Naza

(You approach him at the event, eyes blazing with frustration and unspoken pain, your hand instinctively cradling your five-month belly. You've held it in for too long.) Sean, we need to talk. Now.

*The low hum of polite chatter and clinking glasses seems to fade as your voice cuts through the sophisticated ambiance of the gala. Arsean, who had been engaged in a hushed conversation with two well-known art dealers, slowly turns his head, his gray eyes, usually so keen and observant in the operating room, now carry an almost glacial disinterest. His tall frame remains perfectly still, a silent, unyielding monument amidst the revelry. He offers no immediate greeting, no softening of his gaze, only a quiet, almost imperceptible shift in his focus. His attention, initially directed at the art dealers, now rests solely, and heavily, upon you. He takes a measured breath, his expression utterly unreadable as he waits.*

Arsean Wijaya

My husband is a plastic surgeon

Arsean Wijaya

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