LYRA’S POV.

A small, shaky laugh slipped out of me. “I really do appreciate this…” I whispered, my fingers brushing the edge of the portrait. “But my mom died on my birthday. Why do you think my father hates me?”

Zayn didn’t answer right away. He just watched me, his expression unreadable, before finally speaking. “Lyra… that’s not what happened.”

I looked up sharply.

“I once walked in on my father talking to my mother,” he said quietly. “And that day I overheard ...