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He studied me for a long moment, his gaze searching, then asked carefully, “Are you sure everything’s okay, Thalia? I don’t mean to pry…” He hesitated. “But it’s… obvious there’s something between you two.”

I stared at him, stunned.

Chuckling softly, he stepped closer. “It’s nobody’s business, and no one’s interfering,” he went on. “But you should know this—between him and Antonia, everything is staged. For the press. That’s all.”

I didn’t trust my voice, so I simply nodded. I couldn’t even meet his eyes—and more than that, I didn’t have time. I needed to see whether my parents had actually shown up.

“I’ll stop by the bathroom and then leave. Be careful, okay?”

Zayn pressed a brief kiss to my forehead before brushing past me, heading toward the restrooms.

I didn’t even have time to breathe.

Because the moment the entrance door shifted, my parents appeared.

Both of them wore loud, worn-out clothes that clashed harshly with the elegance of the venue. My mother’s makeup was garish as ever, her features painted in unforgiving lines.

One glance was enough to know exactly where they came from. Their posture, their mannerisms—everything about them stood in jarring contrast to the world around us.

Not that they cared.

They move through life convinced the world owes them everything—that everyone should support them because they “sacrificed their lives” to raise an unwanted child.

Me.

Raising a child and what they did to me are two entirely different things. But explaining that to them was always pointless. A lost cause.

I knew that well.

I tried—too many times—back when I was still a child, still aching for their attention. For a kind word. A gentle touch. A hug.

Love.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, my voice unsteady. “How did you get in?”

My mother laughed—a brittle, venomous sound—and stepped forward, seizing my hand. Pain flared instantly, piercing and familiar, dragging old memories to the surface—every blow, every insult, etched into my past.

“Listen, you foolish little girl, we speak—you listen and obey,” she snapped, her tone cutting. “If you had sent the money, we wouldn’t have had to come all this way,” she added, tightening her grip until it hurt.

“Ouch,” I muttered, wrenching my hand free and pulling it to my chest, rubbing the lingering ache.

“Since we were forced to come, you’ll add five thousand dollars to what you already owe us,” my father said.

It was the first time I heard his voice in years. And that was what he chose to say.

No relief. No warmth. No embrace, no sign that they missed me.

Just money.

Just the same treatment as always.

“If you don’t want us to make a scene and embarrass you in front of all these refined people you surround yourself with, you’ll come with us and give us the money so we can leave quietly.”

Before I could tell them I wouldn’t give them another cent—before I could spit out that I regretted being their daughter, that I wished they would forget I existed and never contact me again—I heard a voice behind me.

“Thalia, everything good?”

I didn’t need to turn.