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Hours pass. Still, Thalia hasn’t appeared. I realize she’s not in the bathroom, but I don’t ask anyone. I refuse to draw attention, refuse to risk confirmation that she left with someone. I’ve never inquired about her before, why start now?

Then, as if reading my thoughts, Sierra says, “I think Thalia lied to us.”

All eyes move toward her, and Nick asks, “About what, baby?”

“She didn’t have any work emergency, I’m sure of it,” Sierra responds, her tone firm. “She left too abruptly. Something’s off, and I tried convincing myself I was overreacting, but I have this weird feeling.”

“What do you think could have happened?” Colt asks, tension edging his voice.

“I don’t know,” Sierra admits, phone in hand. “I keep calling her, but she’s not answering. I’ve sent her three messages since she left and none of them have been answered, not even seen.”

“What if…” Aiden hesitates.

“What?” Ryan probes.

“If she’s with Zayn?” Aiden finishes, letting the question hang in the air.

Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence. Nobody moves. We all understand what Aiden means, but refuse to accept it.

“Where is Zayn?” I demand, already knowing the answer.

No reply. So I repeat, sharp and firm, “Where?”

Suddenly, my phone vibrates on the table. The screen reads Commissioner.

A chill runs down my spine. Few things make me feel this way. I know immediately where Zayn is. The Commissioner calling can’t be a coincidence.

Everyone’s eyes follow mine, wide with mirrored dread.

I force myself to stay calm, lift the phone, and answer.

“Commissioner,” I say.

“Mr. Hardy,” his voice is tight, serious, yet restrained. “I’m sorry to bother you, but…” He pauses, the delay stretching, infuriating me. I hate when people start saying something and then stop. Say what you want, what you need. Just say it.

“Zayn Thomas…” The name hits like a hammer. My body stiffens, heart dropping like a stone.

“What’s wrong with Zayn?” I demand, voice rising. “Tell me.”

“He’s been arrested for participating in an illegal street race,” the Commissioner replies.

For the first time since my phone buzzed, I exhale, long and slow, as if I’d been holding my breath under a mountain of pressure. Every muscle in my body loosens. Jesus. I want to rip Zayn apart with my bare hands. Him and his reckless, stupid races.

I lift my gaze, and the scene around the table freezes. Liam’s knuckles press white into the edge of the table, his jaw clenched so tight it looks like it might break. Sierra’s eyes glisten, tears forming even as she tries to blink them away. Nick’s hands twitch on the table; he’s trying to steady Sierra, but the fear in his eyes mirrors hers.

“Speak,” Colt snaps, voice piercing, trembling with the same raw panic that threads through the rest of us.

“Arrested,” I say, each syllable clipped, hard-edged, a single word meant to anchor them, to stop the flood of chaos before it overtakes the table.

“Fucking hell,” Chase mutters under his breath, low and guttural.

“I’m going to fucking kill him,” Liam groans, leaning back against the chair, fists flexing, body taut, ready to spring.

Sierra exhales softly, shakily, as if she’s teaching herself to breathe again. Nick shifts, jaw tight, caught in a tension that makes his fingers twitch, unsure whether to laugh or storm out after Zayn.

“He’s not alone,” the Commissioner continues, voice heavy with meaning. “A woman is with him.”

My stomach drops. My blood heats, pulse spiking.