The laughter did not stop immediately.
It lingered in fragments, spreading across small circles of people who pretended not to stare directly but listened closely enough to enjoy the moment without being responsible for it.
David stood where he was, unmoving, his expression calm in a way that required effort to maintain. He had learned long ago that reactions gave people satisfaction. Silence, on the other hand, unsettled them.
Tunde took a slow sip from his glass, his eyes never leaving David's face, waiting for something — anger, embarrassment, anything that would confirm his control over the situation.
"You didn't answer," Tunde said casually. "Who invited you?"
The question wasn't really a question.
It was a reminder.
David could feel the weight of attention pressing against him from all sides. Conversations nearby had softened, bending around this moment without fully stopping.
He could leave.
It would be easy.
He could turn around, walk out, get into his car, and disappear back into the part of Lagos where his existence wasn't treated like an error.
But he didn't move.
"I was invited," David said simply.
Tunde smirked.
"By who?"
Before David could respond—
"DAVID!"
The voice cut cleanly through the air.
Young.
Familiar.
Certain.
David froze.
He turned toward the entrance instinctively, his mind already refusing the possibility of what he knew he was about to see.
And then he saw her.
Ada.
She stood just inside the doorway, slightly out of breath, her small chest rising and falling quickly as her eyes scanned the room until they found him.
Relief flooded her face instantly.
She ran toward him without hesitation, weaving between strangers who turned in surprise at the sight of a child moving through a space built entirely for adults.
Her shoes made soft impacts against the polished floor as she closed the distance between them.
"David!"
She reached him and grabbed his arm, holding onto him as though she had been searching for him for hours instead of minutes.
He stared down at her, stunned.
"Ada," he said quietly. "What are you doing here?"
"I came," she replied, as though that explained everything.
He lowered his voice. "How did you get here?"
"Mum dropped me."
He blinked.
"She said you forgot your charger," Ada added quickly, pulling a phone charger from the pocket of her hoodie and holding it up like evidence.
David stared at it.
He hadn't forgotten his charger.
He understood immediately.
Mum knew.
She had seen his hesitation earlier. She had seen the quiet tension he tried to hide. And she had sent Ada anyway, knowing exactly what Ada would do simply by being present.
Tunde let out a short laugh behind them.
David turned slightly.
Tunde was staring openly now, his amusement renewed.
"You brought your little sister to a Valentine party?" he said.
The people nearby laughed again, though softer this time.
Ada slowly turned toward him.
Her expression changed.
Not childish.
Not afraid.
Protective.
She stepped closer to David, still holding his arm.
"Are you the one laughing at him?" she asked.
Tunde raised an eyebrow.
"And who are you?"
"I'm his sister."
There was no hesitation in her voice.
No uncertainty.
Just truth.
Tunde shrugged carelessly. "This isn't really a place for children."
Ada didn't look away.
"This isn't really a place for bad people either," she replied.
A few people nearby reacted immediately, their surprise visible.
Tunde's smile tightened slightly.
David gently touched her shoulder. "Ada, it's okay."
She didn't move.
She kept her eyes on Tunde.
"You're laughing because he came alone," she said.
It wasn't a question.
Tunde chuckled. "It's Valentine's Day."
Ada tilted her head.
"So?"
The simplicity of the response disrupted the rhythm Tunde was controlling.
He frowned slightly.
Ada continued.
"He didn't come alone."
She lifted his wrist.
The bracelet was visible.
"I'm here."
The words were quiet.
But they carried.
Nobody laughed.
Nobody spoke.
Because there was nothing to mock in loyalty that pure.
David felt his throat tighten slightly, though his face remained composed.
Ada lowered his wrist and held his hand instead.
She didn't say anything else.
She didn't need to.
Tunde looked at them both, searching for the weakness he had been certain existed only minutes earlier.
He didn't find it.
Not in David's eyes.
Not in Ada's.
He scoffed lightly, looking away first.
"Enjoy the party," he muttered, before turning and walking off.
The moment dissolved.
People returned to their conversations.
Music filled the silence again.
But something had shifted.
Not dramatically.
Not visibly.
But permanently.
David looked down at Ada.
"You weren't supposed to come," he said softly.
She shrugged.
"You weren't supposed to be alone."
He didn't know how to respond to that.
So he didn't.
Instead, he stood there with her, in the middle of a place that had tried to make him feel small, and realized that for the first time that night…
He didn't feel small at all.