Just tissues handed over like I'd spilled my own coffee. "Thank you," I said, and there was an edge in my voice. I didn't quite manage to hide even though I tried. Very generous. Adrian either didn't catch it or chose not to.
He was already glancing back over his shoulder toward the front of the room where I could see a cluster of well-dressed men standing near the stage, watching the room, clearly waiting on something. Listen, Pa. I've got a bit going on tonight. But he stopped himself, seemed to reconsider something, then looked back at me with an expression I couldn't quite place. Not casual.
Something more deliberate underneath it. Actually, he said, "Can you come with me for a second? There's something I need to talk to you about now." I glanced down at my ruined shirt, then back at him. "Adrian, I'm sitting here covered in soup. Can this wait?"
It'll just take a minute. His hand landed on my shoulder, guiding more than asking, already steering me up from my chair. Pa, please. It's important. There was something in the way he said it.
Too serious for small talk, too urgent for a casual father-son chat in the middle of a party. This wasn't him checking in on how I was holding up. I let him lead me away from the table, past a few curious glances from nearby guests, toward a quieter corner near the edge of the ballroom, away from the music and the noise. "Adrian, what's going on?" He didn't answer right away.
He just kept walking, glancing back once toward the front of the room, toward Cisca, who was already watching us from a distance with her phone still in hand. We stopped near a pillar at the edge of the ballroom, far enough from the tables that the music dropped to a low hum behind us. Adrian glanced around once more before he spoke, like he was checking who might be listening. Pa, look. I know tonight's been a lot.
The seating, the soup thing, all of it. I feel bad. It's fine, Adrian. Really? Let me finish.
He pulled out his wallet and before I understood what he was doing, he'd taken out a few folded bills and was holding them out to me. I think it'd be easier if you headed home now. Get out of that shirt. Get some rest. I already checked.
You can get a taxi right out front. It's fast this time of night. I looked at the money in his hand, then at his face, waiting for the joke. For some sign, he didn't mean it the way it sounded. He didn't take it back.
Adrian, it's not even 8:30. The dinner hasn't even started. I know. I know. It's just he glanced over his shoulder again toward that cluster of men near the stage.
I've got a meeting after this. Investors, some people flying in just for tonight. It's not something I can push back and I need to be sharp for it. Not worrying about, you know, making sure you're comfortable the whole night. I wasn't asking you to worry about me.
That's not what I meant. He rubbed the back of his neck, a habit he's had since he was a boy, the same gesture he used to make when he'd broken something and was trying to figure out how to explain it before I noticed. I just think it'd be simpler. You'd be more comfortable at home anyway. This crowd, it's not really your scene.
Not really your scene. I let that sit in the air a second. This hotel ballroom he'd built for a wife who came from a different world than the one I'd raised him in. I came for you, I said quietly. 25 years is a big thing, Adrian. I wanted to see it.
And I'm glad you came, Pa. I am. He said it fast. The way you say things you need to say to close a conversation, not because you mean them slowly and fully. He pushed the bills a little closer to me.
Just take this for the ride. All right. I don't want you waiting around, standing near the door with people staring. There it was again. People staring like my presence itself was the problem to manage.
Not the shirt, not the seating, not any of it. Just me existing in a room built for people who weren't me. I could have argued. Some part of me wanted to wanted to ask him straight out why his own father had been placed at table 22. Why a member of the catering staff didn't know my name, why the soup and the plastic container.
And now this all felt like pieces of the same picture I didn't want to look at directly. Instead, I reached out, gently pushed his hand back toward him, bills and all. Keep your money, Adrian. I'll get home on my own like I got here. Pa.
Come on. Don't make this difficult. I'm not making anything difficult. I'm telling you I'll leave when I'm ready to leave. I kept my voice level, calm, the same tone I used to use on job sites when a foreman tried to cut corners and I needed him to hear me without a fight breaking out.
Go take care of your meeting. I'll find you before I head out. He looked at me for a second, something flickering behind his eyes that I couldn't quite read. Guilt maybe, or frustration, or something more complicated than either. Then he folded the bills back into his pocket without another word and gave a short nod.
"Okay, sure. I'll I'll come find you later." man. He turned and walked back toward the stage, toward the men waiting for him, his posture straightening the closer he got, like he was putting something back on before he reached them. I stood there by the pillar a moment longer, letting the sting of it settle, when something across the room caught my eye. Cisca still near that same side table she'd been directing staff around earlier, but she wasn't looking at flowers or place settings now.
She was looking straight at me and Adrian's corner, phone raised slightly in front of her, thumbs moving fast across the screen, texting or typing notes. I couldn't tell which from that distance, but her eyes weren't on the screen. They were on me. I made my way back to table 22, not because I wanted to sit alone with a soup-stained shirt, but because I wasn't about to let Adrian's suggestion win. If he thought I'd quietly slip out the back and grab a motorbike taxi like some inconvenience being managed, he had another thing coming.
The Semarang relative and the supplier were still there, deep in conversation about property prices. Now and I settled back into my seat, folding my hands on the table like I had every right to be sitting exactly where I was, which I did. But sitting still gave me something I hadn't had all night, a chance to actually watch the room instead of just moving through it. And once I started watching, I noticed things I hadn't before. There were a handful of men scattered around the ballroom who didn't quite fit. Not staff, not guests exactly either.
They wore dark suits similar enough to each other that it looked almost like a uniform, though nothing marked them as hotel employees. They weren't dancing, weren't eating, weren't really mingling. Mostly they stood near the edges of the room, occasionally speaking into their collars or glancing at their phones, the way people do when they're waiting for something rather than enjoying a party. I counted four of them without even trying. One near the main entrance, one by the side exit close to my table, two more drifting somewhere near the stage, close to where Adrian had gone earlier.
Security maybe. Big event like this, high-profile guests. It wasn't unreasonable. Companies hire security for things like this all the time. Still, something about the way they moved, purposeful, watchful, not the relaxed scanning of a board security guard, but something closer to anticipation made the back of my neck prickle a little. I told myself I was overthinking it.
A soup spill, a plastic container, a son asking me to leave early. None of that added up to anything sinister. Just a family that had grown careless with an old man who used to matter more in the room than he did now. That's a common enough story. Doesn't need conspiracy theories attached to it.
I picked up my food, mostly cold now, and tried to enjoy what was left of the evening from a distance. The band had shifted into something slower, a few couples moving onto the dance floor. It should have been a nice thing to watch. Excuse me, sir. I looked up to find one of the suited men standing at my table.
Close enough now that I could see he wasn't hotel staff. No name tag, no hotel logo on his jacket, nothing but a plain dark suit and an expression that gave away nothing. Yes, your Pak Bambang Sastro, Adrian's father. Something in how he said it, flat, procedural, like he was confirming an item on a checklist rather than making conversation put me immediately on guard. That's right.
Can I help you? He glanced down at a folder tucked under his arm, then back at me. I just wanted to confirm a detail before the evening moves forward. The property on Jalan Diponegoro that's still registered under your name, correct? The house.
I set my fork down slowly. Of all the questions a stranger could ask me at my son's anniversary dinner, that wasn't one I expected. Not the weather, not how I knew the family, not even something generic about the party, the house, my house, the one Ramy and I built our whole life inside of. "Why would you need to know that?" I asked, keeping my voice even, though something cold had started moving through my chest. The man gave a small practiced smile.
The kind that's meant to put people at ease, but never quite does. My apologies. I should have introduced myself properly. I'm Ferman. I work with Notary Handoko's office.
We've been retained to handle some documentation for the family this evening. He opened the folder slightly, just enough for me to see the edge of official looking papers inside stamps and letterhead. I couldn't fully read from where I sat. Everything's prepared according to the agreement. We just need your signature to finalize it before the notary himself arrives to witness.
What agreement? He blinked, the smile faltering just slightly, like I'd given the wrong answer to a question he thought was rhetorical. The transfer documentation for the Diponegoro property. He said it slower this time, like maybe I hadn't understood him the first time. Adrian's office coordinated the paperwork with us last month.
I was told everything had been discussed with you already. Discussed with me? I repeated the words carefully, feeling the ground shift a little under that plastic container of food, under the soup stain still cooling on my shirt, under everything about this night that had felt slightly off since I walked through those doors. Mr. Ferman, I've never spoken to you, Notary Handoko, or anyone from your office in my life. Nobody has discussed anything with me about transferring my house.