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.
The car glided down the long driveway lined with marble statues, the grand estate looming larger with every passing second. It sat perched like a silent judge, glass windows reflecting the storm clouds that seemed to follow Zane home. The chauffeur parked without a word, stepping out to open the door. Zane slid out, his shoes clicking softly on the stone path. His mother stepped past him first, heels sharp against the marble, head held high. His father followed, the weight of expectation pressing down with every step. Lily trailed behind, eyes still low, silent as a shadow.
They entered the house in single file, a silent parade beneath vaulted ceilings and glittering chandeliers. The walls whispered with old portraits of ancestors who stared down with the same cold eyes. Zane kept his head down, clutching the crumpled paper tighter in his pocket. He could feel the weight of the house pressing on his shoulders, every inch screaming that he didn't belong. He wasn't like them. He didn't want the business empire or the boardrooms. He wanted music. He wanted his songs.
His father's voice cut through the air as they reached the grand staircase. "My study. Now."
Zane followed without a word, his small feet sinking into the thick carpet. The door to his father's study loomed ahead—dark wood, brass handle, polished like everything else in this perfect house. His father opened it and stepped inside. Zane crossed the threshold and felt the familiar chill settle over him.
The office was a cage of leather chairs, towering shelves of law books, and the faint scent of cigars. His father stood behind a massive desk, fingers steepled, eyes sharp.
"You embarrassed this family today," his father said, voice low but firm. "Is this how a Lockwood behaves? Picking fights in school? Making scenes?"
Zane swallowed hard. His fingers itched for the scrap of paper in his pocket, but he forced them still. "He hurt Lily," he said quietly.
His father's eyes narrowed. "That is for the teachers to handle. Not you."
Zane clenched his fists. The words burned on his tongue, but he swallowed them down. His father watched him for a long moment, then leaned back in his chair.
"You will apologize to the principal. You will not speak of this again. Do you understand?"
Zane gave a tight nod. His father gave a curt wave of dismissal. "Go."
Zane turned and left, the door closing with a soft click behind him. The weight lifted just enough for him to breathe. He moved down the hallway, away from the study, away from the judging stares of oil paintings and silent halls.
At the far end of the east wing, past the music room no one used, Zane slipped inside quietly. The grand piano stood in the corner, keys untouched, gleaming under the soft afternoon light. He crossed to it slowly, heart thudding. He pulled out the crumpled paper from his pocket, smoothing it on the glossy black surface.
His small fingers touched the keys, tentative at first, then stronger. A soft melody echoed in the empty room, fragile but real. It wasn't much—but it was his. His song. His voice. His choice.
For the first time that day, Zane smiled.keeping Lily as a girl from another wealthy family, not a Lockwood, while preserving the depth of their relationship and the emotional weight of the scene:
The piano keys hummed beneath their fingertips — soft, hesitant notes strung together by two kids too young to carry the weight the world had placed on their shoulders. Zane let the melody guide his hands, the sound wrapping around him like armor against everything else.
Beside him, Lily played with careful fingers, glancing at him now and then, as if afraid she might ruin the moment. They didn't speak much after that first song. They didn't have to. In that quiet room, among silent portraits and locked doors, music became the only truth either of them had.
But morning always comes.
The knock on Zane's door was soft but sharp. He was already dressed when his father's voice slipped through the wood. "Get ready. The principal is expecting us."
No anger. No shouting. Just expectation — the Lockwood way.
The ride back to the school felt longer than it had the day before. Zane sat in silence beside his father, eyes locked on the blur of iron gates and neat hedges sliding past the car windows. He could feel the apology rehearsing itself in his head, every word fed to him like lines in a play.
At the school, the principal met them with that same business-like nod. His office smelled of old books and polished wood. Zane stood in front of the desk, hands folded in front of him, eyes on the floor.
"I'm sorry for causing trouble yesterday," Zane said, his voice even, rehearsed. "It won't happen again."
The principal gave a slow nod, almost satisfied. "We expect better from Lockwoods."
Zane didn't flinch, though the words sank like ice. The meeting ended with a handshake he was too small to fill. His father said nothing until they reached the car.
"See to it you don't forget today," his father said quietly. "Lockwoods don't fight other people's battles."
Zane nodded. Because that's what Lockwoods did — they nodded, smiled, and followed the script.
But that night, the words burned inside him.
He found Lily on the terrace, sitting in the stone chair with her arms wrapped around her knees. The sunset cast a soft glow on the garden walls, making everything look gentler than it was.
She wasn't family. She wasn't a Lockwood. She came from one of those other old-money families — the ones that shared silent dinners at galas and smiled over business deals. They called her a "family friend," though Zane knew how much weight the word "friend" really carried among people like them.
She didn't look up when he came over, but she didn't move away either.
"You didn't tell them," Zane said, his voice quiet but edged with something sharp.
Lily hugged her knees tighter. "I was scared."
"Of him?" Zane asked. He knew the answer before she whispered it.
"Yes."
He exhaled through his nose, staring at the floor between them. "They think I'm some spoiled Lockwood kid who picks fights for fun. And you sat there and let them."
Lily flinched. "I'm sorry."
Zane wanted to hold on to his anger, let it build inside him, but when he looked at her — really looked — he saw something that pulled him back. Her fear wasn't of him. It wasn't even of his parents. It was of a life too big for either of them to hold.
"You're supposed to have my back," he said. His voice cracked a little.
Lily blinked, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "I will. I… I'll tell the truth."
Zane studied her for a long moment. "You sure?"
She nodded, a small, trembling motion. "I don't want you to take the blame for me. Not again."
He nodded once. "Okay."
The next morning felt different. For once, the Lockwoods weren't leading the conversation. Lily stood in front of the principal's desk, hands shaking but voice clear.
"It wasn't Zane's fault," she said. "That boy… he pulled my hair. He called me names. Zane told him to stop. He didn't… so Zane pushed him."
The room fell silent.
The principal glanced at Zane's father, whose face remained a mask. The man said nothing. The principal leaned forward. "I see."
Lily's voice dropped but didn't break. "I didn't speak up. I should have."
For a long moment, no one spoke. Zane's heart hammered in his chest, but not out of fear — not this time.
The principal gave a small nod. "Thank you for your honesty, Miss Sinclair."
The meeting ended quietly, but the air in the room had shifted. The perfect Lockwood image had cracked — not shattered, but cracked enough for a little truth to slip through.
Outside, as they walked toward the waiting car, Zane felt lighter than he had in days. Lily walked beside him, not behind, not ahead — beside him.
When they reached the steps, she touched his arm. "I'm sorry I didn't say something sooner."
Zane gave her a small smile. "You did now. That's what matters."
And maybe, just maybe, things didn't have to stay the way they always had.