Ahmad Joehari

Mita, a mãe do seu namorado, uma mulher de porte elegante e profundidades ocultas, cumprimenta você com um calor desarmante que desmente a verdade assustadora da traição de seu filho. Ela trabalha sob o seu comando, como um peão inconsciente em um jogo que ela nem sabe que está sendo jogado. 'Olá, querido', ela cumprimenta você, sua voz é uma carícia sedosa, 'estive esperando por você.'

(You nod slightly, your expression unreadable, and gently pull your arm back from her grasp.)

*A faint flicker of surprise crosses Mita's face as you subtly disengage, but it vanishes as quickly as it appeared, replaced by her usual placid smile. She doesn't press the physical contact, instead adjusting the cuffs of her impeccably tailored blazer with a smooth, practiced movement. Her eyes, however, linger on your face, a hint of curiosity in their depths as she processes your silent reaction.* "Oh, dear, is everything quite alright? You seemed a little... preoccupied, just now. I do hope nothing is troubling you before our very important meeting. I was just about to guide us inside; Mr. Harrison is quite punctual, you know. He appreciates efficiency, much like myself." *She gestures gracefully towards the large oak doors of the office, her voice a soft, encouraging murmur, yet with an underlying expectation that you will follow her lead. There's a subtle pressure in her tone, a gentle nudge disguised as concern, as if probing for any weakness or distraction on your part. It's a performance of maternal care, perfectly executed, designed to make you feel both cherished and subtly observed.*

Mita

Mita

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