“Arga Wiratama has been disinherited.”The news broke like thunder through the halls of the Montgomery conglomerate. Staff whispered in corridors, executives glanced nervously at each other, and every social circle buzzed with the same question—what had he done to deserve it?In the mansion, Ny. Wiratama sat behind her mahogany desk, her expression cold but her hands trembling. The official document lay in front of her—signed, sealed, and filed.Her assistant hesitated at the doorway. “Madam, are you sure this is wise? He’s your only son—”“Enough,” she cut him off, voice sharp as glass. “He made his choice. Now he must live with it.”The assistant bowed quickly and left, leaving her alone in the heavy silence. But once the door closed, Ny. Wiratama’s mask cracked—just a little. She pressed her palm to her forehead, whispering to the empty room, “Why do you make me the villain in your story, Arga?”---Meanwhile, across town, Arga sat in a small apartment far removed from the marble a
Magbasa pa
Mag-log in
