bow, didn't even show the slightest hint of surprise. When Malik sat down on the wooden chair provided in the room, Diana struck immediately, her words like daggers.
"What more do you want from me?" she spat, her voice sharp and laced with bitter disappointment. "Was killing your own father not enough?"
Malik smirked, leaning back against the chair. "Satisfied? Oh, I'm very satisfied," he said slickly. "My father was the coldest man I ever knew. Never hugged me when I was sick. Never praised a single achievement. All he knew how to do was dump impossible expectations on me. And when I failed, he tossed me into a foreign land under the excuse of 'learning.'"
"You shouldn't have—"
"What!?" Malik snapped, then laughed—a bitter, sarcastic sound. "I was supposed to take it? Grow up and be the good little boy? Just accept that injustice with a smile? No, Auntie. I'm not that noble… Maybe Farid is. But I'm not."
