Mereka Bilang Aku Tak Becus Jadi Istri

Oakland hadn’t seen rain in forty-three days. I counted each one as the sun blazed relentlessly, turning the world into a dry, cracked memory. The scent of rain finally hit the air tonight—wild, electric—sending chills down my spine. It reminded me of her. The day she left. The day cancer stole my mother and left me with a hollowed-out father and a life that felt like borrowed time.

I was wiping down the counter at Subrosa Coffee when the door chimed.

"Lucia."

That voice. Deep, weary, carrying the weight of a thousand sleepless nights. My father. Richard Pete.

"Papa," I forced a smile, pressing a kiss to his stubbled cheek. He smelled like exhaustion—cigarettes, sweat, and the lingering cologne of whoever he’d been driving around today.

"Sorry, mija," he muttered.

Mija. My daughter. The word used to sound like love. Now it just sounded like guilt.

I clocked out, grabbed my jacket, and led him to our beat-up car. He moved like a ghost, his eyes distant, his skin too pale.

"Talk to me," I said as I took the wheel. He was in no state to drive.

"Eve Lancaster," he sighed, as if that name explained everything.

I gripped the steering wheel tighter. "What now? Hasn’t she done enough? Making you her driver, bleeding us dry with her so-called debt—"

"Mija," he cut me off, his voice sharp. "We can’t run. She owns this city. She owns us."

Frustration burned in my chest. I pulled into a pharmacy, buying painkillers for the headache etched into his face.

By the time we got home, the rain had started—soft at first, then pounding against the windows like it wanted in. I warmed leftovers, made tea, and pretended we were okay. For a moment, we were. The radio played an old country song, and Papa hummed along, his voice rough but alive.

But nights like these only made the absence louder.Mama would’ve laughed at us, I thought. Called us the worst dancers in Oakland.

She was gone. And I was left picking up the pieces of a life that kept crumbling.

---

Sleep wouldn’t come. So I walked.

The streets were slick with rain, the air thick with the scent of wet asphalt and distant ocean. I didn’t care where I was going. Didn’t care if something happened to me.

Then I saw it.

“Club nine hundred”

A glittering beast of a place, pulsing with light and money. The kind of spot where rich men went to forget their sins and poor girls went to make new ones.

The owner of Club Nine Hundred is undoubtedly immensely wealthy, as the place is more than just a club—it’s like a self-contained luxury town. Inside, you’ll find a five-star hotel, upscale restaurants, a shopping mall, stylish bars, swimming pools, chic coffee shops, and more. While the club itself is just one part of the complex, it truly comes alive at night, offering an unparalleled nightlife experience.

"Lucia!"

Cara. My best friend since third grade. All blonde hair, sharp wit, and a smile that could convince you to do stupid things. Like this.

The club had tight security, but they waved me through without a second glance. Turns out dating the owner’s best friend has its perks.

The second I stepped inside, my gut screamed:”You don’t belong here.”

Cara’s voice pierced through the bass. “Come on, Mija! Let’s get you changed—you look like my grandma’s couch!”

“Stop calling me that!”I snapped.

Only my parents used Mija as an endearment.Cara had turned it into a joke, claiming she loved how it sounded. I hated it.

My gaze swept the scene in slow motion. This wasn’t a club—it was a glittering fortress of wealth.

Crimson and cobalt lights pulsed overhead. No sticky floors or sweat-stenched air—just cold, perfumed luxury. The crowd moved like a choreographed dream: women polished to perfection, men dancing with calculated ease. The DJ spun tracks that had bodies syncing to every beat, while bartenders flashed diamond smiles over spotless shoes.

Businessmen lounged at onyx tables, crystal glasses glinting in their hands. No visible cameras—but I felt eyes everywhere.

"You came!" she squealed, dragging me further before I could protest. "Papa doesn’t know, does he?"

I shot her a look. "You know he doesn’t."

She grinned. "Good. Because tonight, mija, you’re not his little girl."

I barely recognized myself when Cara was done with me.

The girl in the mirror? A stranger.

Cara had transformed me—blonde wig to match hers, dark red lips sharp enough to cut glass, brows sculpted to perfection. My nails gleamed black, and my feet ached in crystal-cinderella heels. The strapless black gown clung to me like a second skin, the slit daringly high, the neckline dangerously low.

"Cut it out, Mija—you look fire," she squealed, bouncing like an over-caffeinated squirrel. She shoved a sleek red purse into my hands before spinning me toward the mirror. "Own it."

I swallowed hard."What exactly am I supposed to do?"

Before I could get an answer, she yanked me out of the dressing room, her voice dropping to a whisper."Listen, you’re smart. Just keep him company tonight—and don’t do anything you don’t want to. Got it?"

My stomach twisted."Cara, what the hell is—"

But she was already dragging me toward the VIP lounge, the bass thrumming like a warning.

"Who am I meeting?" I asked, my voice thin.

Cara’s grin turned sly. "Someone who can change your life."

Then she pushed me into the VIP lounge.

The vibe here was different—quiet, controlled, almost unnervingly polished.

Then I saw him.

He wasn’t just handsome; he was otherworldly. Broad shoulders, piercing blue eyes, tousled black hair that looked artfully undone. His smile was all sharp white teeth and perfect angles, his jawline carved by some divine hand. And that voice—deep, smooth, the kind that curled under your skin.

His presence alone demanded attention. The kind of man who turned heads without trying.

And right now? Those hypnotic eyes were locked on me.

He stared a second too long before finally looking away, leaving me breathless. My heart hammered like it wanted to escape my chest. My legs? Weak. Betrayed me completely.

He lounged in the shadows like he owned them, a gold Rolex glinting on his wrist, a chain with the initial L resting against his collarbone. A tattoo curled along his forearm: Adam.

Our eyes locked.

I froze.

"I’ve never seen you here before."

His voice was smooth, deliberate. Hands tucked casually in his pockets like he owned the air around him.

Then it hit me—his scent.

Not just cologne. Something richer, intoxicating. Like crushed bergamot and midnight rain. Like something alive.

Every instinct screamed “ run”

But then he stood, and the way he looked at me—like I was something rare, something worth seeing—rooted me in place.

He extended a hand. "Adam Lancaster."

The name hit me like a bullet.

Lancaster.

The family that owned us.

I backed away, my breath coming too fast. "I shouldn’t be here."

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Yet here you are."

This was a mistake.