My Sweet Indonesian Girl

"Cross out Kinsley's name. Give the Barnett fellowship to Blair."

The deep voice was smooth, flat, and unwavering. It cut through the quiet second-floor hallway of the Manhattan penthouse.

Kinsley Carney stood frozen outside the mahogany double doors. In her right hand, she gripped a carefully wrapped velvet box containing a vintage tie clip she had spent half a year tracking down for his birthday. In her left, her knuckles turned white around the thick parchment envelope from the Eric Barnett Studio, the gold-foil seal biting painfully into her palm.

Inside the study, paper rustled. Armani Sims, her husband's executive assistant, cleared his throat with obvious hesitation.

"But Mr. Decker," Armani said carefully. "Mrs. Decker earned first place in the blind evaluation. She prepared for three months, staying up consecutive nights until she was hospitalized for a bleeding ulcer. If we strip her of her own achievement now..."

"Her achievement?" Christian Decker interrupted. His tone dripped with aristocratic disdain. "She's a married woman. What is she going to do? Run off to Hollywood and make a fool of herself on a film set? She belongs at home. She can't even manage a dinner party without complaining of exhaustion, let alone direct a film. Blair, on the other hand, actually has a future in this industry. She needs this pedigree."

The words felt like physical blows. Kinsley's breath hitched, her chest tearing with a suffocating agony.

She hadn't just "prepared." She had bled herself dry for this evaluation. For three years, she had been the secret ghost-director behind his media empire's most profitable projects, sacrificing her own name and spotlight to quietly build his throne. She had almost killed herself for this open evaluation, desperate to finally step into the light and hoping—just once—to win her husband's respect.

But to Christian, her agonizing labor wasn't just worthless; it was an embarrassment. He didn't just refuse to support her career—he was casually robbing her of her hard-earned fruits, handing her life's work to Blair as if it were a cheap trinket. In his arrogant eyes, she was nothing but an incompetent, useless housewife who couldn't do anything right.

"Christian, please don't be so harsh on Kinsley," Blair Johnson's soft, fragile voice drifted through the door. "She tried so hard. Even if the evaluators only passed her because they knew she was your wife... if she finds out you gave her spot to me, she'll hate me."

Blair was the Decker family's adopted ward. Kinsley had always treated her with genuine warmth, yet Blair's innocent reliance had morphed into something subtly provocative, a secret intimacy that Christian indulged with exclusive favoritism.

"Let her be mad," Christian replied with that terrifyingly gentle patience he reserved only for Blair. "Giving a masterclass slot to a housewife who has zero talent is just throwing resources into the garbage. Our marriage was a three-year business arrangement to save her family's bankrupt company. I pay for her luxurious life; her only job is to stay out of the public eye and not embarrass the Decker name. If she throws a tantrum, I'll just buy her another limited-edition Birkin. She'll quiet down."

Kinsley did not turn away. She did not cry. The burning hope in her chest simply turned to ash.

She placed her palm against the heavy mahogany door and pushed it open.

The door hit the wall with a dull thud.

The three people inside stopped instantly.

Blair was perched on the armrest of Christian's leather chair. Seeing Kinsley, Blair immediately shrank behind Christian's broad shoulders, her hands twisting the hem of her cashmere cardigan. But Kinsley caught it—the fleeting, triumphant smirk dancing in Blair's teary eyes, a silent, mocking declaration of victory.

Christian sat behind the massive walnut desk. His icy blue eyes lifted, scanning Kinsley's pale face. There was not a trace of guilt on his face, only a flick of annoyance.

"You don't knock anymore?" Christian demanded, his voice sharp and condescending.

Kinsley walked across the room, her leather heels clicking against the polished oak floor. She tossed the thick envelope and the velvet birthday box onto the desk. They slid across the surface and stopped right against his platinum cufflinks.

"Since you heard, Armani doesn't need to brief you," Christian said, loosening his silk tie with a slow tug.

Blair peeked out from behind his shoulder, stepping slightly closer to Christian so their arms brushed.

"Kinsley, I'm so sorry!" Blair's voice shook with practiced innocence. "I just mentioned to Christian that I really wanted to study under Eric Barnett, and he... he just insisted. Please don't be mad at him. If you want, I can let you be my assistant when I go to LA?"

The sheer audacity of the provocation hung heavily in the air.

Kinsley looked at her. Her gaze was as flat and cold as a sheet of winter ice.

"Save the performance, Blair. There are no cameras in this room."

Blair flinched and grabbed Christian's sleeve, burying her face in his arm. "Christian, she's glaring at me..."

Christian stood up. At six-foot-two, he towered over the desk, casting a broad shadow that swallowed the warm lamp light. He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out an all-black titanium credit card, and tossed it toward her. It landed on the carpet directly at Kinsley's feet.

"That is enough, Kinsley," Christian snapped. His tone was laced with disgust. "The slot goes to Blair. You have no business playing pretend career-woman anyway. You'd fail in a week and drag my company's reputation down with you. Pick up the card. Go to Fifth Avenue tomorrow and buy whatever shiny things you want. Be a good Mrs. Decker and stop embarrassing yourself."

Kinsley stared at the black card on the floor. It was the ultimate insult—a bone thrown to a beggar whose lifeblood had just been drained.

A bitter, beautiful smile touched the corner of her lips, clean and devoid of warmth. She knew she didn't have the leverage to fight him openly yet. But she didn't need to. It simply wasn't the right time.

She took a step back, putting clear space between them.

"No need," she said, her voice even. "If she wants my spot, I hope she can actually survive it."

Christian froze. A flicker of startled irritation crossed his face as if he was unequipped for her silence.

His thumb moved to his left hand, tracing the platinum band on his ring finger.

"Watch your tone," he warned, his jaw tightening. "Don't mistake my patience for an excuse to throw tantrums."

Kinsley didn't blink. She turned around and walked out of the study, her back straight and her steps measured.

She crossed the corridor and entered the master bedroom, shutting the door behind her with a soft click. Leaning against the dark wood paneling, she let out a long, slow breath. The tiny thread of hope that had tied her to this house snapped cleanly in the dark.

Walking over to the king-sized bed, she picked up her private phone and dialed Julian Foster.

Julian, one of the most powerful producers in independent cinema, answered on the second ring.

"Kinsley? Did Barnett's office send the confirmation?"

"Forget the fellowship, Julian," Kinsley said, her voice dropping into the cold, surgical cadence of a director in pre-production. "Activate the backup plan. I'm taking the director's chair on Crossing River directly."

Julian drew a sharp breath over the line.

"Are you sure? Taking total creative control means putting yourself right in front of the firing line."

"I've stayed in the shadows long enough," she said. "Draft the contracts tonight. It's time to take back what belongs to me."

She hung up, tossed the phone onto the velvet duvet, and turned toward the bathroom vanity to remove her earrings.

Before her fingers touched the diamond studs, the bedroom door flew open.

Christian stepped across the threshold, his eyes burning with controlled fury.