Chapter 2: The Golden Cage and the Runaway Pig

The black SUV glided through iron gates that looked less like a perimeter and more like a fortress. Rangga watched the Torajan highlands blur into a hazy, emerald nightmare.

"You’re staring, Rangga. Don't worry, the view gets worse once you realize there's no way out."

Rangga didn't look at Arung. "Is this it? A glorified cage in the middle of nowhere? You're a kidnapper, Arung. That's a jail sentence, not a business model."

Arung chuckled, a low sound that vibrated through the leather seat. "In Jakarta, maybe. Here? You’re just a debt being collected. Call it an inheritance."

"I'm not an object."

"You’re a Langi. You were an object the second you were born into that bloodline."

The car stopped. A guard opened the door, and the mountain air hit them—crisp, thin, and smelling of damp soil and ancient cedar. Arung stepped out, his suit immaculate against the sprawling, dark wood of the Buntu mansion.

"Welcome home, Rangga," Arung said, gesturing toward the imposing doorway.

"I’m not staying here. I’m walking down this hill, and I’m going to find the first bus to Makassar."

"Try it," Arung said, his eyes glinting with a challenge. "I’ll give you a five-minute head start."

"Five minutes? That's all I need."

Rangga didn't wait. He spun on his heel and sprinted toward the perimeter fence, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Inside the guest wing, ten minutes later, Rangga slammed the heavy mahogany door shut and latched it. He scrambled to the window, shoving it upward. It groaned, sliding just wide enough for him to squeeze through.

"Stupid," he hissed to himself, shivering as he gripped the stone ledge outside. "Just jump. It's only twelve feet."

He dropped, his boots hitting something soft, heavy, and decidedly alive.

SQUEAL!*

A massive, prize-winning ceremonial pig, previously enjoying the afternoon sun, erupted in a flurry of mud and panicked grunts. Rangga tumbled into the muck, rolling as the beast charged, knocking over a rack of garden tools.

"Hey! Get back here, you overgrown pork chop!" Rangga yelled, scrambling up, his designer jeans now a mess of brown sludge.

"Master Rangga? What in the ancestors' name are you doing to the guest of honor?"

Rangga froze. Standing on the patio was a man who looked like he’d been pressed by a steam engine. A tuxedo, a monocle, and an expression of pure, unadulterated grief.

"Ambe' Pong, right? Look, move. I’m leaving."

"The pig, sir. You have offended the Buntu prize winner. Do you have any idea what it took to fatten that creature for the festival?"

"I don't care about the festival! I don't care about the pig!" Rangga lunged past the butler, his boots slipping on the slick grass.

"Security! The property is attempting to abscond again!" Ambe' Pong shrieked, his voice carrying across the estate like a siren.

Rangga bolted toward the hedges. Behind him, the sound of heavy boots hitting gravel grew louder. He ducked under a trellis, the thorns tearing at his shirt, and burst out onto the main driveway. The gates were visible—a hundred yards away.

"Almost there," Rangga wheezed, his lungs burning.

He hit the gravel at a full sprint, ignoring the shout from the guards near the main entrance. He grabbed the chain-link fence, shoving his fingers into the gaps to climb.

"Too slow, Rangga."

A hand clamped onto his ankle, cold and steady. Rangga let out a shout as he was yanked backward, his feet sliding uselessly in the mud. He landed hard on his back, staring up into the sun-drenched face of Arung Buntu.

"You really are persistent," Arung said, peering down at him. His expression was maddeningly calm.

"I hate you," Rangga spat, wiping mud from his eyes. "I hate every inch of this place."

"Hate is an emotion," Arung said, his voice dropping into that dangerous, smooth register. "It’s much better than indifference. It means you’re already invested."

"I’m not invested! I’m a prisoner!"

"You’re a husband," Arung corrected, hoisting Rangga off the ground by his waist. Rangga struggled, kicking at the air, but Arung held him firmly against his chest, as if he weighed nothing at all. "And frankly, you look pathetic in mud."

"Put me down!"

"No. We have a dinner to attend, and you’re currently dressed for a pen."

Arung began walking back toward the house.

"I’ll run again!" Rangga roared, clenching his fists. "I’ll run every single night!"

Arung stopped, turning his head just enough to look at Rangga. "And I’ll catch you every single night. Is that the game we’re playing?"

"It’s not a game if I win."

"You won't win. You’re bound to this house, and more importantly, you’re bound to me."

"Says who? The dead father who signed a piece of paper?"

"Says the truth you’re trying so hard to hide," Arung whispered, his grip tightening.

They reached the front entrance. Ambe' Pong stood there, wringing his hands, his face pale.

"Sir, the pig is... he is distraught. He requires calming oils."

"Tend to him, Ambe'," Arung commanded without looking away from Rangga.

"And me?" Rangga challenged, his voice trembling with a mix of fury and something else—a terrifying spark of adrenaline. "What about me?"

Arung leaned in, his lips inches from Rangga’s ear. The smell of expensive cologne masked the scent of the mud, creating a sickeningly intoxicating contrast.

"You? You get a bath, a change of clothes, and a reminder of your place."

"I have no place here."

"Oh, you do," Arung replied, walking through the doorway and into the dark, cool foyer. He kicked the heavy door shut behind them, the sound echoing like a tomb sealing shut. "The gates won't open for you, Rangga. They’ll only open once you finally fulfill your conjugal duties."

Rangga’s breath hitched. "You’re crazy."

"I’m your owner," Arung said, tightening his arms until Rangga couldn't even draw a full breath. "And tonight, you finally learn what that means."