The atmosphere inside the Wiratama mansion that evening was heavier than usual.

The servants whispered among themselves, exchanging anxious glances. No one dared to raise their voice, because everyone knew—something big was about to happen.

In the grand sitting room, Madam Wiratama sat regally on a velvet armchair of deep navy blue.

A cup of tea rested in her hand, untouched, growing cold. Her eyes—sharp and unwavering—were fixed on the door, waiting for one person: her son.

Beside her, Mr. Wiratama sat stiffly, silent but composed. He knew his wife’s anger this time was not something to take lightly.

“He’s on his way,” one of the servants whispered.

“Good,” Madam...