Wild Memories

“Are you threatening me with my grandmother’s life?” Alya asked, clenching her fists tightly in her lap.

Arga did not answer immediately. He simply stared at Alya with an unwavering, unnervingly calm gaze.

“I’m not threatening you, Alya. I’m offering a mutually beneficial business partnership.”

What kind of business partnership comes with a trap like this? Damn it, he’s really abusing his position as the big boss, Alya raged inwardly.

Her chest rose and fell as she struggled to contain her overwhelming emotions, which had completely eclipsed the lingering awkwardness from what had happened in the hotel room that night.

“That recipe belongs to my family, sir. It has nothing to do with my work in the company’s R&D division,” Alya said, her voice trembling but firm.

“It does now, because the company paid the hospital bills of the recipe’s owner,” Arga replied, leaning forward across the black marble desk. “Grandma Aminah’s legendary mi nyemek stall in the corner of the old town. Did you really think I wouldn’t know where your remarkable cooking talent came from?”

Alya’s eyes widened. She was so shocked that she could not speak for several seconds.

How could a foreign-educated CEO who has only just returned to Indonesia know about Grandma’s little food stall, which closed three years ago? This is strange.

“How do you know about Grandma’s stall?” Alya asked, her brow furrowing deeply with suspicion.

“I have my own ways of learning about the backgrounds of my best employees,” Arga replied in a flat yet authoritative tone. “That stall used to be famous for its authentic wet-paste seasoning blend. A flavor no factory machine could ever reproduce. The company needs that flavor to dominate the premium instant-food market.”

Alya slumped back against the leather chair, her mind spinning wildly as a suffocating pressure tightened around her chest.

The mi nyemek recipe was not merely a scribbled list of seasonings on a worn-out piece of paper. It was Alya’s lifeline.

It was the only reason she and her grandmother had managed to survive all those years ago, when her mother ran away with all their savings and her father abandoned them with a mountain of gambling debts.

Grandma cooked that mi nyemek day and night until her hands were covered in burns from splattering hot oil, all so she could pay for my education, Alya remembered inwardly, her eyes suddenly stinging as she recalled how her grandmother had refused to seek medical treatment just to buy Alya’s schoolbooks.

To Alya, handing that recipe over to this corporate giant felt like betraying every tear her grandmother had shed and every remaining year of her life she had sacrificed over a scorching frying pan.

That recipe was their identity—the only proof that they had once struggled against crushing poverty and managed to overcome it.

If she sold it for corporate money, it would feel as though she were selling her grandmother’s very soul.

I can’t just hand it over. But if he really withdraws that one hundred and fifty million rupiah, the hospital will stop Grandma’s post-surgery treatment this afternoon. Damn it. This is one hell of a trap, Alya lamented inwardly, feeling utterly cornered.

“Why Grandma’s recipe? This company has dozens of food experts in the laboratory downstairs who can create an imitation seasoning,” Alya said, attempting to negotiate while fighting to keep her voice from breaking into tears.

“An imitation is still an imitation. It will never taste the same,” Arga replied, staring straight into Alya’s eyes. “I need the original formula. And I know that ancient recipe notebook is in your possession now.”

He even knows about the notebook? Has he been watching me ever since that night at the hotel? Alya thought in fear, feeling as though the CEO had accurately tracked her every move.

“If I hand it over, what guarantee do I have that you won’t discard me once this project is finished?” Alya asked, trying to secure some reasonable protection for herself.

“You will lead the premium product development team as the project head,” Arga replied, sliding another thick document folder toward Alya. “This is the official contract. Five percent of the revenue from every package sold across Indonesia will be deposited into your personal account. That amount is more than enough to repay the one-hundred-and-fifty-million-rupiah debt you owe the company within a few months.”

Alya stared at the document folder uncertainly.

The papers before her felt like a trapdoor covered in gold.

Her idealistic side vehemently refused, but the memory of her grandmother’s pale face lying in the ICU, surrounded by medical tubes, shattered her resistance in an instant.

Forgive me, Grandma. Just this once, I have to use your recipe to save your own life, Alya whispered helplessly to herself.

“All right. I agree. But I have one condition,” Alya said as she reached for the pen on Arga’s desk.

Arga raised an eyebrow.

“Name it.”

“The extraction and blending process for this base seasoning paste must be carried out in a separate, restricted laboratory. I don’t want the original formula leaked to staff from other divisions before the product is officially launched,” Alya stated firmly, trying to protect the last secret she had from being copied outright by scheming members of the board.

“Condition accepted. I’ll personally supervise the research with you in the seasoning extraction laboratory starting tomorrow morning,” Arga replied with a faint smile—a mysterious smile that sent an inexplicable shiver down Alya’s spine.

Alya drew a deep breath before signing her name across the contract’s stamp duty with slightly trembling hands.

Once she was finished, she returned the folder to Arga, feeling as though her pride and family heritage had now officially been mortgaged to the commanding man sitting before her.

“The contract has been signed. Is there anything else, Mr. Arga?” Alya asked, her voice once again cold and formal.

Arga took the documents, gave them a brief inspection, then placed them inside a locked drawer in his black marble desk.

He rose from his executive chair, slowly walked around the desk, and stopped right beside Alya’s chair.

“There’s one more thing, Alya,” Arga said, his baritone voice dropping lower.

Alya looked up, instinctively gripping the armrest when she realized how close he was.

The scent of expensive tobacco-infused cologne mixed with his masculine fragrance once again invaded her senses, triggering a fleeting, reckless memory of the bare, broad chest she had seen in the hotel room three days ago.

Damn it. Why am I remembering that? Alya lamented inwardly, her face beginning to flush as she struggled with the untimely stirrings of desire.

“What is it, sir?” Alya asked, trying to keep her breathing steady.

Arga leaned down slightly, his gaze fixed on Alya’s slender neck, concealed beneath the neat collar of her work shirt.

“Starting tomorrow, your working hours will change. You will not leave with the other laboratory staff. You are to remain at the office after five in the afternoon and give me your daily research report directly. In this room. Just the two of us.”

Alya held her breath, her eyes widening at the unilateral instruction that sounded strangely deliberate and filled with hidden intentions.

Before Alya could protest the bizarre new rule, the CEO’s office door was suddenly struck by a loud knock from outside, cutting through the tension that had been steadily building between them.