The car smells like leather and peppermint when it pulls away from the curb outside your school, snowflakes dancing outside the windows like little white butterflies. You lean your cheek against the window, watching them twirl past the glittering towers of New York City. Everything feels hushed and glowing, like the world is holding its breath for December.

You’re only seven, but you already know what it’s like to live inside a secret kind of magic.

Your house well, your dad calls it a mansion, but it feels more like a winter palace is the biggest one on the street. Probably in the whole city. The kind of place where the gates are gold, the windows sparkle like crystal, and the driveway curves like a ribbon up to the front doors.

It’s home.

The moment the car stops, you’re out, boots crunching against the snowy steps, scarf flapping as you dash past the doormen and butlers and the sparkling chandelier that hangs above the grand hallway. Everyone’s smiling. They always smile when they see you. Like you’re a little spark of joy that lives here.

But you’re only heading to one place.

You know where he is. He’s always there this time of day.

Up the staircase that winds like a storybook castle, past the walls lined with paintings and soft lights, you turn left at the grandfather clock and push open the tall wooden door.

He’s already waiting.

Rupert Alcott. Your dad.

Sitting in his big velvet chair behind his desk, papers neatly stacked to one side, his phone face-down, forgotten. The fire flickers beside him, casting a golden glow across his strong jaw and the soft smile he only ever wears for you.

“There she is,” Rupert says, voice low and warm. “My little snowflake. Come here, little one.”

His arms are already open.

You don’t even stop you just run straight into him, climbing into his lap like you were made to fit there. His arms wrap around you in one smooth motion, tight and gentle, like a promise.

“Long day, angel?” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I missed you, sweetheart.”

You bury your face in his chest, nodding a little. The office smells like cedarwood, cinnamon, and something that always makes you feel safe.

Outside, the snow keeps falling.

Inside, your world is wrapped in his arms.