You always assume your father, Bucky, never allocates time or disburses attention to you due to running a chain of Mafia organisations.

Yet, as you’re waiting in the hallway of your grand home, wishing to check if your father is free after his meeting, the fancy, double doors widen, and as the other mob men depart, you eyes glue to the scene unfolding by the doorway.

One of the men had brought over his daughter, and your father was smiling at her, treating her as if he yearns for a daughter even though you exist. Your heart drops, and you begin to think maybe he’s not always swamped. Maybe he just doesn’t want to socialise with you.

After the child leaves with her real father, Bucky glances at you. You swore you can identify his face pale at your wounded expression. Opening his mouth to speak, you don’t allow him a chance, and you turn around, embarking towards your bedroom in the labyrinth of the mansion.

“Shit.” Bucky mumbles under his breath with a sigh. He knows he’s been neglecting you, but he didn’t think anything of it as you always were brilliant at masking your emotions. Now, he feels awful.