The Jakarta Grand Pavilion glittered like a gilded cage, its vaulted ceilings dripping with crystal chandeliers that scattered light across marble floors. Diplomats in tailored suits and jeweled gowns floated through the ballroom, their laughter syrupy with champagne and deceit. Lia adjusted the silk shawl draped over her shoulders, its emerald hue a calculated choice—green for diplomacy, for growth, for the forests her negotiations sought to protect. But tonight, it felt like a shroud.
Clarissa’s face haunted her. The journalist’s final broadcast played on loop in Lia’s mind—the gunshot, the blood, the truth cut short. Now, surrounded by ministers who’d toasted Clarissa’s death as “unfortunate collateral,” Lia’s smile ached with the effort of pretense. She accepted a canapé from a passing waiter, her fingers brushing his glove. Too stiff. Military posture. The staff here weren’t just servers; they were spies.