tangled in silk sheets that smelled like him, sandalwood and clean linen, she felt something crack open inside her chest. Not love. Not yet. But possibility. A reckless, stupid hope that maybe life could be more than survival.

Morning came too soon. Gray light filtered through the curtains. She woke to find him already dressed, standing at the window with his back to her, phone pressed to his ear. His voice was clipped, all business.

When he turned, his expression was unreadable.

"I have to go," he said. "Board meeting in London. Jet leaves in an hour."

She sat up, pulling the sheet around herself like armor. "Of course."

He crossed to the bed, sat on the edge, and brushed a strand of hair from her face. His touch was gentle, almost tender. "Last night was..." He searched for the word. "Unexpected."

She forced a smile. "Good unexpected or bad?"

"Good." His thumb traced her lower lip. "Very good."

She waited for the part where he asked for her number. For coffee next week. For anything that suggested this wasn't goodbye.

He didn't.

Instead he reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. Thick. Cream-colored. "For last night," he said quietly. "And for whatever comes next."

She stared at it. "I don't want your money."

"It's not charity." His eyes darkened. "It's gratitude. And maybe a little guilt that I can't stay."

She took it because refusing felt petty, and she was too broke to be proud. Inside were crisp bills—more than she'd seen in years. Enough to pay rent for months. Enough to breathe.

He leaned down, kissed her forehead. "Take care of yourself, Elena."

And then he was gone. The door clicked shut behind him like the end of a chapter.

She sat there for a long time, the envelope heavy in her lap, tears burning behind her eyes. Not because he'd left—she'd known he would. But because for one night she'd felt seen. Wanted. Alive.

She didn't open the envelope until she was back in her tiny Brooklyn walk-up, rain still drumming against the window. Ten thousand dollars. Cash.

She cried then. Ugly, wrenching sobs. Because money couldn't buy back her mother. It couldn't erase the hollow ache in her chest. And it definitely couldn't undo what she'd just done.

Two months later the nausea started.

At first she blamed stress. Bad takeout. Anything but the obvious.

But the test didn't lie. Two pink lines stared back at her in the fluorescent light of her bathroom.

Pregnant.

She sank to the floor, back against the tub, and laughed until it turned into something broken.

Alexander Voss. Billionaire. Stranger. Father of her child.

She didn't know his number. Didn't know his real last name, Voss might have been a pseudonym for all she knew. The internet turned up dozens of Alexanders in finance, none that matched the man who'd held her like she was precious.

She tried. God, she tried. Called bars, asked around, even hired a cheap private investigator with part of the money he'd left. Nothing.

Months passed. Her belly grew. She found freelance work when she could, hid the pregnancy under loose sweaters, told no one the truth. Her friends thought she'd had a fling and moved on. She let them believe it.

The baby kicked for the first time on a snowy January night. She pressed her hand to the swell and whispered, "Hey, little one. It's just you and me."

She named him Theo. After her mother's favorite painter. Theodore Voss Marquez. She gave him her last name because it was the only thing she could give that was truly hers.

Four years later.

Elena adjusted the strap of her tote bag as she stepped off the elevator onto the forty-second floor of Voss Tower. The lobby smelled of fresh coffee and money. Marble everywhere. Glass walls reflecting her reflection back at her, professional black blazer, white blouse, hair pulled into a neat chignon. She looked like she belonged. Almost.

She was here for an interview. Executive creative director at Voss Enterprises' new media division. The pay was obscene. Benefits that made her head spin. And the company was expanding so fast they were hiring aggressively.

She needed this job. Theo's preschool tuition was due. Medical bills from his asthma flare-ups last winter still lingered. And rent in Brooklyn wasn't getting cheaper.

The receptionist smiled too brightly. "Ms. Marquez? They're ready for you."

Elena followed her down a hallway lined with abstract art and whispered her affirmations under her breath. You've got this. Just breathe.

The conference room was massive. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan. Three people sat at the long table: a woman in HR, a man from marketing, and

Her heart stopped.

Alexander Voss.

Older now. Sharper around the edges. Still devastatingly handsome. Still wearing that same unreadable expression.

He looked up as she entered. Their eyes locked.

For one endless second, time folded in on itself. The rain-soaked night. The penthouse. The envelope. The baby sleeping in her apartment right now, cared for by her neighbor.

He didn't smile. Didn't blink. Just stared, as if trying to solve a puzzle he'd forgotten existed.

"Ms. Marquez," he said slowly. His voice was the same—low, controlled. "Have a seat."

She forced her legs to move. Sat across from him. Hands folded in her lap to hide the tremor.

The HR woman started the questions. Elena answered on autopilot. Portfolio. Experience. Vision for the brand.

Alexander said nothing. Just watched.

Until the end.

When the others stood to shake hands, he remained seated. "A word, Ms. Marquez?"

The room emptied. Just the two of them.

He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. "You look different."

"So do you."

A ghost of a smile. "Still not interested in my money?"

Her stomach twisted. "I used what you gave me. For rent. For... necessities."

He studied her. "And now you're here. In my building. Applying for a job."

"Coincidence," she lied.

"Is it?"

She met his gaze. "What do you want me to say, Mr. Voss?"

He stood. Walked around the table until he was close enough that she could smell that same sandalwood cologne. Close enough that memories flooded back—his hands on her skin, his mouth on hers.

"I want the truth," he said quietly. "Why are you really here?"

She swallowed. Thought of Theo's laughter that morning. His dark hair that curled exactly like his father's. The way he asked about "Daddy" sometimes, even though she'd never given him an answer.

"I'm here for the job," she said. "Nothing more."

He reached out. Tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The touch was electric.

"Liar," he murmured.

Her breath caught.

He stepped back. "You'll hear from us soon."

She nodded. Turned to leave.

At the door, his voice stopped her.

"Elena."

She looked back.

His eyes were stormy. "Don't disappear again."

She walked out without answering.

Because disappearing was exactly what she planned to do.

If he ever found out about Theo...

She couldn't let that happen.

Not yet.

Not ever.

But as the elevator doors closed, she pressed a hand to her racing heart and wondered how long she could keep running from the man who'd already changed her life once.

And how much longer before he discovered he'd changed it twice.