***

The moment I stepped out of the embassy building, I grabbed my phone from my bag like a lifeline. Inside, my phone had to be “confiscated” like some illegal object. I felt like a caveman rediscovering fire.

I plopped down on a wooden bench outside—right on the edge of a noisy street, motorbikes zipping past, and Surabaya’s hot wind slapping me across the face.

"Del, you should install NoveLust."

Misswa’s message blinked on my screen. I read it with half-squinting eyes, vision fogged over. The line from the French embassy was still ghosting in my retinas.

It had been two weeks of becoming literal human paperwork just to get this whole visa madness done:

Denmark: Residence Permit (Work Purpose)—translation: "You can work, as long as you know how to dance on a bonfire of paperwork."

Germany: Business Visa for Trade Fair Workers—which was somehow more complicated than organizing the actual trade fair.

France: Salarié en mission—which basically meant: "Sure, we’ll let you work. But first, suffer."

And because my life is a bureaucratic soap opera, of course I had the green passport.

My green passport could only chuckle. "You think this is Disneyland? Schengen visa ain’t no FastPass, darling."

Thankfully, all the embassies are in Surabaya. Downside: enjoy the two-hour train ride, sweetheart.

And now, with my brain still sizzling like an overloaded rice cooker, Misswa calmly told me to install NoveLust—an app that wasn’t even on my priority list. Definitely not in the same row as “take meds” or “don’t lose your mind.”

***

NoveLust: Your deepest stories, unfiltered.

I blinked.

Unfiltered?

My left eye twitched automatically.

Why did the app sound like a terrible life choice?

There were categories like:

Office Romance (Hot!)

Billionaire Love

18+ Boss & Assistant

Dominant CEO x Innocent Sub

I held my breath.

For a moment, I felt like I’d accidentally stepped into a parallel universe—where every male character was born an Alpha, and every woman had forgotten how to say no.

I sighed and searched for a writer people said used to be a children’s book author. Now, she’d gone full viral and was even being adapted by foreign producers into an adult-themed film.

C.R. Maya.

She used to write a series called “Koko the Bunny’s Family,” about a cute bunny who loved sharing carrots. Winner of the 2015 Best Children’s Book Award. Her face was once featured in education magazines under the headline: “Early Literacy for a Brighter Future.”

Now? All of that was gone.

Profile photo: silhouette of a woman kneeling on a bed, dim lights in the background, and the hashtag #DarkRomance.

Latest work: “Taken by the CEO Wolf” (Chapter 217: “Mating Season in the Boardroom”)

Bio: erotic | Now your favorite guilty pleasure.

Plus: EARNING ONE BILLION RUPIAH PER MONTH.

I nearly choked.

Wait… writing erotica can make that much?

And it’s being turned into a film?

With trembling fingers, I scrolled through her best-selling chapters. Marked 18+.

Then I tapped.

"Unlock this chapter: 15 coins"

I winced.

Okay. Click.

The chapter opened.

Five seconds in…

I stopped.

One minute…

I blinked.

Two minutes…

I wanted to go to the bathroom. Not because I was grossed out, but because… I needed to splash cold water on my face.

That scene…

It flowed. No fear, no hesitation. Just confident seduction from characters who knew they were 100% desirable and had abs like Nordic gods.

Excerpt from “Taken by the CEO Wolf” – Chapter 217

My body burned as his strong hand slid around my waist. My breath caught—the scent of cedarwood and whiskey overwhelmed my senses, scrambling my logic. This is wrong. We were supposed to be discussing the merger contract, not this...

"Don’t..."

But my traitorous hand reached for his Armani tie, pulling him closer. His shirt was partly unbuttoned, revealing claw marks—remnants of yesterday’s werewolf struggle.

"You're mine tonight," he whispered, biting my earlobe.

"The boardroom can wait," he growled, ripping my pencil skirt with claws that had suddenly extended. "You think I didn’t notice you wore red lace today?"

I stared at the screen.

Then the ceiling.

Then the pile of erotic novels that suddenly felt useless.

I exhaled deeply.

Who can write a scene like that without feeling like they’ve betrayed their ideals?

C.R. Maya can.

C.R. Maya, the former children’s book author who now earns a billion a month thanks to Alpha CEOs who can sniff out your underwear color.

I can’t write like that.

I didn’t even think about red lace.

I thought I’d feel disgusted.

I thought—with all the research I’d done, the books I’d read, the articles I secretly browsed during office lunch breaks—I’d know for sure that this was disgusting or at least absurd.

But it wasn’t disgust.

Reading C.R. Maya’s work…

It felt… strange.

Something warm crept from my chest, to my stomach, then lower. My hand instinctively gripped the edge of my pillow.

What was that?

I didn’t know the name for it. But my body seemed to know before I did.

I admit, C.R. Maya is amazing.

She knows exactly what her readers’ bodies crave—and she writes it with zero hesitation.

And the result?

One billion per month.
Film deals.
Viral hashtags.

Me?

Just one scene, and I already felt like a fool.

Why was I ashamed of my own body?

Why could she write freely—while I was terrified?

C.R. Maya writes like she breathes.

Me? I can’t even spell this feeling.

***

Ting.

The elevator chimed far too cheerily for 7 a.m. I squeezed in between groggy coworkers, the air thick with cheap perfume and instant coffee breath.

In the reflective elevator wall, my face stared back—puffy eyes, like someone who stayed up chasing something she should’ve let go.

I entered quickly, avoiding everyone’s eyes—as if the whole world somehow knew what I’d been doing behind my phone screen last night.

Yeah. What I did last night?

I wasn’t going to tell Misswa.

Guilty pleasure.

This morning…

I woke up with a dry tongue and trembling thighs, and it was just my imagination.

That CEO Wolf wasn’t real. But my body didn’t care.

And my pillow…

I hugged it too tightly. Too… suggestively. The fabric was wet from—

I blinked.

And I couldn’t look at my pillow anymore.

Dear God.

Uninstall NoveLust. Now.

I went to the office like usual.

White button-up. Black trousers.

Okay. I’m still the same Adel, right?

Ting.

Unfortunately, right outside the office door, I ran into that annoying bastard. The admin I once drenched in tea—for some reason, his smile looked different today.

His eyes dropped to my neck.

Then he whispered,

"Oh? Had a solo mission last night? Some… mastubate?"

My blood boiled. Could he really see the ghost of last night in my tired eyes?

Was it visible? Did I look that dirty? Or was he just messing with me?

"Why are you still bugging me? Didn’t get enough tea? I’ll report you to HR!"

"Relax," he said, hands raised, though his eyes were still full of mischief. "Just a small observation."

"Move."

"But..." he leaned against the wall, striking a pose like a discount male lead. "Girls who read erotic novels… usually do bate every night—"

I inhaled hard and tried to ignore him.

"Girls who read novels must be lonely. You’re lonely, right?"

"Lonely? Lonely like this?!"

With everything I had, I swung my five-year-savings Gucci bag—the monogrammed crystal flashing like my fury—but the bastard stepped forward, chest nearly pressed to mine.

"Do it. I’m curious how strong your grip is," he whispered, eyes gleaming like he knew my dirty little secret.

Smack.

My bag—purchased after saving for five years—sacrificed its dignity against his palm. He blocked it on purpose. Didn’t even flinch.

"Wow. Strong hands. You’d make a great femme fatale in Katie’s novel, Dark Office Affair—"

"You absolute—"

Ting.

The elevator door opened.

Mrs. Widya stood there, staring at me still holding my bag mid-air—half Harley Quinn, half secretary who just failed to keep it together.

***