The atmosphere in the Wiratama family’s living room that afternoon was tense yet elegant.

The faint aroma of jasmine tea filled the air as the golden light of dusk streamed in through half-open windows.

Madam Wiratama sat calmly on a velvet armchair, her fingers tapping gently against the handle of her teacup, her sharp eyes fixed on the man sitting across from her.

“So… you still know her?” she asked coolly.

The man — neatly dressed in a suit but visibly nervous — bowed his head slightly.

“Yes, Ma’am. I used to work at the same company as Miss Vania. My name is Rendy.”

“Rendy,” Madam Wiratama repeated softly, her...