The venom-laced greeting from Mrs. Darmawan—the most feared former almost-mother-in-law in the entire known universe—succeeded in turning the Main VIP Table into a high-security police interrogation room. Every single uncle, aunt, and affluent relative clad in expensive suits around the table immediately locked their eyes on Mira with rapt interest, watching her like moviegoers settling in for a two-hour tragicomedy without commercial breaks.

Mira took a deep breath, fighting desperately to keep the concrete Super Saiyan updo on her head from listing to the left under the crushing wave of maximum-level embarrassment. She forced her stiff spine upright, flashing the most elegant smile her cramped facial muscles could possibly assemble.

"Ah... Hello there too, dear respected Auntie Darmawan, looking as timelessly youthful as a celestial goddess!" Mira greeted, pitching her voice to sound as sickeningly sweet as humanly possible, though it came out sounding remarkably like a malfunctioning robot low on motor oil. "Thank God, I am doing exceptionally well—thriving physically and mentally, even if my wallet is currently observing a strict voluntary fast."

Mrs. Darmawan took a dainty sip of lemon water from her crystal glass, then set it down gently enough to produce a sharp, elegant ting. She leaned forward, studying the Borneo-shaped peanut sauce stain across Mira's chest with a gaze loaded with clinical suspicion.

"Wonderful to hear you're healthy, dear. I was rather worried when I saw you glide in just now," Mrs. Darmawan remarked, her tone deliberately softened to slide straight between Mira's ribs. "Understandably so, ever since you and Satya parted ways two years ago because your long-term life trajectories were deemed mutually incompatible, I've heard your life has been somewhat... well, let's say financially and professionally turbulent. What are you up to these days, anyway? Still a freelance graphic designer who stares blankly into space while waiting for instant noodle shipments?"

That pinpoint strike landed dead-center in Mira’s solar plexus, setting off a minor internal explosion that nearly blasted away the remaining foundation caked onto her cheeks. Yet, the self-respect of a hardcore pride warrior could not be allowed to crumble before a former almost-mother-in-law who collected gold-bar arisan memberships as a hobby.

Mira gave a soft, dismissive huff, lifting her chin high in the manner of a multinational corporation's CEO delivering an annual business presentation.

"Oh, absolutely not, Auntie! Your perception of me is hopelessly obsolete and out of touch!" Mira fired back with a mock-hectic tone. "I have officially ascended to the rank of a true independent career woman! I hold a strategic position within the global digital creative industry. My schedule is packed to the brim every single day—navigating the digital universe, managing portfolio projects worth hundreds of millions of rupiah, and living entirely autonomously without relying on a single soul... least of all my ex!"

The plump uncle to her right let out a dry, condescending snort into his coffee cup. "My, don't young people talk a big game these days. A freelance gig and suddenly you're speaking like the Coordinating Minister for Economic Affairs. I pull in trillions of rupiah in real estate turnover annually and I don't boast half as much."

Mira shot a murderous side-glance at the plump uncle, mentally hurling a heavy soup bowl at his head, while keeping her plastic Pepsodent grin firmly locked in place on the outside.

Mrs. Darmawan offered a razor-thin, crooked smile, entirely unimpressed by Mira’s boasts of corporate conquest. "Splendid if your career is flourishing, then. And what about your romantic life? Considering you're well into the mature demographic category for an independent woman, surely you've secured a matching life partner by now, haven't you? A successful businessman as well, or at least a high-ranking young government official?"

That second-wave lethal question struck with surgical precision, forcing Mira's entire body to lock rigid once more. Her brain spun a thousand miles an hour, desperately scrambling for a logical excuse to mask the humiliating reality that her romantic status was permanently stuck on eternal ghosting survivor.

"My partner... ah, yes, about that!" Mira stammered frantically, attempting to piece together a high-tier fabrication. "Actually, I already have a secret fiancé. He's a ridiculously handsome young CEO who runs an international nickel-mining empire over in Switzerland, and he is utterly, hopelessly obsessed with me. But because he's currently knee-deep in private helicopter maintenance overseas, he couldn't accompany me here today. So I came solo purely as an independent quality-time exercise!"

Mrs. Darmawan arched a single eyebrow, wearing an expression that broadcasted total, unadulterated disbelief at Mira's galaxy-scale delusion. "My, what an impressive fiancé. A Swiss nickel-mining tycoon, you say? How odd, then, that your fortunes tonight seem rather down on their luck—your dress is drenched in sate sauce, your shoe is crippled, and you arrived at the venue via a budget ride-hailing scooter?"

The VIP table instantly erupted into a wave of smothered chuckles and muffled snorts from the surrounding relatives catching wind of the exchange. Mira felt her entire face flare up in an incandescent blaze of humiliation, her elegant web of lies shattering into dust beneath the harsh spotlight of the Balai Sudirman elite.

Right at the most critical microsecond—just as Mira ran completely out of oxygen and seriously contemplated sliding under the table to live among the discarded cocktail napkins—a miraculous, sheer horror of a plot twist occurred.

Inside Mira's small crossbody bag resting in her lap, her budget smartphone—which had previously flatlined completely due to total battery failure... suddenly roared back to life like a cursed artifact energized by body heat and static electricity!

And it didn't just quietly boot up. The phone immediately began blaring at maximum volume, slicing right through the upscale silence of the VIP table with the loudest, most obnoxious dangdut koplo remix ringtone known to human history:

"Cheating is wonderful... as long as you don't get caught! Once you're caught... your future is completely ruined!"

The pounding drums and screeching accordion of the dangdut track echoed loudly across the heart of the Main VIP Table, surrounded by distinguished government officials and respected socialites.

Mira froze in absolute horror. Every single eye at the table—including Mrs. Darmawan, who was mid-sip of her lemon water—whipped around in unison toward Mira's lap. The sophisticated narrative of the billionaire Swiss nickel tycoon evaporated into thin air, instantly replaced by the brutal, undeniable reality that the owner of the blaring dangdut ringtone was a wretched, concrete-updo-wearing disaster girl dying a thousand deaths of pure shame.