While she continued to hum, Vivi slowly turned her head toward him. Her wide eyes met his, and even in her innocence, she could tell something wasn't right. Daddy looked upset. Really upset.
Children, no matter how small, are incredibly sensitive to the feelings around them. And Vivi was no different. The tension in the air made her uncomfortable. She swallowed nervously and hugged the soft pillow beside her tightly, drawing it close like a shield.
"Daddy, are you mad?" she asked in a small, uncertain voice.
Stanley opened his mouth, about to say something—anything—but only managed to get out, "You are…"
Before he could even finish the sentence, Vivi blurted out in a rush, stumbling over her words, "Daddy, you can hit Vivi! Vivi is a pwecious baby! And… and… and Mommy said if someone hits kids, he… he will become a lizard in life!"
Stanley stared at her, completely thrown off. Her reasoning was absurd, her logic ridiculous—and yet, he was speechless. What was he supposed to say to that?
Now it made sense. Now he understood why his own mother had always wanted to smack him into the next week when he was a kid. Because children like this—like the little goblin sitting in front of him—deserved it. Deserved some kind of punishment. He wasn't even finished processing the damage she'd done, and he already felt like he had aged two full years in a single evening.
Then, as if to offer a solution to the tension, Vivi perked up and said brightly, "Vivi will sing a song for you so Daddy's mood will be better!"
Without waiting for permission, she started clapping her tiny hands and sang with enthusiasm, "The itchy itchy spider gets on the water house…"
"Stop it!" Stanley snapped, rubbing his temples.
"But why, Daddy?" she pouted, confused and offended.
Vivi glared at him, brows furrowed in indignation. This daddy… this daddy was so, so disresplectful. She was only trying to help. She just wanted to sing a song—a sweet song she remembered hearing on Mommy's phone the other day.
"You're noisy," Stanley muttered, his voice flat.
Not only was she loud, but her lyrics were clearly wrong. Completely made up. Stanley was no expert in nursery rhymes, but even he could tell that the song she was singing was nowhere close to what it was supposed to be. He didn't need to look up the correct version. It was obvious. The brat had just replaced the words with anything she could think of that rhymed or sounded funny.
"You're a rude daddy," Vivi said, puffing up her cheeks. "Vivi just wants to sing a song for you."
"What a surprise," Stanley muttered, rolling his eyes. "I don't want to listen to your songs."
"But why? Mommy said Vivi sings like an angel," she replied instantly, her mouth wide with disbelief.
"Apparently not everything your mommy said is true," Stanley said without hesitation, arms crossed.
"But… but—"
"Whatever. Just go to sleep." With that, he picked her up and laid her on his bed, pulling the blanket over her little body and switching off the lights.
"Huh… you're not sleeping, Daddy?" she asked, sitting up again.
"Of course I'm sleeping. I'm tired to hell. Because of a certain brat," he mumbled under his breath, dragging the blanket over himself.
Still, Vivi wasn't done.
"Daddy, pat me. I can't sleep without that," she said softly. She was used to falling asleep listening to lullabies, but she knew her daddy wouldn't sing one. And even if he did, she probably wouldn't be able to fall asleep to it. So she compromised.
"Demanding brat," Stanley muttered, but he reached over and began gently patting her stomach anyway.
"Hehehe… good night, Daddy," she giggled, and leaned over to kiss his cheek.
Stanley froze, caught off guard by the gesture. For a moment, he was stunned. But he quickly collected himself and continued patting her rhythmically.
Eventually, her breathing slowed, and she drifted off to sleep.
Stanley carefully slipped out of the bed, making sure not to wake her. He picked up a few sheets of paper and walked over to the small study table in the corner of the room. Switching on the desk lamp, he set the papers down.
He sat there for a while in silence, staring blankly at them.
No thoughts. Just exhaustion.
Then, finally, he leaned in and began to read again.
"To Stanley, Maverick, Neville, and Joshua,
It's been a long time, hasn't it? Six years isn't exactly short…"
The words echoed in Stanley's mind as he stared at the letter once again.
The first time he read it, he hadn't paid much attention. The timing had been terrible—he was already drowning in meetings, deadlines, and the unexpected arrival of one highly irritating five-year-old who had hijacked his phone and social media account. At the time, he'd skimmed through the letter, brushed it off, and tossed it aside like a nuisance.
But now, in the quiet of the night, with the house still and the brat finally asleep, Stanley sat down and really read it.
This time, he absorbed every line. Every word. And several things stood out.
The first was Natalie's plan. Whatever she was involved in, it had to be dangerous—serious enough that she would suddenly reappear after five long years and dump a child on his doorstep. Not just any child, but a living, breathing mini-version of herself. The letter didn't explain much, but she had the nerve to ask them—him and the others—to protect this little girl. If she was the same Natalie he used to know, then it had to be something big. And probably reckless.
The second thing was the father. Natalie had mentioned they weren't together. That part was clear. But what wasn't clear was whether they had been together before, only to split for some mysterious reason. Why hadn't she left the girl with her biological father instead? Was she trying to keep the child away from him? Was he dangerous? Unfit? Or just not aware of her existence?
And lastly, the biggest question of all—why keep everything a secret? Why vanish, give birth in silence, and now suddenly return with a child and expect the people she left behind to clean up the mess?
Stanley couldn't help it—he scowled. Given the brat's attitude, which was already worse than Natalie's own, he honestly believed this child should be illegal in their city. There had to be some ordinance against manufacturing mini-Natalies.
And the worst part? He'd already introduced the brat as his daughter to Mrs. Groover.
Mrs. Groover.
The woman was basically a hotline to the BOSS. If she knew, it wouldn't be long before his boss did too. And if that happened, things were going to get… complicated. Messy. He could already imagine the endless rumors, the questions, the smug stares during board meetings. His boss would have a field day.
No. Absolutely not. This couldn't go on.
He had a company to run. He had money to make. Serious, grown-up, world-shaping decisions to make. And there was no room—absolutely none—for babysitting some random, uninvited kid who showed up one day dragging a suitcase and humming nonsense songs.
Besides, Natalie hadn't just written to him. She'd mentioned the other idiots too—Maverick, Neville, and Joshua. Let them deal with her. Someone could take her in. He didn't care who. As long as he wasn't the one stuck with her.
Stanley looked over at the sleeping child.
She was sprawled across the bed in some ridiculous, contorted position—legs tangled in the blanket, one arm dangling off the edge, mouth slightly open.
A sigh escaped him.
Yes. This confirmed it. His decision was final.
She had to go.