“Mother, what is this?”

Arga’s voice echoed sharply in the vast marble hallway of the Wiratama mansion. His steps were heavy, his jaw clenched tight. In his hand was a stack of printed emails — damning evidence he’d never wanted to find.

Ny. Wiratama turned from the grand piano, startled but composed. “Arga, lower your voice. What kind of way is this to speak in our home?”

“This—” Arga slammed the papers onto the coffee table, his tone trembling with rage, “—is how I speak when I find out my own mother destroyed the woman I love.”

The servants nearby froze. The air grew thick, suffocating.

Ny. Wiratama’s expression hardened....