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Zayn.

He came back from the bathroom—and from the way his presence settled behind me, close enough for me to feel the warmth radiating from him, I knew he saw at least part of it.

My father sneered and stepped toward him. “Boy, get out of here,” he said. “This girl’s business is none of yours.”

In that instant, I knew a scene was inevitable.

If there is one thing I have learned over the years around the Thomas and Hardy brothers—and the other guys—it is this: no one harms a woman in any way and walks away untouched.

“Care to repeat that?” Zayn asked, his voice low, the warning beneath it unmistakable.

My father doesn’t understand warnings. He is the kind of man who believes a crowd would always take his side—so long as they heard his version of the story.

“This foolish girl owes us money,” he spat.

I stood frozen, my breath shallow, my chest tight. I wanted to cry, to scream—but that would have given them exactly what they wanted.

And all I wanted… was to get away from them.

Before he could finish his sentence, Zayn stepped forward, grabbed my father by the throat, and pinned him in place.

“Listen,” he said coldly, “if you want to leave here in one piece and avoid going to jail, you’d do well to keep your mouth shut.”

Within seconds, five bodyguards materialized from the corners—the guys’ men.

Zayn turned to look at me; and when he saw my face, he drew in a slow breath before adding, “And you’d do well to forget Thalia exists.”

He shoved my father hard. The man staggered, nearly losing his balance. Both my parents stood frozen, hatred carved into their features, but neither dared to speak.

One of the bodyguards seized them and dragged them toward a side exit.

The corridor swallowed them whole. The harsh lights and the murmur of the party closed in again, but the aftertaste of adrenaline and shame lingered, thick and bitter.

“Jesus, Thalia,” Zayn breathed after I told him everything—how and where I grew up, the conditions we lived in, the way my parents treated me, what happened after I finally managed to leave, and the threats that followed when I stopped sending them money.

What surprised me most was that I didn’t feel ashamed. Not even for a second. There wasn’t a trace of disgust or pity on his face.

Instead, there was horror. Anger. And even compassion. The kind that didn’t make you feel small, but seen. The kind you offer someone you care about when they have been through hell.

“I wish I had been there for you from the start,” he said softly, his fingers threading gently through my hair.

We sat in his Ferrari for a long time. After pulling me out of the building, he didn’t say a word—he simply took my hand, guided me to his car, opened the passenger door, helped me in, and started driving.

I could tell how furious he was from the way his hands tightened around the steering wheel, from the uneven rhythm of his breathing. But he stayed silent. He let me cry, gave me all the time I needed, until the words began to spill out on their own.

I showed him the marks my father left one night with a cigarette—two small burns on my right hip. I showed him the thin scar from a knife, the one my mother gave me when she lost her temper because there was no food in the fridge.

I was three when my father burned me. Six, maybe, when my mother cut me.

Zayn suddenly pulled the car over. The tires hissed softly against the asphalt as he brought it to a stop, then slammed his fist against the dashboard. The sound reverberated through the confined space.

But I didn’t flinch.

I knew where that anger came from. It wasn’t directed at me—it was meant for them. For everything they did. And if they had been there, I had no doubt he would have destroyed them without hesitation.

From the moment I met the Thomas and Hardy brothers, I had never once felt unsafe.

And sitting there beside him, I felt… lighter. As if something inside me finally cracked open, letting the darkness drain away.