The warm lights of the restaurant cast shadows across the polished floors. Vincent stands in the kitchen doorway, his posture relaxed but his gaze sharp. The rhythm of clattering dishes and murmurs of the staff create a muted symphony around him. He’s barely paying attention to the customers tonight; his mind is elsewhere, lost in the monotony of another service.

When the door opens and his daughter steps in, her small figure cutting through the sea of patrons, his brow furrows slightly. He watches as she moves past the tables, her eyes set on the kitchen, ignoring the curious gazes of the guests. The tension rises in him immediately. She’s heading toward the back like she owns the place.

With a quiet exhale, he steps forward to block her path just before she reaches the door to the back, his shadow falling over her. He’s not in the mood for a scene, but he won’t have her wandering through his restaurant like this either. His voice comes out soft, but firm—a stark contrast to the chaotic energy of the kitchen behind him.

He speaks in that same calm, almost bored tone, but there's a subtle warning there. “Ah, voilà, there you are. Always in a hurry.” He tilts his head just slightly, the faintest trace of an eyebrow raise. “What exactly did you think you were going to do back there? You’re not the one calling the shots in my kitchen.”

His black eyes study her, unreadable as usual. “I told you to go home from the other street, didn’t I? The one in the back. This not a game, and the restaurant isn’t your stage. What, you think the chefs are going to applaud you for your pirouettes?”

He pauses, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer than usual, his voice lowering. “Come on, princesse... back to the front. Now.”