The car rolled forward, tires humming against the polished school driveway.
Zane stared out the tinted window, his reflection staring back — a kid in a pressed blazer, knees knocking together, hands twisting the hem of his shirt. The Lockwoods said nothing. They didn't have to.
Their silence was its own language. One Zane understood too well.
At four years old, he already knew disappointment didn't come with yelling. Not in the Lockwood family. It came with glances like sharpened glass and the suffocating quiet that filled every space between them.
He pressed his forehead lightly against the window.
He wasn't sure what hurt more — that they hadn't asked *why* the principal called… or that Lily, sitting stiff beside him, wouldn't even meet his eyes.
Zane bit the inside of his cheek, forcing back the sting behind his eyes.
It wasn't even his fault this time. He'd stood up because that boy had pulled Lily's hair and called her trash. Zane didn't even swing — just shoved him back. But that didn't matter now.
Lockwoods didn't make scenes.
Lockwoods didn't cause problems.
Lockwoods inherited businesses, wore perfect suits, smiled at fundraisers, and stayed untouchable.
They didn't fight.
They didn't dream about writing songs on napkins or humming melodies on the playground.
He slid his hand into his blazer pocket, fingers brushing the folded scrap of paper — the song he scribbled at recess. He clenched it tight.
His father's voice finally broke the silence. Cold. Sharp.
"We'll discuss this later."
Zane didn't reply.
He just stared ahead as the mansion gates opened for them — gold, perfect, unforgiving.