Hasan sped away from the café, his mind a turbulent storm. The image on his phone burned behind his eyes. I need to know the truth of this, he thought, a cold fury simmering beneath the surface. He pulled over abruptly and sent a terse message to Anisa: 💬
"Anisa, we need to talk. Something important. Tell me the first moment you're free."
At the studio, amidst her work, Anisa received the message. Sensing his urgency but preoccupied, she replied:
"Hasan, I'm swamped with work today. But if it's truly urgent, come by my place after 7:00 PM tonight." 🌓
Reading her response, Hasan concluded he would confront her that evening. But waiting was not in his nature; he preferred preemptive strikes. A ruthless idea took shape. He forwarded the damning photograph not to Anisa, but directly to her father, Manalo.
The reaction was instantaneous. His phone rang within minutes. 💥
"Hello, son. What is this you've sent me? Is that... is that Anisa?" Manalo's voice was fractured, a blend of shock and disbelief.
"Yes, Uncle. That's her," Hasan replied, his own voice expertly layered with a pained, wounded tone. "I've given her all my love, tried to protect her. I even agreed to let her go on that professional trip because she said it was necessary for her career. But look, Uncle... look what she's doing, climbing on top of other men the moment she's out of sight." 🎭
"Son, don't be upset. I will speak to her. We will have this wedding soon, very soon," Manalo vowed, his paternal authority and concern melding into a firm decision.
As the call ended, a thin, victorious smile crept across Hasan's lips. His plan was accelerating perfectly. The photograph, a mere snapshot of a rescue, had been weaponized. He hadn't even needed to confront Anisa directly. With a single forwarded image and a performance of wounded virtue, he had manipulated her father into becoming an unwitting enforcer of his own timeline, tightening the golden cage around Anisa with paternal concern as its lock. 😏