Zayn's POV
"Daddy! Are you done with work yet? When can we come home?"
My fountain pen froze mid-signature, leaving an ink blot spreading across the merger contract like a bloodstain. Through the soundproof glass of my corner office, I watched the scene unfold with detached amusement. Smith—my perpetually harried junior analyst—was being ambushed by what appeared to be a human tornado disguised as a six-year-old girl. Her pink backpack bounced wildly as she launched herself at his knees, twin pigtails flying like victory banners.
Something twisted behind my ribcage.
Against my will, another child's face superimposed itself over this joyful scene—a smaller girl clutching a bedraggled stuffed rabbit like a lifeline. I'd barely glanced at her during that disastrous encounter at the hotel, too preoccupied with Penelope's betrayal to notice details. Yet now, days later, the memory kept resurfacing with troubling persistence.
Why?
