The father's hand, still shaking from the anger of the call, slowly lowers the phone. His chest heaves with ragged breaths, and his piercing gaze darts to the corner of the room.
There, on the hospital bed, is his daughter. She's curled up, knees drawn tightly to her chest, arms wrapped around them like a protective barrier. Her once-radiant face is now marred by swelling and faint bruises, her beauty tarnished by violence.
She won't meet anyone's eyes, staring intently at the sterile tiles beneath her feet, her lips trembling in silence.
For the first time that night, the man's expression wavers not as an angry father seeking revenge, but as a heartbroken dad. His voice softens, cutting through the heavy atmosphere.
"...Who could have done this to you?" he asks, almost in a whisper. His fists clench, veins bulging in his hands. "Who had the audacity to lay hands on my precious daughter… to mar that beautiful face of yours?"
The mother turns away from Regan's bedside, her tear-filled eyes darting between her husband and daughter. The room feels like it's closing in, the rhythmic beeping of machines echoing behind them, like a clock counting down to an inevitable storm.
The girl remains silent her quietness heavier than any scream.
The father steps closer, placing a hand on her trembling shoulder, his rage simmering just beneath the surface. "Tell me their name," he growls, his voice low and menacing. "And I will ensure the world remembers what happens when you cross this family."
On the bed, Amara could feel every gaze on her. The lights above buzzed softly, and the gentle hum of the ventilator seemed to echo louder than usual in the stillness.
She pulled her knees closer, her breath coming in shallow gasps, until a memory flickered behind her eyelids the sharp click of Liliana's phone, the smug grin when he'd revealed the pictures, and the whispered threat, "You snitch and you're finished," which had become a toxic loop in her mind.
Her fingers dug into the blanket. The pain flared up, fierce and real, but she tucked it away like a piece of cooled coal. She had mastered the art of hiding her feelings, learning how to take a hit while making the world believe she was the one dishing it out.
Her father's voice cut through the moment, sharp and demanding. "Who did this to you?"
Amara lifted her head, forcing a practiced small smile the kind she used to shut down conversations. It felt like a mask she had worn countless times before. Her voice came out steady, laced with a brittle humor. "Nobody did this to me," she replied, short and clipped. "I'm fine. Don't worry about me."
Her mother's hand left Regan's sheet to grasp hers for a moment, searching her face as if trying to find proof in the curve of her cheek. Her father's jaw tightened; for a brief second, the hard line in his eyes wavered with suspicion. He wanted a name, a target, a reason. Amara let him search for it, offering nothing in return.
Inside, the knot in her chest tightened. The lie was a shield, protecting the plan, the boys who had already caused enough harm, and most importantly, her own status. On the outside, she appeared composed; on the inside, she was strategizing how to keep it that way.
"Tell me the truth," her father urged gently, his tone softer now, as if his fear for her might coax a confession.
Amara let the silence linger, then managed another smile smaller, colder. "Really. It's nothing." Her voice remained steady.
He studied her for a long moment, then closed his mouth, either unwilling or unable to pry the answer from her.
The phone in the father's pocket buzzed again, sharp and insistent, cutting through the chaos of the hospital room. Regan's cries faded into a ragged whimper, while his mother's sobs were muffled against the boy's chest. But the father, with a practiced hand, pulled out the phone and jabbed the screen to answer.
"Who is it?" he barked, his voice low and rough from earlier shouting. His eyes flicked briefly to Amara; her blank, masked expression gnawed at him, but he forced himself to focus on the call.
The reply on the other end was muffled, distorted by static. The father's expression shifted, his brows knitting tighter. "What? The guardian… of the psycho girl?" he muttered, disbelief creeping into his voice. "What could they possibly—"
The voice on the line interrupted him, speaking quickly, sharply, with authority. His jaw clenched as the words poured into his ear, painting an unexpected picture that made him fight back a surge of anger.
"What do you mean?" he hissed, turning slightly away from the bed, his grip on the phone tightening until his knuckles turned white. His eyes darted to the hallway, then back to his children one broken in bed, the other pretending to be fine. His breathing slowed, heavy with the weight of the decision being thrust upon him.
For a long, tense moment, he remained silent. Then, with a sharp exhale that sounded almost like surrender, he muttered into the receiver, "Fine… I'll do as you say."
He ended the call with a click, lowering the phone but hesitating to put it away. His gaze lingered on the black screen, his reflection faint and distorted in the glass. For the first time that night, his rage was replaced by something else hesitation.
The mother glanced up from Regan's bedside, her voice barely above a whisper, trembling with worry. "Who was it?"
The father tucked his phone back into his pocket, his face a mask of neutrality. "We're about to find out."
The city was buzzing with neon lights, but the building in front of them stood out, darker than the rest, its tinted windows swallowing the glow of the streetlights. The mother stayed close to her husband, gripping her purse tightly, her eyes betraying her anxiety.
"Honey…" she murmured, her voice wavering, as if the words were a struggle to get out.
The father didn't even look her way. He walked with purpose, chin held high, his hand slipping into the pocket of his tailored suit. "Don't give it too much thought," he said, his tone firm and almost dismissive. "It's just intimidation. A meeting outside the school? Hmph. Pathetic. Ridiculous."
He slowed down as they reached the wide glass doors, his reflection staring back at him. A slight smirk played on his lips as he adjusted his tie.
"I am Lachlan Barker," he said quietly, but with a pride that dripped with disdain. "Of Empress. Let's see just how 'high-tier' they really think they are."
With that, he pushed the doors open, his wife trailing behind him, hesitant. They stepped inside, their figures swallowed by the shadows of the grand lobby.
Above them, unnoticed, a glowing sign stretched across the top floor of the building, its letters sharp and bright against the night:
CROWN ENTERTAINMENT GROUP.
The night air was thick with silence, as if the city itself felt the weight of those words.