"Actually… the thing is… my parents are dead," Ava murmured, her voice barely breaking through the silence, soft as the wind through brittle leaves.
Each syllable left her lips slowly, deliberately—like stones delicately placed across the surface of a frozen lake, threatening to crack with the weight of truth.
The room fell still.
In that instant, the air around them seemed to shift, charged with a weight none of them had anticipated. Her words, though gently spoken, landed like a thunderclap. Both Amelia and Rebecca stiffened, their earlier remarks lingering in the space between them like smoke—sharp, regrettable, and impossible to take back.
Amelia, stunned for only a breath, reached out instinctively. Her hands, once folded primly in her lap, now extended toward Ava with a kind of hesitant tenderness. She encircled Ava gently, as if afraid that holding her too tightly might shatter something already cracked beyond repair. Then, guiding her with maternal insistence, she turned Ava's face to meet her own.
"Look at me, dear," she said softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from Ava's cheek.
Her voice trembled under the weight of emotion, and she offered a smile—strained, sorrowful, carrying the unmistakable taste of pity beneath its surface.
"If you ever need anything… anything at all… please remember this: you're not alone. You have us. We're your family. Always."
Ava's lips twitched—just slightly—fighting to form a smile that never quite arrived. Her eyes shimmered, but not with gratitude.
Because in that moment, above all else, she knew the truth she couldn't speak aloud: the people sitting beside her, cloaked in warm words and soft expressions, were the very same ones who had caused her deepest wounds. And now, to wear a smile and pretend those words gave her comfort felt like a betrayal of everything she had endured. Internally, she recoiled—even as she nodded, even as she let herself be held.
The mask she wore was convincing, but beneath it, the truth simmered like a storm waiting for its time to break.
But then, with those six quiet words, Ava struck a chord in everyone present—an invisible thread that pulled taut across the table.
Even Ethan, who had sat with arms folded and a gaze like stone, found his eyes softening. For a fleeting second, pity replaced calculation in his expression, and his thoughts wandered—wondering what tragic chain of events had taken her parents from her. And more importantly, whether involving her in something as ruthless as this had been a grave misstep.
Before the silence could collapse under the weight of sorrow, Ava hurried to interject.
"You really don't need to worry," she said, forcing a brightness into her tone that didn't quite reach her eyes.
Ava nodded slightly and added with a rehearsed calm, "Besides, both my sister and I have been doing just fine since they passed. We've survived on our own for years, so… there's really nothing much to be concerned about."
The words were smooth, almost too smooth—as if she was trying to shrink the moment down, to coax sympathy without seeming vulnerable. But as they hung in the air, they hit someone else harder than intended.
Mason.
"So… you're not from a rich family," he said bluntly, his voice heavy, loaded with implication.
It wasn't a question.
Ava's stomach sank.
His tone told her everything she needed to know—this wasn't going to go well. She knew the type of man Mason was: hungry, ambitious, and utterly unsentimental.
If he caught even a hint of weakness or uselessness, he'd act without hesitation. And now that he knew she wasn't wealthy, wasn't connected, she could already see the wheels turning—gears grinding behind his cold stare as he silently plotted how to twist Ethan's opinion against her.
Part of her wanted that.
Part of her craved rejection—just enough to escape the suffocating pretense of love and unity. These people, after all, were the very same ones responsible for so much of her hidden anguish. Leaving them would be a kind of relief. A release.
But then there was Liam.
The thought of what Liam would do—how he'd react if she backed out now—froze her in place. He wouldn't let her go easily. No, he'd make sure she paid for it. And Ava, despite everything she had endured, wasn't ready for that kind of pain.
So she smiled again—thin, hollow, practiced—and sat a little straighter, saying nothing, even as the table around her brimmed with unspoken tension.
Ava had plans—carefully constructed hopes stacked upon every dollar she was promised. The money wasn't just an opportunity; it was her lifeline. She had dreamed of a new beginning, far from this suffocating world of manipulation and veiled cruelty. Most of all, the thought of prison—or worse, death—sent a cold fear coursing through her bones. She couldn't afford to mess this up.
Forcing a smile, thin and unconvincing, she met Mason's eyes with all the courage she could summon.
"Yeah," she said boldly, though her voice trembled just beneath the surface. "I struggled to make ends meet."
But Mason didn't blink. His expression remained unreadable, until his next words fell like daggers in the room.
"In that case, don't tell me you were a slut before you met my son, were you?" he asked coldly, his voice devoid of empathy.
"Mason!" Rebecca gasped, scandalized. Her voice cracked in disbelief, her hand flying to her chest. "How dare you?"
"I'm just being cautious," Mason replied, shrugging off the shock in the room like dust from his shoulder. "Our family has a reputation to uphold. I won't see it tarnished by—"
"Father, listen—" Ethan started sharply, stepping forward, his voice laced with fury.
But Mason didn't let him finish. He raised a hand—calm, commanding.
"Not. A. Word," he said slowly, eyes locking onto his son's with steel.
Ethan's mouth remained frozen mid-protest. His fists clenched at his sides, jaw tight, eyes simmering with restrained rage. But he said nothing. He couldn't—not now.
Ava took a shaky breath. Her heart pounded, but she lifted her chin, refusing to break under Mason's glare.
"Mr. Torres, I understand," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "If your concern is about my past or the possibility of me staining your name, let me put it plainly—there is nothing for you to worry about. I'm not here to ruin your family."
Mason narrowed his eyes, his skepticism practically radiating from his expression. "And why, exactly, should I believe that? You just admitted you clawed your way up from nothing. Desperation makes people do ugly things."
Ava's lips parted, but she hesitated for a moment—just long enough for the pain to surface in her eyes. Then, with newfound resolve, she met him squarely.
"Maybe it does," she replied quietly. "But it also makes people stronger. Smarter. More loyal to those who give them a chance. I'm not asking you to trust me, Mr. Torres. I'm just asking you not to judge me before I've even had the chance to prove myself."
The room was silent again. Tense. Watching.
And yet, beneath the silence, something was shifting—fragile, but undeniable.
"But I never said I had to sleep around to survive," Ava said, her voice steady now, sharpened by pride and quiet defiance. "I worked. I took on whatever jobs came my way—waitressing, assisting in small boutiques, even handing out flyers on the street. And now," she added, holding her head high, "I'm working with an agency to build a career in the entertainment industry."
Mason's brow furrowed ever so slightly, his arms folding again as he studied her.
"In what capacity?" he asked, his tone edged with suspicion, like he was waiting for her to slip.
"I'm an aspiring model," Ava replied firmly. "That's it."
The room seemed to hold its breath. The tension that had begun to rise softened, just a little. Ava's gaze remained unflinching, and for a moment, Mason simply stared. Then, with a curt nod, he turned and walked away—his footsteps echoing with quiet finality as he exited the room.
Amelia, watching the moment unfold, quickly moved to close the emotional distance.
"I'm so sorry, dear," she said gently, reaching out with careful hands. "My husband can be… a bit much sometimes. He asks too many questions. It's his way of trying to protect the family."
Ava turned slowly to face her, her expression tight but composed. She offered a faint smile—just enough to be polite, just enough to keep the cracks from showing.
"It's alright," she murmured.
Amelia smiled back, a softness in her eyes as she tried to smooth over the tension.
"You know what," she said lightly, "why don't you tell us how you met my son? I think we all need a little change of subject."
Ava hesitated for the briefest moment, aware that all eyes were shifting back to her again. The question sounded innocent—but in this family, no question was ever truly simple.