But in the end, she said nothing.

She forced herself to swallow the questions burning in her throat. Keeping her lashes lowered, she murmured, "Yes, I understand."

The conversation was over.

"It’s getting late," Teresa said, her voice devoid of warmth. "You should get some sleep."

Arianna gave a soft, noncommittal hum.

"Hang up then," Teresa said, sensing Arianna’s mood and letting out an impatient sigh. "Arianna, you aren't a child anymore. Try to be more mature."

Arianna’s hand paused. Her fingertip hovered over the red icon on the screen.

She wanted to respond like she always did—with a compliant, well-behaved "Okay, I know." But as she parted her lips, she found she couldn't force the words out.

After a few seconds of silence, her mother let out another heavy sigh and cut the line.

Arianna stood motionless, her knuckles turning white as she gripped her phone. In the echo of that sigh, she heard the silent resentment: *Why can't you just grow up? It’s just a birthday. Why do you have to be so difficult?*

Arianna wasn't being difficult. She just wanted a birthday where her mother was actually present.

She had lived with her grandmother, Rosemary, since elementary school. After her parents divorced, neither had wanted to be burdened with a "tagalong" child. Within a year, both had remarried and started new families. Arianna became a relic of a life they’d discarded.

While other kids were clinging to their parents for comfort, she had only Rosemary. It was Rosemary who bought her new clothes, snacks, and beautiful dolls; it was Rosemary who walked her to school and cared for every scrape and fever, raising her step by step.

Every year, Rosemary would call her parents and invite them to celebrate Arianna’s birthday.

They never came. Yet, Rosemary kept dialing that number every year.

Once, even a neighbor couldn't stand to watch it anymore. "Why put yourself through this?" the neighbor had asked. "You call every year, and they never show up. They’ve probably forgotten they even have a daughter."

Rosemary had smoothed her hair, opened her address book to a different page, and whispered to the neighbor, "Keep your voice down. Don't let Arianna hear you." She paused, her eyes misty. "What if... what if they finally decide to come? Every child wants to be loved by their parents, and Arianna is no different."

Arianna, hiding behind the door, had heard the entire thing—the casual indifference of her parents on the other end, the impatience in their voices, and the quiet, desperate hope in her grandmother’s tone.

From that day on, she never mentioned the word "parents" in front of Rosemary again.

Now, Arianna stared down at her screen.

*How much more mature am I supposed to be?* she thought. *I’ve already done my part.* She had grown up, finished school, and built a life, all without them. They had never contributed an ounce to her existence, and she had never complained.

Wasn't that "mature" enough?

***

On the way back, Arianna received a text from her father. They only had each other’s numbers; they didn't even use the same messaging apps. He never reached out, and she didn't bother to initiate.

The text was brief: [Sweetheart, I’m out of town on business again and can't make it back for your birthday. Wishing you a happy birthday in advance. Hope you have a wonderful day.]

Arianna felt a bitter twist in her stomach. He was even more ruthless than her mother—he didn't even bother to change the excuse.

For over a decade, without fail, he was always "out of town on business" on the day of her birthday. What she found most laughable was the performance. After ten years of total silence, they still clung to this hollow social ritual.

It was a cruel, exhausting charade. It left her clinging to the false hope that she was loved. It forced her to live in a cycle of expectation and shattering disappointment, over and over, until she felt like she was drowning.

Nobody loved her. Not even the two people who gave her life.

Arianna felt a numbness settling into her heart. On a whim of self-destruction, she scrolled back to last year’s message. She felt a cold, jagged spike of irony when she realized that the two texts were identical—right down to the punctuation.

...

She didn't remember how she made it back. But when she caught the flash of surprise and panic in Maxwell King’s eyes, she knew she must have looked completely shattered.

She felt like a child again—the way the other parents used to warn their kids not to play with her, calling her a "wild child" who would surely turn out wrong because she lacked a "proper upbringing."

Arianna sat in her chair, feeling exposed and unsteady. She wanted to say something to Maxwell and just leave, but when she turned, he was gone. The seat beside her was empty.

Suddenly, she felt a wave of warmth settle over her shoulders.

She turned. Maxwell had returned and was now leaning over her, carefully draping his bespoke suit jacket over her frame. He wasn't the calm, collected man from moments ago. He looked visibly rattled.

His eyes were dark as ink, his jaw set in a hard, dangerous line. He looked genuinely furious, as if he were holding back a storm.

Arianna blinked, startled. "What’s wrong?"

"What?"

She studied his expression. "You look... really upset."

Maxwell already knew what had happened. Cameron Hughes had once bragged about Arianna’s history to him. It wasn't just the divorce; Cameron had detailed how her parents used the same excuses every birthday, treating her upbringing like a punchline.

At the time, Cameron had been careless, as if he were sharing a funny story. He’d even added, "Can you believe people like that exist? Just abandoning their own kid? If I told my parents, they wouldn't believe it."

Cameron had expected Maxwell to laugh along. Instead, Maxwell’s usual relaxed demeanor vanished. His face went cold, and he said sharply, "Cameron, Arianna told you those things because she trusted you. It isn't your place to broadcast them or pick at her scars."

Cameron had been taken aback, waving a hand dismissively. "Relax, she doesn't know my friends. She’ll never find out."

Maxwell had looked him dead in the eye. "If you keep spreading this, I will tell her myself."

Cameron was secretly intimidated by Maxwell. Beyond his father’s constant lectures about the importance of currying favor with the King family, there was the simple fact that Maxwell was terrifying when he dropped his mask. He had an innate, crushing authority that made the air feel thin.

Cameron had folded immediately. "Fine, fine. I got it. I won't say anything."

Maxwell hadn't said anything further, but he’d probed for every detail of her life, and Cameron, unnerved, had spilled everything.

That night, Maxwell had sent a recording of that conversation to Cameron with a warning: *If you keep talking, I won't hesitate to send this to Arianna.*

Perhaps because he was so worried, Maxwell had been unable to hide his reaction. And perhaps, through that very recording, Cameron had finally realized he’d crossed a line he couldn't walk back from.