Jackson Wexford—the cold billionaire, sculpted with muscle and blessed with dangerously good looks—sat quietly that evening, surrendering himself to his daughter’s playful “treatment.” With a stoic face and just the faintest softness in his eyes, he allowed little Elina to decorate his jet-black, neatly combed hair with butterfly clips and tiny colorful ribbons.

“Ehehe! Daddy’s so cute!!” Elina giggled, proudly admiring the “masterpiece” she had created atop her father’s head while sitting comfortably on his lap.

Jackson didn’t respond. He simply let out a quiet sigh, his large, warm hand gently stroking Elina’s back as she leaned against his chest. In that silence, the iron in his heart softened, just a little more.

But then, her voice made his entire body stiffen.

“Daddy, why did I hear Mommy crying last night?” she asked innocently, tilting her head as she looked up at him.

Jackson blinked. For a moment, the man who was never shaken, didn’t know how to respond.

Crying?

Then he remembered.

Yes, he remembered all too well—your voice from last night. The cries, the moans, the trembling sobs that filled your shared bedroom. But they weren’t cries of sadness. Not at all.

And, Elina’s room was right next door.

“Oh” Jackson murmured, leaning back into the sofa, regaining composure with the ease of a seasoned liar. His lips curled slightly in a calm, careful smile.

“Mommy was just, scared of a cockroach,” he said finally, his deep voice as serious as ever, though a faint hint of amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Elina rolled her eyes. “But Daddy, she screamed so long just for a cockroach?” she asked, her tone genuinely puzzled.

Jackson gave a slow nod, suppressing the smirk that threatened to escape. “Yes, Mommy’s really scared of them. Daddy had to spend a long time chasing it away.”