WONDERING WONDERLAND

MISTRESS

"Um... Mrs. Kalelia?"

Mrs. Saitako gave the woman a small, pointed cough.

That was how I knew my guess had been correct—and that she was Mr. Sekka's young wife, the vice president of an electronics company currently fighting tooth and nail to win a tender from our company.

Nothing in this room happened by accident. Even a misplaced step had usually been anticipated long before it occurred.

Mrs. Saitako's cough drew my attention to the glass bottle of mineral water in front of me, to the thin beads of condensation creeping down its sides. From the corner of my eye, I caught Mr. Tanuja gently removing Mrs. Kalelia's hand from his shoulder.

The corners of his lips curved upward, but his cheeks remained still. It was a polite yet guarded smile, like a door opened just wide enough to show that it could be shut at any moment.

"Mrs. Saitako, in that case, I'll continue making my rounds."

Mrs. Kalelia seemed embarrassed. She hurried off toward another table, though not before patting Mr. Tanuja's shoulder one last time, a small gesture meant to leave something of herself behind.

"In any era, mistresses have always been shameless," Mrs. Kadery remarked from her seat, her brown suit and patterned pocket square not shifting in the slightest.

Silence fell instantly, even though we were in the middle of a crowded ballroom. The music continued, laughter still burst from other tables, but time at ours seemed to stop breathing.

Her words hung in the air, light in sound but heavy in meaning.

"Don't get married yet," Mrs. Saitako said quietly.

She made sure everyone at the table heard her, every word and every pause.

All her relatives knew how much she adored me, ever since I had helped Steel Lamiere Batam generate substantial profits through its partnership with Steel NZ.

"You need to move to Japan. Go to headquarters as soon as possible. You'll grow more there."

She didn't turn to look at me. Her fingers merely rotated her wineglass slowly, as though she were counting time or weighing how much of someone's future she could offer in a single evening.

The entire table fell silent. Even the distant clink of a spoon sounded like the tolling of a bell.

Mr. Tanuja's eyes met mine by accident as her words came to an end. It lasted only a moment, but long enough for me to realize that we had heard the same thing through different ears.

Mrs. Saitako's words always felt like advice from someone who had eaten her fair share of salt. Salty, sometimes stinging, yet capable of saving you from a life of blandness.

She wasn't my mother. Yet among everyone in my life, she was the one who had always stood at the very front of the line, pushing me to pursue my career with a hand that never trembled.

She was the one who had seasoned me, making me as flavorful and sharp as I was today. Sometimes, I wondered whether I still possessed any flavor of my own, or whether everything about me had already been overwhelmed by her recipe.

"You must stand as an equal to men, and you may even surpass them."

That was how my memory captured the woman beside me, ever since the first day she had come to Batam to meet me.

She never spoke at length. Yet the way she looked at my future suggested that she was testing God's destiny against her own plans: calm, certain, and almost insolent.

She had no daughters, nor any nieces. The female descendant of the Ademiler line, the one everyone had been waiting for to serve as a symbol of family pride, had yet to be born.

That was why everyone in the steel industry hoped to become her protégé, to be guided directly by the steady hand of this formidable woman.

But everyone already knew one thing Nabi, the girl from the small city of Batam, had caught her attention first.

An empty vessel she intended to shape into the next young Mrs. Saitako. A somewhat untidy version, perhaps, but meticulous and difficult for anyone to read.

I often felt like a blank sheet of paper on which many hands had left their ink, with Mrs. Saitako being the only one bold enough to write in permanent ink.

I nodded along, as though I understood everything.

She knew, and so did Mr. Saitako sitting beside her, that I would always nod at whatever the world placed before me. Not because I was obedient. Because I had learned as a child that refusing a gift, no matter how small, was a luxury I could not afford.

So I nodded, accepted, and tucked all my questions away somewhere no one could reach.

Mrs. Saitako seemed to direct her gaze toward Mr. Tanuja more frequently than usual. That wasn't unusual in itself, but tonight, she looked his way far more often than she had at last year's party.

Her gaze lingered, withdrew, then returned, like a butterfly circling a flower it wasn't yet willing to admit it had come for.

I noticed the pattern, just as I always noticed patterns in numbers: quietly, without comment, waiting until everything revealed its shape.

I glanced at Mr. Tanuja from the corner of my eye, stealing a look I hoped he wouldn't detect.

His jaw remained relaxed. His fingers resumed tapping against the tablecloth, more slowly this time.

He knew he was being watched. Only someone who had been surrounded by watchful eyes since birth could remain that composed beneath a gaze like hers.

Oh, and among everyone in this room, Tanuja was the one with truly aristocratic blood.

Not because of any title attached to his name, but because of the way he sat. His back was never so straight that he looked rigid, nor so relaxed that he appeared dismissive. He carried himself like someone who had never needed to prove anything, because the world had already agreed on his worth before he ever opened his mouth.

And beside him sat me, a girl who had learned etiquette from books, from observation, and from thousands of little mistakes I had never admitted to making, wearing a perfectly arranged gown and a well-practiced smile.

We sat side by side, two people from entirely different universes, brought together by a round table and a woman whose plans extended far beyond anything she chose to say aloud.

The music changed. A violinist began a soft solo, the notes drawing slowly through the room like a fine thread. In the middle of the ballroom, couples revolved in an unbroken circle.

I watched them while thinking about something I didn't dare ask anyone.

If I moved to Japan one day, crossing the sea to headquarters, would I grow into someone greater—or would I simply become someone farther away from home?

The warmth of that handshake still lingered in my palm. I didn't yet know what it meant.

But for tonight, beneath the crystal lights that never tired of dancing, I allowed myself not to know.