Han Shān stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of his penthouse office, hands clasped behind his back, staring at the sky like it owed him money.
He didn't know why he kept looking. He just knew that if he stared long enough, the knot in his chest loosened by half a degree.
"Papa, the stars are blinking at me again."
A small, sticky hand tugged his suit jacket. Han Shān looked down.
Zhen.
His youngest. Five years old, zero fear, one hundred percent chaos. She had chocolate smeared across one cheek and what looked suspiciously like Rui Xuě's emergency bowtie clenched in her tiny fist like a war trophy. Her hair, snow-white like her brother's, like his, was sticking up in every direction, as if she had been electrocuted by pure mischief.
"Zhen," he said, voice low and even, the same tone he used in boardrooms to make grown men sweat. "How many times have I told you not to raid your brother's closet?"
