The ballroom on the mansion's left wing resembled a grand theater stage for the kings of the modern world. Towering granite pillars stood with elegance, adorned with golden filigree that shimmered under the light of crystal chandeliers. Suspended lamps floated in the air, casting reflections onto the surface of round tables dressed in perfectly smooth white cloths, without a single wrinkle. On the walls, traditional shadow puppet carvings stood silent—witnesses to the marriage of power and opulence.
Zeyn stood at the threshold, touching the edge of the red carpet with the tip of his shoe. Not a word was spoken, only a gaze split between awe and estrangement. He had thought this event would be just a family gathering, not a social spectacle for the elite. Not to mention when his eyes caught the familiar figure from the television screen—the President of Indonesia himself, smiling and shaking hands warmly with the family.
