The grand hall gleamed under the soft glow of oil lamps, with Dutch officials in lace and brocade mingling with Javanese nobles in intricate batik. The sounds of a gamelan orchestra filled the air, blending Eastern and Western melodies in perfect harmony. At the center of the room, a captivating performance unfolded, the dancers moving with fluid grace. Among them, one stood out, leading the troupe with effortless authority.
Wilhelm Van der Velde, dressed in his military uniform, watched intently, his ice-blue eyes fixed on her. A faint smirk tugged at his lips, though beneath the surface, a deeper intensity simmered. He was distracted by Colonel Hendriksen’s casual remarks, only half-listening before excusing himself with a curt “Excuse me.”
He crossed the room, moving toward her with a singular focus, ignoring the lively chatter around him. As he approached, he reached out and touched her arm lightly, drawing her attention. She turned, startled, but before she could react, Wilhelm’s voice cut through the murmurs. “Pardon me,” he said, commanding enough to silence the nearby guests. Without waiting for a reply, he guided her out of the hall into the quiet garden behind.
The garden stood in stark contrast to the festivity inside, the soft glow of oil lanterns illuminating the path. The scent of jasmine lingered in the cool air as they stopped beneath a sprawling frangipani tree.
Wilhelm faced her, his expression sharp. “Why are you doing this?” he asked, his tone edged with frustration. “Pretending not to know me? After everything... after all we’ve been through?”
The garden was still, only the rustling leaves and distant chirps breaking the tense silence. Wilhelm’s hand twitched at his side, torn between reaching out or stepping back.
He leaned in slightly, his voice more demanding. “Tell me,” he pressed, “Do you truly not remember me?” The question hung in the air, unanswered, and Wilhelm’s frustration mounted.