The aroma of essential oils hit Naira as she stepped into her mother-in-law's classically decorated bedroom.
She closed the carved wooden door, shutting out the sound of the television downstairs. Mrs. Hartini's room was enormous. Brown velvet curtains covered the double-paned windows, dimming the morning light. The air conditioner made the room feel bitterly cold.
Mrs. Hartini sat in a teak rocking chair, dressed in a dark green kebaya. Her reading glasses perched at the bridge of her nose, and a dragon-carved cane leaned against the side of the chair. On a small table, a cup of chamomile tea sent up a thin wisp of steam.
"Sit down, Naira," she ordered without looking up, her eyes still fixed on a small notebook.
Naira pulled out a chair and sat up straight, her hands folded in her lap. She drew a breath, bracing herself for the verbal attack that was sure to come.
Mrs. Hartini closed her notebook, removed her glasses, and fixed Naira with a sharp stare. "You certainly know why I called you in this morning."
"Get to the point, Mrs. Hartini," Naira replied calmly, meeting her gaze without flinching.
Mrs. Hartini gave a faint smile, lifted her cup, blew on it, and took a sip. "I like the way you speak. Concise. Just like the way you handle the books. The Dirgantara family owes you a debt of gratitude for your meticulousness. Bagas is lucky to have a wife who's good with numbers."
The praise tasted hollow, like a warm-up before the attack.
"This teak factory has been around for three generations," Mrs. Hartini said. "Grandfather built it, Father expanded it, and then Bagas carried it on. This business has been passed down through the family. A male heir is its foundation."
"The company has survived because I make sure its debts are paid every month, Mrs. Hartini," Naira cut in. "Not because of the director's gender."
Mrs. Hartini's face hardened. "Administrative work can be replaced. Blood heirs cannot be bought."
Her words crushed Naira's decade-plus of hard work in an instant. Naira swallowed.
"I've been patient," Mrs. Hartini continued, leaning forward, her voice turning colder. "When you were pregnant the first time, Bagas donated hundreds of millions, hoping for a son. Kirana was born—a girl. I said nothing. The second time, Ratih was born, another girl. I held myself back. The third time, Swara—another girl. Do you know what Bagas did? He cried in the hospital hallway because he felt like a failure."
"Bagas got drunk with his friends the night Swara was born, Mrs. Hartini," Naira replied, her voice trembling. "He left me alone after my C-section. He was avoiding his responsibilities, not crying out of shame."
"He was stressed, Naira!" Mrs. Hartini slammed her hand against the chair's armrest. "What man wouldn't be stressed after losing his hope of having a male heir?"
Naira clenched her fists. Talking to Mrs. Hartini was like talking to a brick wall. "My daughters are not failures," she said. "Kirana won the provincial programming olympiad, Ratih is fluent in foreign languages and active in organizations, and Swara is musically gifted. They could lead the company someday."
Mrs. Hartini laughed scornfully. "They're girls. Once they marry, they'll follow their husbands and leave this house. A man who stays behind protects the family's assets and takes care of his mother. The Dirgantara family needs a son."
The forged documents signed by that woman flashed through Naira's mind—the proof of her betrayal. Naira stared at the wrinkled face before her.
"And Larasati arrived carrying exactly what you need," Naira said flatly, baiting her.
Mrs. Hartini nodded, a satisfied smile spreading across her face. "Larasati is young, and her womb is healthy. The doctor says the baby is a boy. She carries our family's future."
"And you don't care that Larasati drains tens of millions every month?" Naira shot back. "That money is what I set aside for employee salaries and installment payments."
"Money can be earned, Naira. The family name's heir is what matters. Bagas is merely fulfilling his duty to make his pregnant wife happy."
Naira stared at her blankly. Integrity and common sense seemed to have died in this room. Factory money was being spent, documents were being forged, and the daughters' dignity was being ignored—all for the promise of a baby boy.
"Larasati will stay in this house until she gives birth," Mrs. Hartini said. "I asked Ms. Inah to move you and the children to the left wing. Larasati will take the master bedroom downstairs. She can't be worn out going up and down the stairs."
Naira's eyes widened. That was the master bedroom where she and Bagas had spent more than a decade together.
"I'm not moving out of my room," Naira said firmly. Her blood was boiling.
"You're moving today," Mrs. Hartini cut in without hesitation. "If you don't, I'll have the factory workers remove your things. Larasati needs a large room, a wide bed, and an en suite bathroom."
Naira drew a long breath, trying to hold back her cracking voice. "You're taking my room away and driving your grandchildren out for a woman who only arrived yesterday?"
"She's not a stranger. She's the mother of my future grandson."
Mrs. Hartini straightened her cane, displaying her authority as the head of the household.
"Starting today, the household rules will revolve around Larasati's needs. All meals will be adjusted, and the seasoning can't be too strong. Larasati is sensitive to smells."
Her voice carried a threat. "The noise must be kept down, too. Make sure your children don't disturb Larasati's peace. I don't want to hear crying, shouting, or Swara's violin. Larasati needs absolute quiet."
Naira's teeth clenched. She could endure the insults aimed at her, but forbidding Swara from practicing the violin was too much.
"Swara has to practice for next month's competition. Her violin is her future," Naira said firmly.
"This family's future is in Larasati's belly, not on violin strings," Mrs. Hartini replied. "Your daughter can practice somewhere else. Don't be selfish. You failed to give us a grandson; the least you can do is make this house comfortable for the woman who can."
Silence settled over the room again. The air conditioner seemed louder than before.
Naira stood frozen. She recorded every word, every demeaning look. She would strike back, but not now. Her prenuptial agreement was waiting in a bank safe-deposit box. Before destroying the Dirgantara family's prized company, she had to secure her children's money.
Mrs. Hartini set her cane on the floor and tapped it once, ending the conversation with a deliberately demeaning remark.
"You may continue living in this house and handling the office finances, as long as you accept that Larasati is part of our future."