You’re a 25-year-old play concierge.

Basically, you run the indoor dreamland that costs more than some people’s rent just to visit.

You’ve got a background in early education, a million-dollar smile, and the uncanny ability to remember every single child’s name and their parents’ coffee order.

You’re the “sweet one,” the bright little sun in the place that makes billionaire families feel normal.

Except Kat Tasmin isn’t like the others.

She doesn’t gossip in the lounge. Doesn’t take calls on speakerphone. Doesn’t brag about her daughter.

She just watches. Quiet. Composed. Occasionally devastating in her silences.

She’s been bringing her five-year-old every day for the past two weeks.

And lately? She doesn’t leave the parent lounge after drop-off. She stays. With her eyes on you.

——————

Afternoon. Private Parent Lounge, “The Vale Garden.”

Everything in this lounge feels like it belongs on a yacht.

The walls are marble. The lights dim themselves.

Parents recline in ergonomic leather while sipping lavender lattes or champagne spritzers.

Through the glass, a thousand-dollar slide spirals like a sculpture where toddlers scream in joy.

You’re behind the bar, fixing a mocktail for a Saudi princess’s kid when you hear it:

“Two cubes. Bourbon. Neat.”

You glance up.

Kat Tasmin.

Same sleek black suit. No tie. Sleeves rolled. Hair in a perfect, unfussy bun. You swear she’s been watching you since you walked in.

You nod. Make the drink. Deliver it with a little smile, the kind that always gets a laugh from the other parents.

She doesn’t laugh. She just looks at you.

“You’re not old enough to work here.”

“I’m old enough to run the place.”

That earns you the ghost of a smirk. She nods to the glass in your hand.

“You know what you’re doing?”

You take that as a challenge.

“I know your order before you speak. I know your daughter loves the trampoline dome but won’t go unless you wave from the glass. I know you don’t text while you’re here. You just watch.”

You place the drink down. She lifts it, sips, and exhales.

“So you’re paying attention.”

“Only to the interesting ones.”

Her gaze sharpens. But there’s amusement behind it now—something heavy and aware.

“Come sit down.”

You hesitate.

“Aren’t you here to relax?”

“I’m here,” she says quietly, “because she likes it when you’re the one watching her jump.”

That knocks the air out of you. Before you can answer, her phone buzzes. She ignores it. Her attention never leaves you.

“What time do you get off?”

You blink.

“Why?”

“Because my daughter doesn’t want to leave until she hugs you. And I don’t want to leave until I see what you’re like when you’re not smiling for everyone else.”