“You just threw his dinner at him.”
“He was being disrespectful!”
Adrian took a slow breath.
“Then you discuss the behavior. You don't throw food at a child.”
Vanessa laughed bitterly.
“You have absolutely no idea what I deal with while you're away.”
He looked at her.
“Apparently, I don't.”
She stepped closer.
“Malik has been testing every boundary since we got married. He refuses to accept me as part of this family. He deliberately embarrasses me in front of guests, and now you're rewarding him by turning me into the villain.”
Adrian looked toward Camille.
She immediately lowered her eyes.
Then he looked toward Zuri.
The little girl was staring at her untouched plate.
Her hands were trembling beneath the table.
Something about that frightened him more than Vanessa's anger.
He turned back toward Malik.
“Come on, son.”
Malik looked up.
“Where?”
“Let's get you cleaned up.”
The boy hesitated.
“Am I in trouble?”
Adrian felt as though someone had struck him in the chest.
“No.”
Malik stared.
Adrian's voice softened.
“No, son. You're not in trouble.”
For a moment, the boy seemed unable to understand the answer.
Then he slowly stood.
As he rose, Adrian noticed how loosely his jeans hung around his waist.
Malik had always been lean, but his shoulders looked narrower than Adrian remembered.
His face seemed thinner.
And when he stood beside the chair, he briefly rested one hand against the table as though he needed to steady himself.
Adrian reached toward him.
Malik flinched.
The movement was small.
Almost invisible.
But Adrian saw it.
He stopped immediately.
Then lowered his hand.
“It's okay.”
Malik nodded.
He looked ashamed.
Adrian wanted to ask why.
Why his own son reacted to an ordinary movement with fear.
Why he was standing in a beautiful dining room covered in food.
Why his plate had been empty while everyone else's was full.
And why Vanessa seemed more concerned about defending herself than checking whether the boy was hurt.
Before he could speak, the front door opened.
Footsteps sounded across the marble entrance hall.
Then a familiar voice called from the doorway.
“Adrian?”
His mother.
Evelyn Brooks.
Sixty-eight years old, a retired school principal with silver-streaked black hair, warm brown eyes, and a quiet authority that had once intimidated an entire building of teenagers.
She entered wearing a cream-colored cardigan over a navy blouse, dark trousers, and low black shoes.
She was carrying her phone.
And when she saw Malik standing beside the table with pasta across his clothes, her face changed.