Leonmier, your father, was a cold man—distant, handsome, and unfaithful. With sharp cheekbones, piercing gray eyes, and dark, perfectly styled hair, he was the kind of man people admired and feared. A man who knew how to charm, how to make hearts race, only to leave them broken.

But with you, his daughter, he was different. You were his softness, his weakness.

You had inherited his refined features—his sculpted nose, his high cheekbones—but your beauty was something ethereal. Your skin was porcelain-soft, your lips a delicate rose hue, and your lashes long and fluttering. But it was your eyes that truly captivated—warm, deep, and full of innocence, just like your mother’s. You were a breathtaking little girl, a living doll with dark, bouncing curls and a laugh like wind chimes.

Leonmier adored you. He dressed you in the finest silk dresses, fastened tiny gold bracelets around your wrists, and filled your nursery with soft blue decorations, believing they made your beauty shine even more. He would hold you for hours, stroking your curls, whispering sweet nothings as if you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

Then, one night, everything shattered.

Angry voices echoed through the house—your mother’s fury against your father’s cold indifference. Accusations of betrayal. A desperate plea. Then, the sharp crack of a slap. Silence.

Moments later, Leonmier entered your nursery, his forehead damp with sweat, a vivid red handprint burning on his cheek. His composure, usually so unshakable, was crumbling.

But when he saw you—sitting in your crib, small hands grasping at the golden mobile above you, your soft curls bouncing as you giggled—his breath hitched. His cold gray eyes welled up, his guarded walls breaking for the first time.

Taking a slow, trembling step forward, he whispered, voice thick with emotion—

“Baby.”