Zayn’s POV
I stared at my phone, the message from Alina still on the screen. My thumb hovered, then I bit my lip and set the phone down. My fingers tapped the table—one, two, three—until the sound filled the quiet room like a metronome. Then the doorbell rang, sharp and unexpected. My heart kicked.
“Alina?” I called, a lift of hope in my voice as I moved for the door. I swung it open, grinning—then the smile died the moment I saw her. Alina’s mother barreled past me without a word, shoving me aside like I was an obstacle.
“Where is my daughter?” she demanded, irritation spitting from every syllable.
“She’s not here,” I said, keeping my tone measured. She scoffed and called Alina’s name again, louder this time.
“It’s late—you’re going to wake the neighbors if you keep shouting,” I warn
