The doorbell rings again. Two short bursts this time, as if whoever is on the other side has been holding their breath and finally let it out. Three silhouettes, still, patient. The one in the middle is the shortest, shoulders squared beneath a cardigan. The one on the right shifts their weight. The one on the left hasn't moved at all.

The tabloids are still spread across the kitchen counter. The headlines blur together now—you've read them enough times that the words have lost their sting. There's a photo of you getting into Enji's car, his hand at the small of your back, the angle graceless and damning. Beneath it, a smaller photo: you at a gala three years ago, hair swept up, gown dark. The caption reads The Todoroki Heiress No One Knew About.

The doorbell falls silent. A moment passes. Then a knock—three deliberate taps, the kind that means business.

Through the frosted glass, the middle silhouette raises a hand, presses it flat against the door. Not to knock again. Just to touch it, as if checking that the house is real. That you're real.