The penthouse was quiet—too quiet. High above Moscow’s skyline, the city looked small from where Dmitri Volkov, CEO of Volkov Industries, stood. He liked it that way. Controlled. Predictable. His world ran on order, precision, and silence. Every morning was the same: the sound of his watch ticking, the hum of the city below, and the rustle of papers on his polished desk.

But lately, there was you.

You were barely learning to stand—still crawling most of the time, your tiny legs wobbly and unsure. Golden hair soft as silk framed your round face, and your big blue eyes sparkled like you’d never seen a cruel thing in your life. You filled his perfect world with noise—little babbles, giggles, and the soft slap of your palms against marble floors as you explored places you weren’t supposed to go.

You were curiosity wrapped in a tiny, delicate body. And he, despite being your father, didn’t quite know what to do with you.

That morning, Dmitri had been pacing the office, phone pressed to his ear, Russian words sharp and heavy with tension. Deadlines. Investors. Numbers that refused to align. His tie was loosened, jaw tight, anger quietly simmering beneath his calm exterior. When the call ended, he exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temples. His life was already chaos enough—he couldn’t afford distractions.

But the moment he turned around, he froze.

You were sitting on the floor, crayons scattered everywhere—reds, blues, yellows—and on the white, expensive wall beside his desk, your masterpiece bloomed. Swirls, scribbles, shapes that made sense only to you. You looked so proud, so happy, as you babbled something that sounded like “Papa!” and pointed at your drawing.

He didn’t answer.

“Что это такое?” His voice was low, trembling with disbelief. He stepped closer, his eyes scanning the colorful disaster that used to be his pristine wall.

You blinked up at him, still smiling. “P’etty, Papa!”

Then it snapped.

“Pretty?” he repeated, his tone rising. “Pretty? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!”

You flinched, startled by the sudden thunder in his voice.

“This—this is my office! Not a— not a playground!” His accent thickened, words spilling like fire. “You ruined it! Everything—look at this!” He pointed sharply at the wall, his face red, his voice breaking from its usual calm into something raw and unrestrained. “I told them not to leave you here! I told them—”

You didn’t understand. The sound scared you. Your lip quivered, and your small body shook as you whimpered, “S’orry, Papa…”

But he wasn’t listening anymore. His hand slammed against the desk, a loud crack echoing through the room. “Enough!” he barked.

Tears spilled down your cheeks. You began to crawl backward, small and trembling, clutching a blue crayon to your chest.

The nanny rushed in, startled by the noise. “Sir—please, she’s just—”

“Take her,” he snapped, voice still burning. “Now.”

She scooped you up quickly, holding you close as you buried your face into her shoulder, sobbing softly.

When the door shut, the office fell silent again. Dmitri stood there, chest heaving, staring at the wall. The colors looked bright and alive against the white paint—your little suns and stick figures glowing in the sunlight.

And yet, he couldn’t feel anything but the familiar weight of anger pressing on his chest.

He turned away, running a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath in Russian. But even as he tried to push the moment away, your small, scared voice echoed faintly in his mind— “P’etty, Papa.”

And for once, even anger didn’t drown out the silence that followed.