THE BILLIONAIRE'S HEIR UNCHAINED

CHAPTER 3

The rhythmic hum of conveyor belts filled the dimly lit warehouse as Raka wiped the sweat from his brow. His muscles ached from carrying heavy boxes all morning, his uniform already damp from the relentless Jakarta heat. It had been only a few days since he started the job, but it already felt like a lifetime.

At IDR 1.8 million a month, this wasn’t just a low-paying job—it was barely enough to survive. Rent, food, transportation—it all added up, leaving him with almost nothing by the end of the month. But he had no choice.

Across the warehouse floor, a group of workers leaned against a stack of crates, whispering and chuckling.

One of them, a thin man with sharp features, suddenly snapped his fingers as he studied Raka. “Eh, I know you.” His voice carried over the noise of the conveyor belts.

Raka paused mid-scan, his grip tightening on the barcode scanner.

“Yeah, yeah,” the man continued, stepping closer. “You live in Cempaka Putih, right? at the Santoso family’s house?”

The other workers turned their attention to him now, interest piqued.

“My cousin lives in that area,” the man smirked. “I’ve seen you before… you’re that anak mantu (son-in-law) from the Santoso family, right?”

Raka’s jaw tightened. He already knew where this was going.

Another worker, a stocky man with a faded baseball cap, let out a low whistle. “Oh, jadi lu suami si Nadine? (So you’re Nadine’s husband?)” He exchanged looks with his friends. “Damn. I heard she’s beautiful. How’d you get lucky?”

The first man chuckled. “Luck? More like a bad joke. You know what they say in the neighborhood—he’s just a leech. The Santosos don’t even like him. If they had money, they would’ve kicked him out already.”

Laughter erupted among the group.

Raka clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palm. He wanted to snap back, to tell them to shut up. But what would that change? He was just another struggling worker here.

“Don’t waste your breath,” another worker muttered. “He’s just here because no one else would take him.”

A laugh rippled through the group, but before they could continue, a firm voice cut through the tension.

“Oi, enough!”

Raka turned, surprised, as a man in his late twenties strode forward. His broad shoulders and confident posture set him apart from the others. His name tag read Andi Saputra.

“Kalau mau kerja, kerja aja. Kalau cuma mau nyinyir, mending pulang tidur,” (If you want to work, work. If you just want to gossip, go home and sleep), Andi snapped at them.

The group muttered under their breath but dispersed. Raka exhaled slowly, eyeing Andi with cautious gratitude.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Raka said, scanning another box.

Andi shrugged. “They’re idiots. But you—” He looked at Raka with genuine curiosity. “You don’t belong here.”

Raka huffed a laugh. “I don’t have much of a choice.”

Andi studied him for a moment before smirking. “You know, most guys in your position would have quit after the first day. But you keep showing up.”

“I don’t have the luxury to quit.”

Andi chuckled. “Fair enough.”

For the first time in a long while, Raka felt something other than exhaustion—a small, unfamiliar sense of camaraderie.

During the break, Raka and Andi sat on overturned crates, eating from simple plastic containers. Raka’s meal was the same as always—plain rice with a bit of fried tofu and sambal. It was all he could afford.

“Gila (crazy), you really eat like that every day?” Andi shook his head. “I swear, they don’t pay us enough for this.”

Raka smirked. “What do you expect? We’re the bottom of the chain.”

Andi leaned back against the crate. “Tell me something, Raka. You don’t talk about your family much. What’s your deal?”

Raka hesitated. He could say the truth—how he was married into a family that treated him like trash, how his mother-in-law made it her life’s mission to humiliate him, how his own wife barely looked at him. But what was the point?

“No deal,” Raka said instead. “Just trying to get by.”

Andi raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. “Well, whatever it is, don’t let them break you. This place? This salary? It’s not forever.”

Raka wanted to believe that. But at that moment, forever felt a lot closer than escape.

As the sun dipped below the Jakarta skyline, Raka changed out of his work uniform, stuffing it into his worn-out backpack. The warehouse manager, a man in his mid-forties with a permanent scowl, called out to him.

“Nugroho! Before you leave, clean up the back storage. Some of the boxes fell.”

Raka clenched his jaw. His shift was already over. But he couldn’t afford to argue.

“Yes, Pak,” he muttered, heading toward the back.

Behind him, one of his coworkers snickered. “Lihat tuh, anak mantu Cinderella kita. Harus bersih-bersih dulu sebelum pulang,” (Look at that, our Cinderella son-in-law has to clean up before going home).

Laughter followed, but Raka didn’t react. He was used to swallowing his pride.

But that didn’t mean he had to like it.

By the time Raka arrived home, the small Santoso rented house was quiet. He stepped inside, the scent of dinner still lingering in the air.

At the dining table, Nadine sat scrolling through her phone. Across from her, Rini sipped her evening tea, barely acknowledging his presence.

“There’s rice in the pot if you’re hungry,” Nadine muttered without looking up.

No welcome home. No how was your day? Just that.

Raka sighed, moving to the kitchen to serve himself. As he scooped a portion onto his plate, Rini’s voice rang out.

“Jangan ambil banyak-banyak. Beras makin mahal,” (Don’t take too much. Rice is getting expensive).

Raka paused for a split second before setting the spoon down. Even in his own home, he was nothing but an inconvenience.