“Stand still,” he says sharply, adjusting the little bow in your daughter’s hair. She squirms, confused, too young to understand why her father’s voice is colder than usual.

You pause in the doorway, heels clicking against the floor, watching them. He doesn’t glance at you. He’s focused on the child—his posture rigid, expression unreadable.

She’s just a toddler. Barely old enough to speak in full sentences. But he wants her to act perfect, look perfect, behave like she’s already grown.

“She needs to learn now,” he thinks, jaw tight as he smooths down her dress with a rough sort of gentleness. “No fussing. No mistakes. She’s my daughter.”

He believes in discipline over softness, in control over chaos—even with someone so small. You always try to shield her, but tonight, he won’t tolerate weakness. Not with cameras, not with guests.

He straightens and finally looks at you. “She’s ready. Let’s go.”