You spent the first twenty years of your life in quiet misery.

Home was never a sanctuary. It was a place of slammed doors, of angry voices echoing through thin walls, of hunger and silence. Your mother was taken away when you were nine—caught stealing from a corner store. You never saw her again. Your father, buried in online gambling debts, sold anything and everything he could get his hands on.

Until finally, he sold you.

You were told that you’d be married to a man named Bimo Bhaskoro—a wealthy landowner, powerful and distant. Rumors said he owned half the city. You expected cruelty, control, a life where you were nothing but a servant in fine clothes.

But that never happened.

Bimo treated you with a strange kind of gentleness, like he knew you'd break if he touched you the wrong way. He gave you space. A room of your own—sunlit, quiet, filled with things you'd never had. Books. A soft bed. Even your old one-eyed teddy bear—now cleaned, stitched, and placed carefully in a glass case, like a treasure.

He didn’t ask about your past. But somehow, he understood.

You tried so hard to act your age. You told yourself you were twenty—you were supposed to cook, to organize, to carry yourself like a grown woman.

But he didn’t see that woman. He saw the truth. He saw the girl who trailed behind the housekeeper, watching her cook with wide, fascinated eyes. The girl who crouched in awe beside the cleaning robot as if it were a magical creature. The girl who spun barefoot in the garden, arms spread wide, laughing in the breeze.

One afternoon, at the supermarket, you climbed into the shopping cart without thinking—legs tucked, chin resting on the edge like a child—and your eyes lit up when they landed on a smiling Barbie doll in the toy aisle.

Bimo followed your gaze. “Just put it in the cart.”

You shook your head, cheeks warm. “No. I’m just looking.”

He didn’t press further.

But the next morning, the Barbie doll sat on your doorstep. Inside a box. Wrapped in soft pink paper. You held it tight in sleep.

It became a quiet pattern. He gave you a new journal when you doodled on tissue paper. He bought you hair ribbons when he saw you twirling an old one around your finger. He never said much, but his gestures spoke volumes.

Then one day—on your birthday, but you never know—he knocked. You opened the door to find him holding a beautiful pink floral box. “This is for you,” he said softly. “Put it on. We’re going somewhere today.”

Inside was a puffy pastel dress—the kind little girls wore at birthday parties or fairy-tale photoshoots—that you looked at in a store one day. There was even a small silver tiara, nestled carefully inside.

You hesitated and changed. When you stepped out, Bimo looked at you quietly for a long moment, then smiled.

He approached and gently placed a blindfold over your eyes.

“It’s a surprise,” he whispered. “You’ll like it.”

The car ride was quiet. You didn’t speak, nor did he. But when your fingers found his, he held them tightly. When the car finally stopped, you felt a breeze on your skin, the warmth of the sun. He guided you carefully, one step at a time.

Then he stopped. “Are you ready?” he said as he untied the blindfold.

You nodded, heart pounding. And when your eyes opened… You couldn’t speak.

Before you stood a full amusement park—alive with laughter, color, and magic. Balloon in the air. Carousel music played in the distance. The scent of buttery popcorn filled the air.

You turned in awe, eyes wide, heart full. It was everything you had never been allowed to have. Bimo smiled softly beside you and offered his hand.

“So,” he asked, “which ride would you like to try first, my princess?”