Chapter 55 - A Face I Know, a Voice I Hate

The message came through personal W******p, not from any group—just a link with no long explanation, sent directly by Bayu to Michi's phone, followed by one of his characteristically brief sentences.

Sis, this is your boyfriend, right?

Michi opened the link with her brow furrowed, and the next second her blood seemed to stop flowing entirely. An official promotional video from Rimba's father's political party's social media account appeared on the screen—thirty seconds long, titled "Young Generation, the Nation's Future," featuring a clip from the modern sonata collaboration concert Michi and Rimba had once performed together at the Swasemesta Conservatory, months before they'd officially gotten together—the official campus recording that had once been covered by a few local media outlets for its bold breakthrough in fusing classical and contemporary music. The video had been edited a certain way, the party logo blinking in the corner of the screen, a deep-voiced narration declaring, "...a fusion of tradition and the future, pioneered by visionary young talent like our own son, Rimba Arya Swara."

Bayu had happened to spot it appear on his own social media timeline—he did enjoy following political news, a habit he mostly used as fodder for casual debates in class more than anything else—and the moment he recognized his sister's boyfriend's face captured in that video too, it hadn't taken him long to realize something was off.

Michi called Rimba without a second thought, her hand trembling slightly as she pressed the phone screen.

Rimba picked up the call during a break in rehearsal, his voice still light as usual. "Chi? What's up, unusual for you to call in the middle of the day like this."

"Rim, try opening your W******p right now." Michi's voice sounded tense, far from the relaxed tone that usually accompanied their conversations. "I just sent you a link."

"What link?" Rimba pulled the phone away from his ear briefly, opening the messaging app while still keeping the speaker close to his face.

"Your dad's campaign video," Michi answered, the words feeling heavy to say. "Rim, they used the recording from our collaboration concert. The one at Swasemesta, months before we started dating. Cut up, given a narration like you're supporting his campaign."

Silence fell for a moment on the other end of the line. Rimba found the link, his finger pressing the play button with a stiff motion, his eyes narrowing at the screen.

"...fully supported by visionary young talent like our own son, Rimba Arya Swara."

His jaw clenched instantly hearing that narrator's voice, recognizing the clip of himself in front of the piano, Michi beside him, a moment that should have belonged only to the two of them and the campus music world, now used however it pleased as material for political image-building he had never once agreed to.

"Rim?" Michi's voice called softly, breaking a silence that had gone on too long. "Are you still there?"

"Yeah," Rimba answered, his voice choked back with restrained anger. "I... I didn't think Papa would go this far."

"Some classmates have already started DMing me too, asking if I'm actually involved in a political campaign." Michi let out a breath on the other end. "Rim, this isn't just about you anymore. This is already tied to my name in public too, especially in front of the professors who used to be skeptical about our project."

"I know." Rimba closed his eyes, trying to hold himself back from venting his anger through a voice that might come out aimed wrongly at Michi. "I'm going to take care of this. I promise."

The call ended with plenty of unanswered questions, leaving Rimba alone in the corner of the studio with his phone screen still lit, showing his own face smiling next to Michi's—a portrait of the past that now felt stolen and tainted without permission.

That very night, for the first time in years, it was Rimba who typed a reply message to his father's number.

Meet tomorrow. Not for an interview. Something needs to be set straight.

The reply came in less than a minute, brief and confident as always—the address of a café in one of the five-star hotels in the city center, complete with a meeting time for the following afternoon. Rimba stared at that message for a long time, his chest churning between burning anger and a fear he was reluctant to admit, before finally closing his phone and trying, uselessly, to sleep that night.

The following afternoon, he stood in front of the hotel café's glass door, steadying his breath for a moment before stepping inside—preparing himself to face a meeting he had avoided for years.

Marzekal Surya Pratama sat in the corner of the room in a neatly tailored suit, his signature smile already perfectly in place the moment he saw Rimba step in—a smile that had, for years, always managed to convince thousands of people in front of a camera, but to Rimba felt like nothing more than a mask worn so often it had fused with his own skin.

"Rimba." Surya stood, spreading his arms as if about to embrace him, but Rimba only stood stiffly, not returning the gesture at all. Surya lowered his arms slowly, without losing his smile. "You're looking more and more like your mother when you're angry like this."

"Don't bring Mama into this." Rimba's voice was cold, sharp, far from the respectful tone a child usually reserves for a parent. He sat down across the table, ordering nothing. "I came here for one thing. Take that video down."

Surya's smile didn't waver in the slightest. "Which video? The one showing how talented Papa's son is? Rimba, that's nothing you need to make a fuss about. If anything, it's good for you too—your name gets more recognition, your band gets more recognition. Win-win, isn't it?"

"That's not win-win. That's theft." Rimba leaned forward, his voice restrained but trembling with anger. "Not a single one of us agreed to that performance being used for your campaign. Michi didn't agree. And I clearly never agreed either."

Michi's name being spoken made something shift subtly across Surya's face—not a flash of caution, but something far more frightening: interest.

"Michi." Surya leaned back, his fingers tapping lightly against the edge of the coffee cup in front of him, his smile widening as though he'd just stumbled onto an exciting new idea. "That Suryokusumo family girl, right? Genuine talent, a well-regarded family background, and—" he studied Rimba with an appraising look, "—the two of you look good together on camera. That's actually a great idea, Rimba. Why don't we go ahead and do a joint interview session? The love story of two talented young musicians, one classical, one contemporary, united through music. The public loves a story like that. Could push Papa's electability much higher than yesterday's video."

Something cold seemed to twist through Rimba's stomach. "You want to use Michi too?"

"Not use. This is an opportunity, son." Surya sipped his coffee casually, as though not noticing—or not caring—how disgusted his own son's face looked hearing that offer. "You'd both benefit equally. Your names become more widely known, your music careers take off further, and Papa gets the image he needs. Everyone wins."

"No one wins if it's built on a lie." Rimba's voice trembled, holding back his anger. "Take that video down, and never bring up Michi's name in front of any camera again."

Surya's smile faded slightly, replaced by something far colder behind his eyes. "It's a shame you think that way. When Papa was only trying to help." He paused for a moment, staring intently at Rimba. "But fine, if you're stubborn about not wanting to cooperate, Papa will respect that. Just... don't blame Papa if his media team later finds another way to get the same story, with or without your consent. The Suryokusumo family name is too good to let go to waste, especially with the family's own child looking 'close' to the family of a politician like me. People will find out, Rimba. Sooner or later."

Rimba's chest felt struck by something far heavier than ordinary anger. He looked at his father, trying to find some crack proving it was just an empty bluff, but Surya's calm expression only convinced him further—this wasn't an empty threat, but a real glimpse of exactly how his father had always operated behind the scenes of power: never directly threatening anyone outright, only letting the consequences roll on by themselves until someone else was forced to bear them.

He realized it slowly, like cold water creeping up from his chest—as long as he and Michi kept being seen together in public, as long as their names kept being linked to each other, his father would never stop looking for an opening to exploit them both, whether with their consent or not. And every time that happened, the Suryokusumo family's good name—the good name Father Seno had worked so hard to protect for so many years—would get dragged into a dirty game that was never theirs to begin with.

"Take the video down," he finally said, his voice quiet but full of pressure. "And stop looking for ways to use Michi or her family. Do whatever you want with your own political career. But never involve them again."

Surya shrugged lightly, as though he'd just won something far bigger than it appeared. "Papa will consider the video. But remember this well, Rimba—the world isn't as simple as you think. As long as you're seen in public with someone, people like me will always find a way to use it. Sooner or later, you're going to have to figure out for yourself how to protect her."

Rimba rose from his chair without another word, walking out of the café with quick steps, his chest tight with anger mixed with a fear far deeper than anything he had felt since his parents' divorce years ago.

Inside his car, he sat still for a long while before finally starting the engine, his hands still trembling on the wheel.

His father's final sentence kept echoing through his head, mixing with Bayu's question that still lingered from that night in the Suryokusumo family's backyard. He still hadn't found an answer to that question about commitment and the future, and now a new question emerged, far heavier: how do you love someone without dragging them into the mess you inherited from your own father.

Rimba stared ahead at Yogyakarta's streets, wet from that afternoon's drizzle, and for the first time since he and Michi had been together, one dark thought began creeping in—maybe the only way to protect Michi and her family from his father's shadow was to distance himself, as far as possible, even if it meant destroying his own heart.