My voice screeched high enough to reach the office ceiling, making coworkers from across the cubicles turn their heads.  

I quickly lowered my volume. "You mean ... actual Europe? Not some new product name or something?"  

Bu Widya narrowed her eyes. Her fingers—always impeccably manicured with French tips—tapped impatiently on the files scattered across her desk.  

"Yes, the Europe on the map, Adela!" she exclaimed, raising an eyebrow. "We're attending a series of industrial exhibitions next month. It's been scheduled since last quarter—I just forgot to send the memo."  

I nearly choked on my own spit. The calculator in my brain lit up instantly.  

"B-but, Ma’am ... that’s in just three weeks?!"  

Bu Widya adjusted her glasses. Her mint-green blouse caught the light, casting a soft glow on the bridge of her nose and cheekbones—like some HR fairy who had just casually dropped a time bomb with a sweet smile.  

"Which is why you need to apply for a Schengen visa ASAP," she said breezily, sliding over a messy, handwritten itinerary. "You do have a passport, right?"  

I nodded slowly, eyes still glued to her notes, which were denser than my rejected Misswa draft.  

Byggeri in Fredericia, Denmark. Bauma in Munich and Hannover Messe in Hannover, Germany. INTERMAT in Paris.  

And possibly Big 5 in Qatar.  

Oh, just the biggest industrial trade shows in the world.  

"Yeah, roughly six months," she added, swiping through her tablet to display photos of massive, glamorous exhibition halls. As if this were just a quick mall trip.  

And me—who just yesterday called a forklift a "frokfit"—was supposed to be the sales rep there?  

"The plan is, if I return early, you’ll take over for me in Germany until the team arrives."  

"W-who else is going, Ma’am?"  

My voice nearly cracked as I pictured myself awkwardly standing in front of a lavish booth, surrounded by foreign engineers suddenly firing off technical jargon.  

God, I’d rather be writing!  

Bu Widya smiled—a smile that made my hair stand on end. "Just the two of us for now."  

Just the two of us?! Me and Bu Widya? And when she leaves, I’m alone?!  

Again, the image of myself flashed—lost in Frankfurt Airport, dragging a 23-kilo suitcase. *ALONE!*  

"Ma’am ... I’ve never been to Europe!"  

"There’s a first time for everything," she replied, standing up—a clear sign this mini-meeting was over. "Well, six months in Europe isn’t too bad."  

I could only gape.  

Is this really happening ... or am I being corporate gaslighted?!  

Oh, my God!  

That’s until the end of the year!  

My writing contract??  

Which means ...  

Deadline for Boss’s Forbidden Desire revisions? Forget it!  

Promo for my new novel? Postponed!  

If I don’t wrap this up soon, I could face serious backlash—  

or worse: contract termination!  

Stress level: over 9000!  

And what if ... I end up sobbing in some European hotel corner, getting slapped with tens of millions in fines for breaching my writing contract?!  

"M-Ma’am ... Sorry ... can I think about it first?"  

The words came out strangled—like the office printer jamming mid-job.  

Bu Widya merely raised an eyebrow before snapping her folder shut with a sharp 'tak!'

A sound that, for some reason, felt like a verdict.  

I knew my answer wouldn’t change anything. But my brain needed a delay.  

A pause.  

A ... fast Wi-Fi connection and chamomile tea to soothe my frayed nerves before my heart gave out from this marathon-level panic.  

What just happened?  

That I, Adela Hartono—a failed teenlit writer now gasping to write erotica for a contract—was being shipped off to Europe... for heavy machinery exhibitions? And my writing contract?  

"You’re my secretary, Del. Your job is to go where I go."  

Bu Widya smiled. Smiled! 

As if this were just a field trip—not a potential international-scale burnout.  

***

Misswa’s voice crackled over the phone. Probably as shocked as I was—by the fact that I was being dispatched to Europe like some last-minute export package.  

"Now I’ve got just three weeks before I leave," I muttered, staring at my chaotic manuscript on the laptop screen.  

The last scene I wrote: Nathaniel picking out a dress for Cristy.  

And even that got criticized. Apparently, the description was too plain—the sexy dress should’ve made thighs and lips *tremble*.  

Ugh, I can’t even tell the difference between a sexy silk slit dress and my aunt’s satin nightgown.  

"Of course I’m worried! What if I can’t finish the book this year?"  

I straightened up. Of course my editor wouldn’t care. She’s not the one paying the fine!  

"You’d love it if I left Fellix Publishing, huh?"  

"Yes, you are!"  

Silence.  

Misswa turned icy on the other end. Cold as an empty spreadsheet.  

I leaned back against the wall, slowly hugging my knees.  

At the foot of my bed, a stack of erotic novels looked like a collection of bound sins.  

The curtains swayed gently—pushed by an evening breeze too calm for a heart this chaotic.  

"It’s not that easy!"  

I ruffled my already-frizzy curls—now even messier.  

"I don’t even know what to write! My brain’s ... empty!"  

"No! I don’t have time for that, I’m swamped at work!"  

"Online dating?"  

"Nope. I’m ... too scared."  

I froze.  

That man’s face—the one who casually accused me of 'mastubate'—popped into my head like an unskippable ad.  

"No! I refuse!"  

My voice shot up automatically.  

Misswa paused on the other end.  

I took a deep breath. Held it. Then exhaled slowly, like blowing out a dying candle.  

"I’ll finish it this week ..."  

I need to apply for a visa.  

And there’s no guarantee it’ll be approved.  

If it’s rejected?  

I could get fired!  

And if I fail to meet my writing contract ... welcome to my half-baked life!  

"I’m freaking out, Misswa!!!"  

My scream bounced off the screen. I don’t know why, but tears suddenly spilled. Maybe from stress, maybe ... because life just feels so absurd right now!  

"Please!!!" My voice broke. "Let me just write teenlit again! The clean kind! The kind that doesn’t make me feel like an idiot every time I type something erotic!"  

Silence.  

On the other end, Misswa sighed.  

There was a pause—long enough for me to realize how dramatic I’d just been.  

Her tone was flat. Straightforward. But there was something underneath—the exhale of a patient teacher who’d already given up.  

I was still sniffling.  

My voice shattered. The tremor traveled all the way to the other end.  

That simple sentence felt like an admission I’d held back too long—the final stone that made everything collapse.  

Something inside me broke.  

Maybe my pride.  

Maybe the last shred of willpower I’d been using to pretend I was strong.  

"DON’T FINISH THAT SENTENCE!"  

I burst into tears again.  

"Damn it!"  

Misswa actually giggled on the other end.  

Good Lord—  

She’s not an editor. She’s an editorial devil. A terminator specializing in devouring writers’ souls!  

Her tone was playful, but in my mind, her eyes were probably gleaming like a vampire spotting fresh blood from a struggling author.  

"Huh? Giving up already?"  

"Pfft! Screw this! I don’t wanna write anymore!"  

"Hey, Del," her voice suddenly softened, "you still have Nathaniel’s character profile, right? The one with the moodboard?"  

I grumbled. "Yeah! Why?"  

"Imagine Nathaniel watching you quit. That disappointed CEO glare ... Tragic!"  

"You devil editor!" I snapped, but my fingers were already typing—opening Nathaniel’s folder.  

"Discuss what? Everything’s already written, isn’t it?"  

"Yup, Nathaniel. 35 years old. 65KG. 180 cm. A presence that makes people go—*boom*: men turn cautious, women turn poetic the moment he enters a room."  

And like a leaky faucet, the image flooded my mind.  

Dark brown eyes—like dark chocolate: warm in the morning, sharp in meetings.  

Neat black hair, slightly wavy, swept to the side Milan-style; sometimes slicked back for formal events.  

His style? Tailored neutral suits, long trench coats, or turtlenecks paired with dress pants.  

Expensive but minimalist watch. Patek Philippe? Rolex?  

An elegant workaholic: always carries physical documents because they’re 'more trustworthy,' but secretly tech-savvy.  

Rare smiles, but genuine—when he laughs, faint crinkles form at the corners of his eyes.  

Hobbies? Classical piano. Skiing in the Alps. Collecting rare wines.  

I propped my chin up. This type? Standard romance novel material, I scoffed internally.  

"So what?"  

"Maybe 0.1% of men like this exist in this country," Misswa sighed, "But Europe? They breed them there. Imagine—real-life Nathaniel: woody cologne, espresso in hand, reading 'Le Monde' ..."  

"And?"  

I exhaled loudly.  

"Misswa ... this isn’t some Netflix drama. I’m working—hauling spare parts lists, not libido!"  

Misswa laughed, her voice crisp through the speaker.  

I squinted.  

"No choice, right?" she whispered slyly. "So pick: moan over an 85-million penalty, or ... open your protagonist eyes!"  

"... or get fired as a secretary!"  

"Not my problem, hon," she chirped. "Alright, I’m going to sleep. Bye!"  

Click. 

The call ended.  

My laptop screen stayed lit.  

Nathaniel’s profile still open.  

I tapped my sandal against the floor.  

"... Damn it!"

***