Kai's POV
It's nine a.m. on a Wednesday and I'm being held hostage.
By a sixteen-year-old with hair that defies physics and a smile that makes grown men in bulletproof vests agree to paint her nails.
"Please, Kai," Sky whines, clinging to my arm like a sloth, "he didn't eat breakfast again. I know it. Look at his texts—look, there's no egg emoji. He always puts an egg when he eats."
I blink. "You track your dad's meals by… emojis?"
"Of course. Don't you?"
Before I can remind her that most people don't have a psychic connection to their emotionally constipated, internationally feared father, she shoves a bento box into my hands. It's pink. It has little heart stickers on it. There's a literal sticky note that says:
> "Eat all of this or I will cry. Love, Sky."
We're doomed.
—
By the time we reach the skyscraper, Sky has tripped three times (air: 3, Sky: 0), apologized to a pigeon, and told a guard at the gate that his haircut looked "like a tax evasion villain in an anime, but in a cute way." He almost cried.
She's already halfway to Seb's private elevator when her hair—her absurd, gravity-defying, ankle-length curtain of hair—gets caught on a doorknob. She yelps.
"KAIIIIIIII."
I untangle her for the third time this morning and wonder if this is what my mother meant when she told me I'd grow up and learn patience.
—
When the elevator doors open to the top floor, the tension in the air practically snaps. Everyone looks like they're waiting for a war to break out.
And then Sky bursts in with a cheery "Daddyyyyy!" and it's like someone hit pause on a war movie and turned on a cartoon.
Sebastian Ashford—the man who once made a Russian arms dealer cry in under a minute—is staring at his daughter with the softness of a man watching a sunrise he didn't think he deserved.
She skips across the room, nearly trips on her own hair again, and launches herself onto his lap with all the force of a sugar-high kitten.
"I brought you lunch! And you better eat it, mister. Or I swear, I'm dragging you to the doctor myself. And no lying. Did you sleep at all? You look tired. Did someone upset you? I'll cry."
Seb's expression hasn't changed. But his hand lifts automatically to cradle the back of her head, fingers weaving through hair longer than his patience on a bad day.
"I slept fine," he lies.
She squints at him.
"He's lying," I deadpan, because someone has to be the voice of reason in this building.
"Kai agrees! That's it. You're grounded."
Seb lets out a low breath, but he's not annoyed. Not even close. If anything, he looks like he might smile.
Sky presses kisses to his cheek, completely ignoring the silent, panicked businessmen still in the room.
"You're eating every bite," she says, opening the box and trying to spoon-feed a man who has assassins on speed dial.
I almost feel bad for Seb.
Almost.