"I suppose that's what truly binds this family together—our relentless refusal to accept anything less than the truth," Angel said, her voice soft but steady, as though each word carried the weight of generations.
There was a quiet power in her tone as she stood there, eyes fixed on Mason with unwavering calm. Her hand, which had been resting loosely at her side, slowly crossed over her chest, folding into the other in a gesture of quiet resolve.
The room seemed to still for a moment, as if even the air was listening.
Across from her, Mason's gaze locked with Ava's. The silence between them stretched, charged with tension so thick it felt like it could snap at any second.
His eyes bore into hers, not with anger, but with something deeper—an unspoken intensity, like he was searching her soul for answers only he could sense. Ava didn't flinch, but her breath caught slightly, as though she, too, could feel the invisible current pulsing between them.
Just as the atmosphere teetered on the edge of confrontation, Amelia's gentle cough broke the spell, a subtle but intentional disruption. She stepped forward, her voice a soft balm to the brewing storm.
"You know what?" she began, her tone light yet firm, as she moved with grace toward the center of the room. "Instead of all this, why don't we take a step back and actually get to know one another? Not through whispers or assumptions, not through what Ethan says or doesn't say. I want to hear it directly—from you, Ava. I want to know who my daughter truly is, from her own heart."
Her words hung in the air like a lifeline, bridging the emotional chasm that had started to form. She reached for Ava's hand gently, her touch reassuring, maternal—a small gesture that carried so much unspoken warmth.
Ava blinked, slightly startled, and turned to face Amelia. Her guarded expression softened into a tentative smile, one that held both uncertainty and hope.
With a silent nod, she allowed herself to be guided toward the lounge area. The others followed, a quiet truce settling over them like a gentle mist after a storm.
As they found their seats, the household staff moved with quiet efficiency, bringing out a tray of simple yet elegant appetizers. The aroma was warm and inviting, the presentation thoughtful.
"Oh… thanks," Ava murmured, accepting a delicate cup and sipping from it with care.
She sat between Amelia and Rebecca now, their eyes filled with genuine curiosity—not judgment, but an open desire to listen. For the first time that day, she felt the flicker of something unexpected: belonging.
Across the room, Mason stood apart, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He didn't sit, didn't speak. But he watched. And whatever he was thinking, he kept it to himself—for now.
Mason strode silently over to the bar counter, his movements precise, calculated. The bartender, sensing his presence, immediately reached for a crystal glass and began to pour.
The amber liquid flowed smoothly, catching the light just enough to glint like fire. Mason took the glass without a word, swirling the whiskey with a slow, deliberate motion as he cast a hard, unreadable stare in Ava's direction.
His gaze was sharp—dangerous even—like he was dissecting her from afar, trying to peel back the layers of her presence with nothing but his eyes. Then, with a small tilt of his head, he brought the glass to his lips and took a measured sip.
Back in the lounge, the tension had dulled into something more curious. Amelia turned toward Ava with a sudden spark in her expression, her voice bright with interest.
"So," she said, leaning in just a little, "tell me your name again. And your mother's. I want to hear everything—straight from you this time."
The excitement in Amelia's tone was genuine, but for Ava, the question landed with a thud. Her posture stiffened slightly, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her glass. She didn't answer immediately.
Instead, her eyes flicked—just for a heartbeat—toward Ethan.
Why?
Because this wasn't in the script.
In all the careful planning, all the whispered rehearsals and late-night strategy, Ethan had never told her what name to use. He hadn't told her what version of her story to tell, or what lies would hold up against the truth these people already knew. And that terrified her.
Because Ava knew something that Ethan might not have fully accounted for: her past wasn't buried as deep as he assumed.
If she said the wrong name, gave the wrong detail—if even a single thread unraveled—they might recognize her. Not as the girl standing before them, but as the girl from the past.
But then again… wasn't it easier, maybe even wiser, to just ride the current? To let the moment carry them forward, pretending that the answers would sort themselves out eventually?
For a fleeting second, Ava wondered if surrendering to the unknown might be simpler than resisting it.
"Hm… I'm Ava Patel," she finally said, her voice quiet but steady, forcing a polite smile onto her lips.
It was thin and practiced, the kind of smile that tried too hard to hide fear.
"Patel," Rebecca echoed softly, repeating the name as if turning it over in her mind.
Her eyes didn't narrow in suspicion—but they didn't glaze over either. There was something pensive in her expression, a quiet consideration that made Ava's stomach twist.
Ava could feel the air shift again. The stillness that followed was thick, almost unnatural. Her mind raced. Was this it?
Had the name triggered something? Would they see through the carefully constructed facade? Her fingers clenched slightly against the fabric of her dress.
And then, like a sudden crack of thunder, a voice pierced the silence.
"Doesn't that sound… a bit familiar?"
The words cut through the room, slow and sharp, each syllable heavy with implication.
All eyes turned as Mason stepped forward, his movements deliberate and commanding. The click of his shoes against the polished floor echoed with authority, each stride bringing him closer. He didn't rush—he didn't need to. His presence alone seemed to fill the space, pressing down on Ava like a weight she wasn't ready to carry.
Her breath caught in her throat.
This was it. Her heart pounded like a warning bell in her chest, the edges of her thoughts fraying into panic. She sat frozen, caught in the tightening grip of fear.
Was this how it all unraveled? Was this moment her undoing?
"Oh, leave it, son. You talk far too much," Rebecca said suddenly, her tone light but firm, cutting through the rising tension before Mason could press further.
Her interruption was subtle, almost casual, but the timing was deliberate—an unspoken command to back down.
Ava exhaled, barely realizing she'd been holding her breath. Relief washed over her in waves, though her nerves still clung tightly to her spine. She managed a small nod, her voice barely audible.
"Actually… that's alright," she murmured, almost more to herself than to anyone else.
Slowly, she lifted her gaze, locking eyes with Mason across the room. There was a flicker of something defiant in her eyes—tired, but still fighting. She offered him a faint smile, then gave a slow shake of her head.
"I'm sorry, but… I think you might have mistaken me for someone else," Ava said, the lie slipping from her tongue like smoke—thin, evasive, and impossible to take back.
But deep down, the fear gnawed at her. Why had she lied? Why couldn't she just say the truth?
Because the truth, she reminded herself, had a cost. One she couldn't afford. These people wielded influence—status, wealth, control. And she… she had nothing.
Just a name, a shadow of a past, and the constant fear that any misstep would send it all crashing down.
"Your parents must have been good people… to have raised someone like you," Rebecca said gently, offering Ava a warm, genuine smile.
Ava turned to her, nodding slowly. The compliment stung more than it soothed.
"Yeah… you're right," she replied, her voice quiet and unsure. It felt wrong to say, but necessary.
Then Amelia leaned in again, cheerful and curious, clearly eager to connect.
"You know what?" she said with a spark in her eyes. "Why don't you tell me about your parents? I'd love to hear more about them."
And just like that, the air in Ava's lungs turned cold.
Her eyes met Amelia's, and in that moment, she realized she had no story ready—no lies rehearsed about the two people whose names she hadn't dared to speak aloud in years.
"Actually… the thing is… my parents are dead," Ava said softly, her voice just above a whisper, each word carefully placed like stepping stones across a fragile silence.
The room fell still.
A heavy pause hung in the air, not just from the weight of her words, but from the subtle shift they triggered—something that neither accusation nor kindness could quite touch.
Even the faint clinking of cutlery and glass from the distant kitchen seemed to halt, as though the house itself had drawn in a breath.
Amelia's cheerful expression faltered for the briefest second, replaced by something softer—gentler—as she blinked and nodded with understanding.
Rebecca glanced down, her fingers gently brushing her lap, as if to smooth away the discomfort that now lingered like fog.
Ava stared down at the glass in her hands, heart pounding, throat tightening. She hadn't expected the words to sting so much—even if they were part truth, part shield. For a second, she wished she hadn't said anything at all.
But she had.
And now she had to carry the silence that came after.