Kontrak Dua Hati

The smoke curls from my lips, a lazy ghost in the dim light of room 204. I watch it drift toward the ceiling, dissolve into nothing. Just like this whole situation.

Eight PM. The hotel air conditioning hums a low, constant note. Outside, Jakarta glitters through the floor-to-ceiling windows, a million lights pretending to be stars. I don't look at them. I look at my phone, at the Instagram feed I've been scrolling for the last hour without seeing a single post.

She's on the bed.

Bella.

My wife.

The word still tastes wrong in my mouth, like cheap whiskey you drink because it's there, not because you want it. We've been married seven days. Seven days of this. Seven nights.

She's propped against the headboard, laptop open, glasses perched on her nose. Some spreadsheet glows on the screen, numbers and columns that mean nothing to me. She's been at it since dinner. Didn't say a word through the salmon, didn't look up when I asked for the check.

I take another drag. Let the smoke hang.

The room is huge. King-sized bed with white sheets so crisp they look surgical. A marble minibar that probably costs more than my first motorcycle. A bathroom with a tub you could swim in. And this sofa, where I've been sleeping, because the alternative is sharing that bed with a woman who acts like I'm furniture.

She shifts. Crosses her legs. The silk robe she's wearing parts just enough to show a sliver of thigh. She doesn't notice. Or doesn't care. With her, it's hard to tell.

Bella is twenty-two. Two years older than me. We went to the same SMP, different circles. She was the one everyone talked about. The smart one. The cold one. The one with the face that made boys write poems they were too scared to show anyone. I was just a kid with a skateboard and a bad attitude. We didn't exist in the same universe.

Now we share a hotel room.

Our fathers did this. A merger. His construction company, her family's logistics empire. Two signatures on a piece of paper, and suddenly I'm a husband. No engagement. No wedding I remember. Just a ceremony in a hall full of strangers, a ring on my finger, and a woman who looks at me like I'm a stain on her carpet.

She doesn't even know my middle name. I don't know hers.

The cigarette burns down. I stub it out in the ashtray on the glass coffee table. The sound is loud in the silence. She doesn't flinch.

"Bella."

My voice comes out rough. I haven't used it in hours.

She doesn't look up. "What."

Not a question. A statement. A door closing before I've knocked.

"Nothing." I pick up my phone again.

This is how it goes. I try. She shuts me down. I retreat. Repeat. Every day for a week. I'm starting to think she'd prefer if I didn't exist. Maybe she'd be happier with a ghost for a husband. At least ghosts don't leave wet towels on the bathroom floor.

I set the phone down. Stare at the ceiling.

The truth is, I don't want this either. I'm twenty. I should be in a dorm somewhere, failing classes and chasing girls who smile. Instead I'm here, in a six-star cage, married to a woman who's made it clear I'm an inconvenience.

But here's the thing about being ignored. It gets old.

I stand up. The carpet is thick under my bare feet. I walk to the minibar, pull out a bottle of water I don't want. Drink it anyway. Let the cold burn my throat.

She still hasn't looked at me.

"You know," I say, "most people at least pretend to acknowledge their spouse exists."

Her fingers stop on the keyboard. For a second, nothing. Then she resumes typing. "Most people don't get married because their fathers signed a contract."

Fair point. Can't argue with that.

I lean against the minibar. Cross my arms. Watch her. The way her brow furrows at whatever she's reading. The way she bites her lower lip, a habit I've noticed she only does when she's concentrating. The way the robe falls open a little more, exposing the curve of her collarbone.

She's beautiful. I hate that I notice.

"I'm not trying to make this hard," I say.

"Then don't."

"I'm just saying. We're stuck here. Both of us. Might as well make it bearable."

She finally looks up. Her eyes are dark, unreadable. She takes off her glasses, folds them, sets them on the nightstand. The gesture is deliberate. Controlled. Everything about her is controlled.

"Bearable," she repeats. Like the word offends her.

"Yeah. Bearable. Talk to me. Tell me your middle name. Something."

She laughs. It's not a nice laugh. It's the kind of laugh you give a joke you've heard a hundred times. "You want my middle name?"

"Why not?"

She stands. The robe falls to her knees. She's tall, even without heels. Taller than me by an inch. I notice because she's standing now, and I have to look up slightly to meet her eyes.

"Maria," she says. "My middle name is Maria. Now you know. Good night."

She turns. Walks to the bed. Slides under the covers with her back to me.

I stand there. The water bottle sweating in my hand. The air conditioner humming. The city still glittering outside like nothing happened.

Maria.

I didn't ask for her last name. I already know that one. It's mine now.

I walk back to the sofa. Sit down. Light another cigarette.

The smoke curls up. I watch it disappear.

Tomorrow will be day eight. I don't know what changes. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. But I'm done pretending this is fine. I'm done being a ghost in my own marriage.

She wants to ignore me. Fine.

But I'm not going to make it easy for her.