บททั้งหมดของ A Contract With The Devil in a Suit: บทที่ 21 - บทที่ 30

"Clip the microphone onto his left lapel, and ensure the lighting from the right angle doesn't cast a shadow across Young Master Darren's face!" The directive from the national television station producer echoed through the headsets, breaking the taut tension inside the main preparation room of the Jakarta Cathedral. Three stylists moved with rapid yet meticulously careful motions, smoothing out the folds of the pitch-black tuxedo designed by a legendary Milanese couturier that hugged Darren Wijaya's towering, muscular frame. Outside, hundreds of journalists from print, broadcast, and international news portals had already packed the cathedral courtyard, poised to broadcast live what the public was calling 'The Wedding of the Decade.' Yet, the groom stood as rigid as a lifeless marble statue. Darren stared at his own reflection in the massive mirror. The tuxedo set was flawless, the pure diamond brooch glinted against his chest, but all this opulence felt like a shroud wrapping a dea

"Get in, and don't you dare step a single foot out of this door until I personally come back to get you!" Darren wrenched Ezra’s arm, shoving his slender, still soaking-wet frame across the threshold of a classified penthouse unit in the Sudirman central business district. The heavy iron door slammed shut behind them with a resounding boom, instantly locking out the howling night wind and the thunderous storm still raging outside. Darren’s chest heaved violently; his priceless white dress shirt was now plastered dirtily against his muscular frame, ruined by the remnants of rainwater and black soot from the site of Ezra's tenement fire an hour ago. Ezra stumbled, his halting limp unable to support his own weight until he collapsed onto the cold, grey marble floor. His body trembled uncontrollably, not merely from the bone-chilling draft, but from the raw psychological trauma that had just shattered his world. In his arms, Nino remained wrapped in a thick blanket, weeping softly, while

"Get your filthy hands off my body, Clarissa!" Darren let out a low growl—a baritone roar so saturated with unadulterated hatred that it caused the stifling air within their presidential penthouse suite to vibrate. With one exceptionally rough and powerful wrench, Darren clamped his hands down upon Clarissa’s shoulders, which were clad in sheer silk lingerie, and violently hurled her frame off his lap. The unchecked force of his adrenaline-fueled shove completely threw Clarissa off balance; her stunning figure was cast off the sofa, crashing down hard onto the cold marble floor with a sickening thud. "Darren! Ugh!" Clarissa shrieked in pain as her elbows and knees collided with the unyielding stone. Her long hair, once elegantly coiffed, now cascaded in a disheveled mess over her pale, ashen face. Her provocative nightwear shifted out of place, but the physical stinging traversing her body paled in comparison to the scorching humiliation incinerating her chest. She looked up, skeweri

Shatter! The fragments of an expensive crystal glass scattered across the white marble floor, refracting the shards of early morning sunlight that had begun to pierce through the expansive glass windows of the presidential penthouse. Clarissa stood dead center in the silent living room, her breath catching in violent, ragged gasps as her chest heaved to an extreme degree beneath her tailored maroon silk robe. Her stunning features, which routinely graced the covers of international fashion magazines, were now a disheveled wreck; last night's makeup had bled into dark, smudged tracks beneath her eyes, while her lips trembled violently as she fought to contain an impending tempest of fury. "One night... not even a single damn night!" Clarissa roared into the vacuum of the vacant suite, her voice screeching in a hoarse tone laden with a colossal wave of humiliation. She cast her gaze toward the digital wall clock, which read 7:00 AM. The master bed in their room remained meticulously m

"Shut your mouth and don't you dare touch that call button, Clarissa!" Darren launched forward with exceptional velocity, erasing the distance between them in a single blink. His muscular frame moved so explosively that it triggered a sudden rush of air within the suffocating living area. Before Clarissa’s slender fingers could even make contact with the green phone icon on her screen, Darren’s robust hand had already clamped around her wrist with a crushing intensity. The pressure from his vascular fingers instantly locked Clarissa’s movement, forcing the sleek device to hover statically in the air, level with their locked, fiercely clashing gazes. "Let me go, Darren! That hurts!" Clarissa shrieked, attempting to wrench her hand free, but Darren’s grip was like an iron shackle, entirely impossible to break. Her breathing turned utterly erratic as she faced Darren's hawk-like eyes, which now projected a volatile mixture of raw fury and profound anxiety. Darren did not release his ho