My mother stepped into the doorway behind her, still wearing pearls, still carrying that polished hostess posture she had perfected over five years of spending my money as if it had dropped from the sky instead of being earned by my sweat. For one stretched, unbearable second, nobody said a word. Then Noah looked up from the cracked plastic plate in his lap, saw me standing there, and went so still it made my chest hurt.
I probably should have looked at my mother first.
I probably should have demanded answers from my sister, or asked why the woman I had worked half a decade to protect was sitting in a service kitchen with a torn dress and spoiled rice while wealthy guests drank imported wine ten feet away. But my eyes went exactly where they belonged.
They went to Ava.
She stared at me like I was a ghost her body recognized before her mind could trust it.
Her lips parted. Her fingers tightened around the spoon. Then the smallest sound slipped out of her mouth—not even my name at first, just a broken breath—and something inside me collapsed under the weight of it.
I dropped to my knees in front of Noah.