VillageThe scent of damp earth never failed to soothe Aira's heart. The twenty-two-year-old girl stood at the threshold of her weathered wooden stilt house, gazing out as the late afternoon sky over Sukamaju Village turned an ominous shade of black.
A harsh wind howled, whipping a few loose strands of her long black hair, which was hastily held back by a cheap plastic claw clip.
"Aira, did you bring the laundry in from the backyard, Nduk?" a raspy voice called out from inside, breaking the silence.
Aira offered a warm smile, turning around to face her grandmother, who sat on a bamboo daybed while knitting an old piece of fabric.
"Yes, Grandma. Everything is safe inside. Would you like me to make you some warm tea?"
"That would be lovely, Nduk. It's freezing this afternoon. It looks like a bad storm is brewing," her grandmother replied, gently rubbing her knees, which always grew stiff and painful whenever the weather dropped.
Aira walked into their cramped kitchen. Her life was simple or to be perfectly honest, lived on the edge of poverty. Ever since her parents perished in an accident during her teenage years, she had lived alone with her grandmother.
To make ends meet, she took on whatever odd jobs she could find helping out in neighbors' rice fields, picking leaves at the uphill tea plantation, or taking in basic sewing work.
Yet, Aira never complained. To her, seeing her grandmother healthy was the ultimate luxury.
As Aira was brewing her grandmother's favorite teh nasgithel a local blend served hot, sweet, and thick a sudden, thunderous crack of lightning split the sky.
CRACK!
The deafening boom was instantly followed by a torrential downpour that completely blinded the view outside.
The wind slammed violently against the wooden planks, causing the old house to creak softly. Aira hurried back to the front room, holding two tin mugs filled with steaming tea.
"The rain is incredibly heavy, Grandma," Aira said, politely handing over the mug.
However, before her grandmother could even take a sip, a loud crashing sound echoed from the path down the hill, not far from their home.
The noise was instantly followed by the harsh screech of tires tearing against wet asphalt and muddy ground, ending with a dull thud muffled by the roaring rain.
Aira and her grandmother exchanged worried glances.
"What was that noise, Aira? It sounded like a car crash," her grandmother asked anxiously.
"I'll go out and check, Grandma. You stay right here," Aira said, her sense of humanity instantly overriding her fear of the storm.
Aira grabbed a faded fabric umbrella, slipped into her rubber flip-flops, and ran out into the thick sheet of rain.
The village road was completely deserted that afternoon; no one in their right mind would dare step outside in such treacherous weather.
When she reached a sharp, descending bend in the road, Aira's eyes widened in shock.
A luxurious black car a sleek sports sedan the likes of which she had never seen in her entire life was tilted dangerously in the roadside ditch.
Its front bumper had smashed hard into a massive mango tree, and a thin wisp of smoke was rising from the crumpled hood, only to be instantly snuffed out by the torrential rain.
"Oh my God!" Aira sprinted toward the wreckage.
WoodsStruggling with all her might to keep her umbrella from being ripped away by the howling wind, Aira peered through the darkly tinted car window.
Slumped over the steering wheel in the driver's seat was a man. His head hung limply, and a streak of fresh, crimson blood trailed down his temple, standing out in stark contrast against his deathly pale face.
Panic surged through Aira.
She reached for the door handle and pulled. Fortunately, the driver's side door hadn't locked completely. Using every ounce of her strength, she yanked the heavy door open.
"Sir? Sir, can you hear me?" Aira screamed over the roaring storm.
The man didn't answer. A low, barely audible groan escaped his tightly pressed lips. Even in the dim, stormy light and smeared with blood, Aira could tell this man was someone of immense importance. He possessed a sharp, aristocratic jawline, a perfectly sculpted nose, and the clothes he wore though now rumpled and damp looked incredibly expensive.
The man was Tristan Salvatore. Tristan was the CEO of the Salvatore Group, one of the most powerful and influential young tycoons in the capital.
Renowned for his cold demeanor, ruthless business tactics, and untouchable aura, he was a man feared by many.
That afternoon, he had taken a mountain detour to bypass a massive traffic gridlock caused by a landslide on the main highway after attending a business meeting in a neighboring city.
Unluckily for him, the storm had obliterated visibility, the winding roads were slick as ice, and his brakes had failed at the worst possible moment, causing him to lose total control.
Tristan slowly forced his heavy eyelids open. His vision was blurry, fractured, and his head felt as though it had been struck by a sledgehammer.
The very first thing his hazy eyes locked onto was a pair of large, crystal-clear eyes brimming with sheer, unadulterated worry.
"Sir, you need to get out of here. The car could be dangerous, and it's freezing. My house is just nearby," the girl urged.
Tristan wanted to refuse. His innate cynicism and deep-seated distrust of strangers flared instantly.
Who is this village girl? Does she know who I am? Is she trying to take advantage of this situation? Tristan thought bitterly within his fading consciousness.
However, the agonizing pain throbbing through his skull quickly eroded his logic, his body flatly refused to cooperate.
Aira paid no mind to the sharp yet glazed look the man gave her. She tossed her umbrella onto the muddy ground allowing herself to be completely drenched in the process and draped the man's large, muscular frame over her shoulders.
"Ugh..." Tristan groaned as he was pulled from the wreckage.
His sheer weight nearly sent Aira sprawling into the mud, but the village girl possessed a hidden strength forged from years of hard, manual labor.
Wrapping her arm firmly around the stranger's waist while letting the CEO's heavy arm rest across her shoulders, Aira walked step by painstaking step up the hill, braving the fury of the storm.
Half-conscious, Tristan caught a whiff of the girl's scent. It wasn't the expensive French perfume typical of the women who usually flocked around him.
Instead, it was the raw freshness of rainwater and the crisp scent of a cheap bar soap yet, somehow, it felt incredibly grounding.
After what felt like hours, they finally reached the porch of the stilt house. Seeing her granddaughter dragging home a wounded, massive stranger, the grandmother gasped in horror.
"Astagfirullah, Aira! Who is this?"
"I don't know, Grandma. He crashed down the hill. Please fetch some clean cloth and warm water. His head is bleeding badly," Aira panted heavily, her breath entirely spent.
Aira guided Tristan into her tiny bedroom the only room with a somewhat decent bed, even if it was just a thin cotton mattress covered in a faded floral bedsheet.
With utmost care, she laid Tristan's towering frame down. The small mattress instantly felt dwarfed by the CEO's commanding presence.
Tristan offered no resistance as his body sank into the hard, cotton-scented mattress. The room was minuscule, perhaps no larger than the master bathroom in his luxury penthouse back in Jakarta.
The walls were mere wooden planks, and the only source of light was a dim, five-watt yellow bulb flickering overhead.
Aira quickly took charge as her grandmother hurried back with a basin of warm water and a few strips of clean cloth.
"Sir, forgive me. I need to clean your wound," Aira whispered softly.
Tristan didn't reply his eyes remained clamped shut as he fought off a wave of violent vertigo.
With practiced care, Aira wrung out the warm cloth and began gently dabbing away the dried blood from Tristan's temple and forehead.
Her movements were incredibly tender, as if she were terrified of causing him any further pain.
As the soothing, warm cloth patted his skin, Tristan cracked his eyes open slightly. He studied Aira's face from mere inches away. Her face was completely bare, devoid of a single drop of makeup.
Her skin carried a rich, golden-brown sun-kissed tone typical of village girls, yet it was flawlessly clear. Her damp hair clung to her cheeks.
There was an ocean of pure sincerity in her eyes that caused Tristan's usually iron-clad emotional walls to fracture just a little.
Once the head wound was thoroughly cleaned and wrapped with a makeshift bandage, Aira noticed another issue. Tristan's designer shirt was completely soaked through.
If left unchanged, he would easily plunge into hypothermia.
"Grandma, the gentleman's clothes are completely wet. Can we borrow late Father's clothes from the closet?" Aira asked in a hushed whisper to her grandmother standing by the doorway.
"Ah, yes. Hold on, let me fetch a clean t-shirt and a good sarong," her grandmother said before shuffling to the next room.
Aira turned back to look at Tristan, who was shivering slightly.
"Sir... your clothes are wet. You need to change. Can you manage it yourself? Or..." Aira bit her lower lip, suddenly feeling incredibly awkward and flushed.
Tristan summoned the absolute last of his strength. He attempted to push himself up, but the room spun violently.
"I..." his voice cut through the quiet room—deep, gravelly, and laced with the natural authority he wielded in boardrooms, though now entirely fragile.
"Help me... get this shirt off."
Aira's face instantly burned a bright crimson, Though she was a naive village girl, she was still a grown woman.
But seeing Tristan's utterly helpless state, she forcefully pushed her embarrassment aside.
With slightly trembling hands, her slender fingers began to unbutton Tristan's black shirt, one by one.
Each undone button exposed a broad, powerful chest and a flat abdomen with perfectly sculpted six-pack abs, chiseled from a rigorous lifestyle.
Aira held her breath, keeping her eyes glued strictly to her own fingers, not daring to look anywhere else out of sheer modesty.
Meanwhile, Tristan kept his gaze locked onto her.
He could see exactly how flustered she was from the tremor in her hands and the shallow, hurried pace of her breathin.
A faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of Tristan's lips. An intriguing girl, he thought vaguely before the overwhelming exhaustion and the trauma of the concussion finally dragged him down into absolute darkness.
Tristan blacked out completely the exact moment his shirt slipped off his shoulders.
Aira let out a heavy sigh of relief mixed with worry as she watched the man's eyes close fully, his breathing steadying into a deep sleep.
Moments later, her grandmother returned carrying a loose white cotton t-shirt and a checkered cotton sarong.
With the frail assistance of her grandmother, Aira managed to dress him in the oversized t-shirt and draped the traditional village sarong over his lower body.
The sight was deeply contrasting and almost comical a high-society city tycoon accustomed to multi-million rupiah bespoke suits, now lying completely helpless in a remote stilt house, dressed in a thin, worn-out t-shirt and a traditional checkered sarong.
Aira stood by the bedside, wiping the sweat from her own brow. She looked down at Tristan's sleeping face, which now appeared much more peaceful, devoid of the icy coldness he had exuded when he first opened his eyes.
"Who exactly are you, sir?" Aira murmured softly, her voice completely swallowed by the fading rhythm of the rain outside.
Aira had no way of knowing that her split-second decision to save a bleeding stranger in the heart of a storm would completely derail the quiet, simple trajectory of her life dragging her headfirst into a world of unfathomable luxury, cutthroat intrigue, and the burning passion of the CEO.