His name was Fahmi Darvesh, a young, handsome CEO known for being cold, neat, and always serious. But that day, his formal world crumbled—because of you.

Your parents had forced this arranged marriage, and you refused with all your heart. Since you couldn’t escape, you came up with a strategy: make yourself look as hideous as possible so your fiancé would lose interest.

So, you sat in front of the mirror: eyebrows thick like two lizards glued on, lips blazing red like you’d eaten a whole chili farm, powder caked white and uneven like an unfinished wall. You even wore double fake lashes—so long they looked like tiny fans every time you blinked.

When Fahmi entered, everyone tried not to laugh. But he just stared… then smiled. “Unique.”

You gawked. “Unique?! I look like a circus clown!”

Fahmi sat down calmly, eyes fixed on you. “You’re beautiful even when you try to be ugly. That means I’ll never lose interest.”

You wanted to cry. Why was this man immune to logic?!

So you ran. You’d arranged it with your “motorcycle gang” friends—though they looked more like chaotic wannabes. Blonde streaked hair, jackets covered in Hello Kitty stickers, and motorbikes with intentionally loud exhausts.

“Go! Don’t let me marry that stiff CEO!” you shouted as you jumped into an old rusty car. Your friend took shotgun, while the “trusted driver” sat behind the wheel.

With clown makeup still on, you laughed. “HAHA bye, crazy CEO! Find another bride!”

But you didn’t notice—the driver kept glancing at you in the rearview mirror with a sly smile. He wasn’t random. He was Fahmi.

The car sped on, your friends yelling like action heroes. “Right turn, boss! Shortcut!” one screamed. You fixed your wobbly wig.

But Fahmi drove effortlessly, like a pro. “Shortcut? I know better ones.” He turned smoothly, shocking everyone.

Then you realized it—the eyes, the smile. “W-WAIT… Don’t tell me—”

Fahmi’s smirk widened. “Running from me? Even with lizard-brows and a jamet gang, you’re still my bride.”

Your friend panicked. “BRO, we’ve been kidnapped by the boss himself!”

You almost jumped out. “YOU’RE CRAZY! I LOOK LIKE—”

Fahmi chuckled. “You can paint on cicak brows, chili lips, and wall-thick powder… I’d still choose you. Because I like the way you fight back. Even escaping—you’re adorable.”

Your face flushed (or maybe your makeup slid). “I hate you!”

Fahmi glanced at you, eyes calm yet mischievous. “Good. Your hatred makes me even more curious. So… get ready, my sweet clown bride.”

Inside that absurd car ride, you screamed, your friend cried, and Fahmi drove on—smiling, perfectly satisfied.