chapter 24

The lingering frost inside the cold storage warehouse seemed to freeze mid-air as Dewangga stepped forward. The rhythmic tap of his cane against the cracked concrete floor echoed the frantic thrumming of Serena’s heart. He looked thinner than the last time she had seen him in the courtroom, but his eyes still held that same spark of predatory darkness—like a hunter who had waited an eternity for the perfect moment to strike.

“How…?” Serena’s voice hitched in her throat. “You were supposed to rot in prison, Dewangga.”

Dewangga chuckled, a raspy sound that sent a wave of nausea rolling through Serena’s stomach. “Prison is for those who don’t have friends in high places, my dear Serena. In this country, the law is merely a suggestion for those who know how to negotiate. And don’t forget, I still held an ace that I hadn't yet played.”

Haris stepped forward, his broad shoulders acting as a living shield, blocking Dewangga’s view of Serena. “You’re making a massive mistake coming here, Dewangga. Marcus has been recording everything. The police will be here in minutes.”

Dewangga stopped in his tracks, looking at Haris with utter disdain. “The police? Who do you think opened the gates for me to walk out of the penitentiary this morning? And Marcus…” Dewangga glanced at Haris’s head of security, who still had his weapon drawn. “Your gun is useless if the firing pin was removed before you left the hotel last night.”

Marcus looked momentarily stunned, attempting to check his sidearm, and in that split second, the armed men who had entered with Dewangga moved to surround them. The tide had turned completely. Citra, who had looked like the mastermind only moments ago, now stood frozen, her face as pale as parchment.

“You betrayed me again,” Citra hissed, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. “You promised you’d help me liquidate the trust if I brought Serena and Haris here.”

Dewangga laughed so hard he began to cough. “Citra, you were always the smartest of the Zeas, but you were also the greediest. Greed makes you blind. I don't need you anymore now that Serena has brought the original Zurich documents with her. Thank you, Serena, for making my job so much easier.”

Serena felt the folder in her bag turn as heavy as lead. Every plan, every victory she had achieved in Paris, felt like it was shattering into a thousand pieces. She realized then that Durand’s meeting with her in Paris wasn't just coincidence or a lawyer's greed; it was a grand script written by Dewangga to pull every key player into one room.

“What do you want?” Serena asked, her voice surprisingly steady despite the fact that her knees felt like water.

“Simple,” Dewangga said, leaning in until Serena could smell the stale cigar smoke clinging to his clothes. “Sign over the rights to the entire Zea Trust to me. After that, I’ll let the three of you go. You can go back to your fake world in Paris, Haris can go back to managing his near-bankrupt business, and Citra… well, she can go back to being a ghost.”

“My business is not bankrupt because of your antics,” Haris cut in sharply. “Your injunction was a bluff.”

“Was it?” Dewangga raised an eyebrow. “What about the Nasution Group cargo ship currently detained in international waters on charges of illegal smuggling? I’m sure that’s enough to send your stock prices plummeting to zero by tomorrow morning.”

Serena looked at Haris, seeing the flicker of concern that finally crossed his eyes. Haris had sacrificed everything for her—his reputation, his wealth, and now his safety. Serena knew she couldn't let this continue.

“Don’t do it, Serena,” Haris whispered, as if reading her mind. “We’ll find another way.”

“There is no other way, Haris,” Citra interrupted suddenly. She stepped closer to Serena. “Give him the documents, Serena. He’ll kill us all if you don’t. I know this man better than anyone. He has no soul.”

Serena looked at her sister. There was real fear in Citra’s eyes, but there was also something else—a very subtle signal. Citra tilted her head almost imperceptibly toward the liquid nitrogen tanks situated behind Dewangga’s position.

Serena began to understand. Citra might have been obsessed with wealth, but she was still a Zea. And beneath her bitterness, she knew that Dewangga was the true common enemy.

“Fine,” Serena said loudly, reaching into her bag. “I’ll give you the documents. But let Haris and Marcus go first. Let them walk out of this warehouse.”

Dewangga smiled victoriously. “A fair deal. Marcus, Haris, head for the exit. But don’t try to call for help, or I’ll make sure Serena’s head has a hole in it before you can even dial emergency services.”

Haris refused to move. “I’m not leaving you here.”

“Haris, please,” Serena looked at him, pleading with her eyes, trying to convey the silent message. “Trust me this one time. Get Clarisa out of Bogor. Go now.”

Reluctantly, Haris backed away step by step, escorted by two armed men toward the exit. Marcus gave Serena one last look—a look filled with tactical calculation.

Once the heavy warehouse doors groaned shut behind them, Dewangga held out his hand. “Now, the documents.”

Serena pulled the folder from her bag, but instead of handing it over directly, she dropped several pages onto the floor, letting them be swept away by the cold wind blowing through the ventilation gaps.

“Pick them up yourself,” Serena challenged.

As Dewangga arrogantly bent down to gather the precious papers, Citra moved with unexpected speed. She didn't lung at Dewangga; instead, she kicked the safety valve on the nitrogen tank nearby, which she had already loosened earlier.

Pshhhhhhh!

A thick, white cloud of gas hissed out, filling the room in an instant and creating a dense fog that obscured everything. The shouts of Dewangga’s men echoed in confusion amidst the freezing darkness.

“Run, Serena!” Citra screamed.

Serena didn't waste a second. She ran in the opposite direction, but a hand suddenly grabbed her arm. She almost screamed before realizing it was Marcus. He hadn't actually left; he had slipped back through an air duct while everyone’s attention was diverted.

“This way, Madame!” Marcus whispered.

However, amidst the fog, a shot rang out. Bang!

A cry of pain followed. Serena froze. “Citra?”

“Go, Serena! Take the originals! The ones you dropped were just copies!” Citra’s voice sounded ragged and breathless from behind the veil of white gas.

Serena wanted to go back, wanted to pull her sister out of there, but Marcus dragged her forcefully toward a secret service door behind the massive shelving units. “We have to go now, or her sacrifice is for nothing!”

They burst out onto the pier just as the sun began to hit the harbor with a sharp orange glow. A speedboat was waiting, with Haris standing on the deck, his face a mixture of profound relief and agonizing anxiety.

“Serena!” Haris pulled her into his arms as she boarded. “Are you alright?”

“We have to help Citra, Haris. She’s been hit,” Serena sobbed.

But before the boat could move, a massive explosion rocked the warehouse behind them. The liquid nitrogen, reacting with the sparks from the gunfire, had triggered a chain reaction that tore through the old structure. Flames roared upward, devouring everything inside.

Serena fell back onto the deck, staring at the fire that was consuming her past, her sister, and her greatest enemy all at once. The boat sped away, cutting through the murky waters of Jakarta toward the open sea.

Hours later, in the quiet cabin of the boat, Haris sat beside Serena, wrapping his coat around her shoulders.

“Citra did that to atone for her mistakes,” Haris whispered softly.

Serena opened the folder she was still clutching tightly. Inside, she found a small note she hadn't noticed before. It was written in Citra’s elegant handwriting:

Serena, if you are reading this, it means I am gone. Don't look for me. The Zea fortune isn't a curse; it’s a responsibility. Use it to rebuild what was destroyed. Take care of Clarisa. She is our true future. Forgive me for ever hating you.

Serena’s tears fell onto the paper, blurring the ink. She had reclaimed her wealth, she had defeated Dewangga, but she had lost the only family she had left.

Yet, as the boat continued toward the horizon, Serena realized something. She was no longer the woman stumbling in the rain. She was Serena Zea—a mother, a fighter, and now, the sole guardian of her father's legacy.

“Haris,” Serena called out softly.

“Yes?”

“We aren't going back to Paris yet. We’re staying here. I’m going to use every cent of this Trust to scrub Jakarta clean of people like Dewangga. And I want to build a school in Citra’s name.”

Haris smiled, squeezing Serena’s hand. The ring on her finger caught the morning light—no longer just a symbol of hope, but a symbol of unshakeable power.

“I’ll be with you every step of the way, Serena,” Haris promised.