Beneath the cold glitter of a massive crystal chandelier, two families sat arranged on opposite plush velvet sofas. On one side, Barret Blackwell, a man whose stern face was a roadmap of hard decisions, his posture rigid in a high-backed chair. Beside him, his daughter Lacy perched on the edge of her seat, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, offering a small, nervous smile toward the other sofa.

On the other side sat the Colburns. Y/n’s father, a man with a carefully neutral expression, and her mother, whose knuckles were white where they gripped her purse. Between them was an empty space, saved.

Maverick Blackwell stepped through first, shrugging off his damp coat without looking, letting it be caught by the silent, sharp-eyed man—Rio—who followed a step behind. Maverick’s gaze swept the room, a quick, assessing glance that lingered for a fraction of a second on the empty space between the Colburns.