MasukWhen billionaire tycoon Anton Rogers discovers that someone in his empire has stolen a prototype capable of rewriting global digital security, he hires Sabatine Stalker, a private investigator who works in the shadows and has an uncertain past. But the more Sabatine digs, the trail of deceit leads squarely into Anton's inner circle — and perhaps to Anton himself. Bound by duty but seduced by desire, the two men are forced to navigate a dangerous landscape of corporate intrigue, deception, and forbidden longing. When a shocking revelation incriminates Sabatine, both must decide to have faith in the other or let their guarded hearts destroy everything they've built. In a universe of silk and steel, only the truth can set them free — at the cost of their lives.
Lihat lebih banyak“Apa yang kamu lakukan, Mas?”
Mata Zaya membelalak lebar, kotak berisi makan siang dan kue tart untuk suaminya terlepas begitu saja kala melihat suaminya sedang berciuman dengan seorang wanita di atas sofa kantor.Kakinya gemetar, kedua tangannya spontan menutupi mulutnya, tak percaya dengan apa yang ia lihat. Sejak pagi suaminya melarangnya pergi ke kantor dengan alasan ada meeting penting, tapi karena Zaya ingin memberikan kejutan ulang tahun pernikahan yang kedua pada suaminya, Zaya nekat mendatangi perusahaan tanpa izin sang suami dan hasilnya, ia yang berniat memberi surprise, malah mendapatkan kejutan luar biasa.“Zaya?” Evan tampak terkejut. Pria itu buru-buru mendorong sekretarisnya dan membenahi resleting celananya. "K-kenapa kamu ke sini?""Aku yang seharusnya bertanya, Mas. Kamu bermain gila di belakangku?" Bersamaan dengan itu, tangisnya luruh.Ia tak percaya kalau suaminya yang selama ini terlihat baik dan setia ternyata bermain api dengan sekretarisnya sendiri."Ibu tidak salah bertanya? Bukankah sudah cukup jelas?" Mira, wanita seksi yang baru saja bercumbu dengan suaminya itu buka suara. Wajahnya tak terlihat bersalah."Tutup mulutmu, Mira!""Bukankah sudah jelas, Pak?" Lagi, wanita itu kembali memprovokasi. "Coba saja bandingkan, siapa yang akan bergairah kalau istrinya memiliki penampilan seperti ini?"Zaya terbelalak. Ia sontak menarik kesimpulan dari apa yang dikatakan sekretaris Evan itu."Cukup Mira! Keluar sekarang!" ujar Evan sambil menunjuk ke pintu yang terbuka.Namun, bukannya keluar, Mira justru merajuk sambil mencoba menggoda atasannya lagi. Bibirnya cemberut.“Tapi, kita belum selesai main, Pak,” ucap si sekretaris dengan nada manja.Evan menepis kasar tangan Mira. “Keluar kataku, atau kamu kupecat!”Mira mengentakkan kakinya saat mendengar penolakan Evan. Tak lupa, wanita itu menatap sinis ke arah Zaya. "Sudah tidak cantik, tidak seksi ... Bau bawang, lagi!" ujarnya tajam sebelum akhirnya meninggalkan ruangan CEO-nya itu.Zaya mengepalkan tangan mendengar penilaian buruk Mira tentang dirinya. Ia jadi bertanya-tanya ... Apakah seburuk itu ia, hingga membuat Evan tak lagi berhasrat padanya?Tanpa terasa, air mata mulai meluruh di pipinya."Zaya, Sayang ... Jangan dengarkan Mira." Evan yang baru saja mengunci pintu ruangannya kembali berusaha mendekati sang istri yang terus menangis."Tidak, Mas. Bukankah apa yang dikatakan wanita itu benar?" Zaya memandang nanar ke arah suaminya. "Aku tidak lagi menarik untukmu. Aku gemuk, tidak cantik, apalagi seksi. Tidak seperti dia yang baru saja kamu cumbu!"Evan menggeleng. Pria itu berusaha meraih tangan sang istri yang tentu saja langsung diempas oleh wanita itu. “Zaya, tolong percaya padaku. Aku tidak ada hubungan apa pun dengannya.”Zaya menghapus air matanya lalu menatap geram suaminya. “Tidak ada hubungan katamu? Jangan mengelak, Mas!? Kalau memang kamu tidak punya hubungan dengannya, kenapa kamu mencumbunya?”"Aku tidak mencumbunya!""Kamu masih mengelak?" Zaya menyahut tak mau kalah. “Aku tahu sekarang, rupanya ini alasan kenapa kamu tidak sudi lagi menyentuhku, kan? Selain karena aku tidak lagi menarik, ternyata kamu sudah terbiasa menuntaskan hasratmu pada wanita lain!” tuduh Zaya dengan lantang.Pria tampan yang mengenakan jas berwarna biru gelap itu menyugar rambutnya kasar. Raut frustrasi kentara sekali di wajah Evan.“Zaya, demi Tuhan--""Jangan bawa Tuhan untuk bersumpah di atas perbuatanmu yang hina, Mas!" Zaya langsung memotong perkataan suaminya. "Kamu bahkan menodai pernikahan kita di depan mataku! Tidak ada lagi yang bisa kupercaya dari laki-laki brengsek sepertimu!"Zaya menghapus air matanya. Ia kehilangan pegangan. Suami yang selama ini menjadi dunianya, telah berubah 180 derajat. Hari ini, Zaya sungguh tak mengenali suaminya lagi.“Tidak. Zaya, Tunggu—"Lalu tanpa aba-aba, Zaya berlari meninggalkan Evan yang terlihat tertegun sendiri akan perkataannya.Zaya menyempatkan diri berhenti dan menoleh ke arah Mira yang menatapnya dengan penuh kemenangan sebelum melanjutkan langkahnya menuju lift.Semula, Zaya masih yakin jika Evan akan menyusulnya untuk meminta maaf atau membujuknya lagi. Untuk itu, sebelum pintu lift benar-benar tertutup, ia melihat lagi ruangan sang suami.Akan tetapi, ia yang baru saja melambungkan harapan tinggi-tinggi kembali gigit jari saat melihat pintu ruangan sang suami tertutup kembali.Zaya menangis pilu sambil melangkah meninggalkan perusahaan suaminya dengan hati penuh luka.“Selamat tinggal, Mas!”Five years later.The London skyline is golden with a silent sunset. From the penthouse balcony, Sabatine Rogers watches the city breathe-steady, alive, unafraid.Indoors, peals of laughter spill into the evening air.Anton’s laughter.It still takes her by surprise, now and then—how light it is, now, how unencumbered. The man who once bore the weight of empires and opponents kneels on the living room floor, attempting to put together some sort of robotic toy at the instructions of two small, highly opinionated children.“Papa, that’s upside down,” she scolds, with an authority far beyond her years.Anton squints: “I’m sure it’s strategic.”The son giggles and crawls into Sabatine's arms the second she steps inside. She presses a kiss to his curls, breathing him in like he is the miracle that she never planned for but cannot imagine her life without now.He follows her out onto the balcony later that night, after the children have gone to sleep. Wrapping his arm around her waist, he l
The London night was a deep, velvet bowl dusted with diamond and amber. From the penthouse balcony, the city was not a threat, nor a kingdom to be managed, but a magnificent, distant diorama—a testament to the humming life of millions, its lights glittering like a promise kept.Anton stood at the railing, a faint evening breeze stirring the hair at his temples. He held a glass of water, the condensation cool against his palm. Behind him, through the open door, the soft strains of a jazz standard drifted out—Sabatine’s choice, something old and warm and uncomplicated.They had dined simply. They had talked of nothing in particular—a funny email from Leon, the progress on the Highland library’s timber frame, the inexplicable popularity of a particular brand of hot sauce among the Academy’s first years. The conversation was the gentle, meandering stream of a life lived in profound peace.Now, in the quiet aftermath, Anton felt the weight of the moment, not as a burden, but as a fullness.
The morning after the rain was a clear, sharp gift. Sunlight poured into the penthouse, gilding the dust motes and illuminating the closed album on the rug like a relic from another age. Anton stood at the kitchen counter, juicing oranges. The simple, rhythmic press and twist was a meditation. Sabatine was at the table, a large, blank sheet of artist’s paper unfurled before him, a cup of black coffee steaming at his elbow.They hadn’t spoken of the album again. Its contents had been acknowledged, honoured, and gently shelved. Its weight had been replaced by a feeling of expansive, clean-slated lightness. The past was a foundational layer, solid and settled. Now, the space above it was empty, awaiting design.Sabatine picked up a charcoal pencil, its tip hovering over the pristine white. He didn’t draw. He looked at Anton, a question in his eyes. It was a different question than any they’d asked before. How do we survive this? or what is the next threat? or even what should the Institu
Rain streamed down the vast penthouse windows, turning the London skyline into a smeared watercolour of grey and gold. A log crackled in the fireplace, the scent of woodsmoke and old books filling the room. They had no meetings. No calls. Leon had instituted a mandatory "deep work" day, a digital sabbath for the Institute’s leadership, and they, for once, had obeyed their own protégé.They were on the floor, leaning against the sofa, Sabatine’s back to Anton’s chest, a worn wool blanket shared over their legs. An old, leather-bound photo album—a recent, deliberate creation—lay open on the rug before them. It held no pictures of them. Instead, it was a curated archive of their war: a grainy security still of Evelyn Voss laughing with a Swiss banker; the schematic of the stolen AI prototype; a news clipping about the "Geneva Villa Incident"; a satellite image of the lonely Scottish island; the first architectural sketch of Anchor Point Academy on a napkin.It was a history of shadows. A
The priest’s voice, a sonorous, practiced instrument, faded into the expectant hush. The legal preliminaries were complete. The space he left behind was not empty, but charged, a vacuum waiting to be filled by a truth more powerful than any sacrament.Anton turned to face Sabatine, his hand still c
The island was a sigh.It emerged from the iron-grey Atlantic as a smudge of green and granite, crowned with a low, clinging mist. The jet had touched down on a rough, short airstrip on a larger, neighbouring island—a place of sheep and taciturn fishermen who asked no questions for the thick envelo
The mood on the dance floor had shifted from exuberant celebration to something warmer, more intimate. The string quartet, sensing the change, slid into a gentle, lyrical piece. The remaining guests—the inner circle—swayed in loose, happy clusters. Anton was across the room, deep in conversation wi
The jet was a ghost.It bore no tail number, no corporate livery, just a matte grey finish that seemed to drink the weak light from the airfield. Inside, it was a study in functional luxury, but of a different sort than Anton’s usual fleet. The leather was butter-soft but scuffed in places; the cab
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