Prince from Another World (Indonesia)

Aria’s POV

Aria Lane didn’t remember the exact moment her life began to unravel. Maybe it was the day her father signed his name on that loan, promising money they didn’t have. Or perhaps it was the night the police knocked on their tiny house door and dragged both her parents away as if they were thieves.

Each morning, as she stirred from the discomfort of her tiny dorm bed with its springs jabbing at her back through the worn mattress, she tallied the hours available for work before fatigue would bring her down. Attending classes had become a secondary concern in recent times. Ensuring her survival took precedence.

She could feel her mother’s voice in her bones whenever she found herself staring too long at her bank balance: “Keep your head high, Aria. Money comes and goes. Your pride is forever.” But pride didn’t post bail, and pride didn’t pay off the loan sharks.

She sat alone at the corner table in the campus café, her textbooks spread out but unopened. She hadn’t eaten yet. Her stomach clawed at her spine, but food was one more luxury she could live without for now. A pair of girls from her dorm walked past, whispering. She caught the tail end of it: “Probably looking for her next sugar daddy.” They didn’t bother lowering their voices anymore.

Aria pulled her hood up. She’d learned to tune out the gossip. She hadn’t learned how to stop it.

Later that night, her phone buzzed with an overdue notice, the final one. Rent was due. Another lawyer bill. Another broken promise to visit her parents this weekend because the bus fare alone was three days’ worth of meals. She stuffed her textbooks in her bag and stepped out into the biting night air. The city didn’t care if she starved. The city didn’t care if she disappeared.

At the bus stop, she saw it: a slip of paper pinned under the glass shelter. Its edges were curled, words smudged by rain. “Discreet, Generous Compensation, No Experience Necessary, Must be Healthy, Trustworthy, Discreet.” She read it twice. And then twice more. Her eyes tripped over the tiny print at the bottom: Contact if desperate enough to change your life.

What did that mean? Some escort scam? She knew better, or she thought she did. But something about the word discreet pulled her in. Maybe it was the way her heart hammered when she whispered the amount she needed under her breath: fifty thousand. She ripped the paper free and shoved it in her pocket before anyone could see.

Back in her dorm, she sat on the edge of her narrow bed, laptop open. Her roommates giggled behind the thin walls, probably about her. Always her. She reread the ad. The contact email was just a string of letters: L.Cross Private: no company, no phone number, just an address.

Who does something like this?

She drafted an email three times before she sent it:

Hi, I saw your flyer. I’m healthy. I’m… discreet. I want to know more. Please.

— Aria

She didn’t know what terrified her more, the thought of no reply or the idea that someone would reply. She didn’t sleep that night.

By morning, there was a single message waiting. She stared at the subject line until her eyes blurred. “Interview. Today, 4 PM. Be ready. 151 Wexler Tower.” That was it. No name. No instructions. No kindness. Just cold words that left her both trembling and weirdly specific, this was real.

She skipped class. She didn’t bother pretending anymore. There’d be no degree if she couldn’t pay tuition. No future if her parents rotted in a cell because of her pride.

Wexler Tower rose over the city like it didn’t belong to the same world that birthed girls like her. Glass and steel, so spotless she saw her reflection distorted and small as she approached the rotating doors. Inside, the lobby gleamed under soft golden lights. People in tailored suits drifted past her without a glance. Her reflection in the polished marble floor looked out of place in secondhand jeans, scuffed sneakers, her coat clutched around her like a shield.

A woman with a headset appeared.

“Name?”

“Aria Lane. I’m… here for an interview.”

The woman’s gaze flicked to the clock, then to Aria’s too-thin coat.

“Wait here.”

She perched on the edge of a leather sofa that cost more than her entire tuition. Her phone buzzed with another debt notification. She switched it off. Five minutes later, the woman returned.

“Top floor. Mr. Cross is waiting.”

Mr. Cross. The name rolled around in her head like a coin dropped down a drain.

She stepped into the mirrored elevator and pressed the button for the 45th floor. The walls reflected her fear of herself from every angle. She tried to fix her hair in the reflection, but gave up.

What are you doing, Aria?

Saving your family, her heart whispered back.

The elevator doors slid open to a lobby so quiet it felt like stepping into someone’s private world. A wall of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city’s glittering lights, the pulse of money and power that never touched girls like her.

And there he was. Sitting behind a sleek black desk. Expensive suit. Cufflinks that probably cost what she owed in rent. Dark hair, neatly styled. He didn’t look up right away; he finished signing something, slow, deliberate, as if she weren’t even there.

“Miss Lane,” he said finally, without lifting his eyes. His voice was deep but flat, as cold as the steel beams that held up this tower.

“Yes. I thank you for seeing me.”

His gaze finally met hers, and Aria felt her knees threaten to buckle. Those eyes looked at her like she was something he’d already bought.

“You read the conditions?”

She swallowed. “No conditions were listed.”

He leaned back. His chair was black leather, the kind that probably felt like a throne.

“Everything has conditions, Miss Lane. Even desperation.”

She bristled. “I’m not desperate.”

His lips twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. “Then you’re wasting my time.”

Silence draped over the room like a shroud. Aria’s fingers curled into fists.

“I need fifty thousand dollars,” she said. The words tasted like shame. “I’ll do whatever’s required. I need to know what this is.”

He tapped the folder in front of him. “No questions yet. First, you’ll prove you’re worth the risk.”

Aria’s throat went dry. “Risk?”

He rose and came around the desk. He was taller than she’d expected, too close. She caught the scent of expensive cologne, something sharp and clean that made her feel smaller.

“Everything worth buying comes with risk, Miss Lane,” he murmured. “You have no idea what you’re agreeing to, do you?”

She hated the way her voice trembled. “If you have rules, say them. I’m not afraid.”

His eyes darkened with amusement. Or something else, something hungry she couldn’t name.

“You should be.”

He slipped a card into her coat pocket, his fingers brushing her hip. She flinched. He didn’t apologize.

“Go home. Read this. When you sign, you belong to me in every way that matters. That’s the only condition you need to remember.”

Aria’s pulse roared in her ears. Belong? She should’ve run. But she didn’t.

In the elevator down, the card burned against her skin. One sentence printed on the back made her legs go weak:

Once you’re in, there’s no way out.

Outside, the city hummed around her like it didn’t know she’d just made a deal with the devil, or maybe it did.