The golden morning sun bathed our household in a soft, sleepy warmth, like the day was hugging everything into calm. It streamed through the gauzy white curtains of the living room, turning the floor into a patchwork of glowing sunlight and soft shadow.

The trees outside rustled gently, and the sparrows sang their little heart songs like they didn’t know how much I needed just one peaceful morning.

Usually.

Until my loud, very not graceful shriek sliced the calmness in two like a blunt knife through toast. “MARCOOO!” My voice practically shook the walls as I stomped barefoot through the hallway, my wet pajama pants slapping against my legs.

My hair dripped little cold droplets down my back—ugh! I was soaked! Shivering! Murderously awake!

“I’M GOING TO KILL YOU!” I howled, my fists clenched, my heart racing.

Marco, my overly proud little brother, was already halfway across the living room, clutching the empty bucket like it was some sort of crown. His laugh bounced around the walls like a victory parade.

“You can’t catch me with those short legs, short sissy!” He cackled, taunting, smug as ever, dashing around the dining table like this was some Olympic-level sport. I could practically see the joy sparkling in his mischief-filled eyes. “How are you the older one when I’m taller than you?!”

I lunged after him, my sleeves dripping water onto the floor, feet sliding just enough to make me squeak, “You little monkey! Just wait till I catch you!”

“You’ll need a ladder for that!” He zipped behind the couch, tossing the empty bucket aside and using furniture as cover.

I made a grab for his shirt, but he ducked—again—and I ended up hugging a throw pillow instead. We probably looked ridiculous—me, soaked head to toe, chasing him like a cartoon villain while he leapt over the coffee table like it was a hurdle.

From the kitchen came the sharp clang of a spatula on the counter and the stern, familiar voice of the only person who could actually make us freeze. “What in the world is going on here?!”

Our lovely storm of a Mom, stormed into the living room, brandishing her spatula like it was a royal scepter. Her apron was crooked from rushing out, and the sleeve of her cardigan was still rolled up from cooking. Her eyes darted between the two of us.

“She started it!” Marco pointed at me with wide eyes, trying so hard to look innocent. The problem was, he followed it up with a nervous little chuckle that gave him away immediately.

I narrowed my eyes, “You poured water on me!” I snapped back, crossing my arms and glaring daggers at him.

“Enough! Both of you!” my Mom’s voice sliced through the scene like a lightning bolt of authority. “Marco Romano, how dare you make such a mess first thing in the morning?!” she barked as she stormed toward him, wielding the spatula like it was part of some legendary mom arsenal.

Marco’s playful grin vanished in an instant as he shuffled backward, hands raised. “I didn’t mean to! It was just a joke!”

“Joke? Here’s your joke!” Mom snapped, not missing a beat, and whack! the spatula landed squarely on Marco’s butt.

“Ow! Mom!” he yelped, jumping like a startled bunny as he rubbed his butt, face scrunching in dramatic pain.

I couldn’t help it. A giggle escaped me. Then another. Then I was full-on snickering behind my hand, watching him hop away like a cartoon character. “Serves you right!” I said, eyes twinkling, my earlier anger melting into pure amusement.

Mom wasn’t done though.

She turned toward me with the spatula now pointed in my direction, her expression sharp but her eyes still full of that familiar sparkle. “And you, stop laughing! You’re just as bad for chasing him around the house like a maniac!”

I gasped playfully and clamped a hand over my mouth, trying to hold back another giggle. But my shoulders betrayed me as they shook with suppressed laughter.

Marco, still holding his wounded pride, and butt, glared at me dramatically and muttered under his breath, “You’ll pay for laughing at me, sissy.”

I stuck my tongue out at him with the tiniest of smiles before quickly covering it up again when Mom shot me another warning glance.

Just then, I saw my Dad descending the stairs, dressed in his office suit. His navy-blue tailored blazer hugged his broad shoulders perfectly, and his crisp white shirt practically glowed in the golden morning light. The matching tie—sleek and neat—made him look like he’d just stepped out of a fashion magazine for charming dads.

He had his phone in one hand, a calm, relaxed look on his face, the kind of peaceful morning expression that always made me feel safe.

But the second his eyes took in the chaos below—me with soaked pajamas, Marco rubbing his poor ass, and Mom standing tall with the spatula like an elegant, fiery queen—his smile began to slowly fade.

And yet... his eyes. Oh, his eyes didn’t hold disapproval or frustration. No, not even close.

They softened as they landed on Mom. That little sparkle appeared again, the one I always noticed when he looked at her—even when she looked like she was about to declare war on all mischievous children before breakfast.

His gaze practically whispered, My beautiful, terrifying wife. And trust me, I love that part about him the most. The way he admires her—even when she’s scolding him. My sweet, sweet Dad.

He sighed a little, slipping his phone into his pocket, he walked into the living room with that calm, quiet energy that somehow made all the noise seem to soften.

“Alright,” he said gently, his deep voice gliding into the room like a warm breeze. He stopped near us, his presence alone enough to make Marco quit his hopping and me straighten my posture ever so slightly.

“I’ve got news for you all.” Dad’s announcement pulled every bit of attention in the room toward him like a magnet.

Marco tilted his head, eyebrows raised with curiosity, still slightly hunched from the sting of Mom’s earlier justice. “What’s the news, Dad?” he asked, his usual playful tone sliding right back in.

Dad’s lips curled into a smile. He leaned just slightly toward Mom—who still hadn’t let go of her mighty spatula—and his voice lowered a little.

“We’ve been invited to a party. Peter has thrown a celebration for Alex’s promotion to CEO.” Dad said, and even though his words were casual, I could hear that little edge of pride in his voice. That warm pride he always carried when talking about people he respected.

My eyes lit up the moment I heard the news, a little gasp slipping past my lips before I could even think. “Oh my gosh, I was waiting for this day!” I exclaimed, clasping my hands together in front of my chest.

The frustration I’d had just minutes ago with Marco completely melted away like morning dew under the sun.

Marco, standing beside me, beamed too. His grin wasn’t just playful this time—there was a softness in it, something gentle and warm. “Oh, that’s great! I haven’t seen brother in forever. It’ll be nice to catch up with him!” His voice dipped a little, threaded with nostalgia. I could tell he missed him more than he usually let on.

“When is it?” Mom asked, her tone still wrapped in that commanding edge—but the spatula was no longer in threat-mode. Her eyes flicked from Marco’s now-safe backside to Dad, curiosity settling into her expression.

Dad smiled, his lips curving up in that warm, steady way that always calmed the room. “Tonight. We need to be ready by 7 PM. We’ll leave then to reach the venue.” His voice was firm but I could hear the excitement beneath it.

Mom nodded, shifting her hands to her hips as she turned toward me. “Aria, I guess you’ll have to leave early from the café today, huh?” she said, one eyebrow raised and that familiar knowing smile tugging at her lips.

I nodded eagerly, practically bouncing in place. “Yes, Mom, I’ll make sure to wrap things up early today,” I promised, heart already skipping ahead to choosing my dress, curling my hair.

Marco, still practically buzzing beside me, turned toward Dad, his eyes wide and full of that boyish spark he never really outgrew. “Dad, does that mean every businessman will be there?” he asked, his voice dancing with hope.

Dad blinked once, clearly a little surprised by the sudden shift in Marco’s tone, but he didn’t miss a beat. “Yes, Marco. That’s what it’s for, an event for the business elite to celebrate Alex’s new position as CEO,” he answered smoothly, keeping his tone calm and even, like always.

Marco’s grin grew impossibly wider, his eyes practically glowing now. “That means Mr. Ronan will be there?” he asked eagerly, his words tumbling out with barely contained excitement.

But the mere mention of the name made Dad’s expression shift. It wasn’t loud or dramatic—just a tiny flicker, a subtle tightening around his eyes. Still, I caught it. The warmth in his eyes, the relaxed smile—gone. It was like a cloud passed over his face, casting a chill I didn’t expect.

He kept himself composed, of course. My Dad always does. “Maybe. I’m not sure. Why would you ask that?” he said, his tone even, but that edge sent a flutter of something strange through my chest.

Mom turned her head, eyes softened just a bit. But in quite tense way. I could tell she saw something. She always reads Dad like a book, even the parts no one else gets to read. Her gaze flicked to his, sharp and knowing, like she was trying to calm him without any words.

But Marco was in his own little bubble of excitement, too caught up to notice the shadows sneaking in. He shrugged like it was nothing, a huge boyish grin on his face. “Come on, Dad. You know how much I admire him!” he said, practically bouncing on his heels as his thoughts spiraled into that dreamy world of ambition and admiration.

For as long as I could remember, Ronan had been the name etched in gold in Marco's mind—a true icon. By the age of thirty, Ronan had already carved out an empire that turned heads across the business world.

Marco didn’t just admire the man for his towering success; it was his relentless drive, razor-sharp intellect, and out-of-the-box thinking that truly captured his awe.

They had never met—not once. But that didn’t stop Marco from becoming his biggest follower. He devoured every article, soaked in every interview, and even collected business magazines just to trace the blueprint of Ronan's brilliance.

To Marco, Ronan wasn’t just a businessman. He was a symbol of everything he dreamed of becoming.

Beside him, I couldn’t help but roll my eyes, memory danced at the edge of my mind—yesterday. The café. The man. Ronan.

But I hadn’t told anyone. Not Marco. Not Mom. Not even Dad.

Marco continued, his enthusiasm undeterred, “You know, once I get the CEO position at your company, Dad, I’m going to start partnership with him. Imagine the kind of projects we could pull off together!”

Mom’s eyes widened, her hand immediately clutching Dad’s arm like second nature. I watched the color drain from her face as she glanced up at him. There was something in her eyes—worry. Deep, knowing worry. And then I noticed Dad’s hand… it trembled ever so slightly, like a storm was shaking him from the inside out.

“ENOUGH!” Dad’s voice cut through the hall like a thunderclap.

I jumped, my heart leaping to my throat as Marco and I both froze in place. His voice was so loud and filled with a kind of fury I wasn’t used to seeing. My breath caught, and all I could do was stare at him.

His face was set, jaw clenched tight. But behind that fury… there was something else. Fear.

“If you’re going to make such reckless and stupid decisions, forget about ever taking over my company.” The words sliced right through us.

Marco’s face fell. I could almost feel the sting in his chest—his eyes dimmed just a little, his lips parting like he didn’t even know how to breathe anymore.

Mom stepped in gently, her touch always magic. She placed a soft hand on Dad’s chest, her voice just a whisper. “Arlo, please.” She looked at him, her gaze steady but pleading. “They don’t know anything.” She was trying to hold the calm together for all of us.

Marco turned to me, and I turned to him at the same time. His brows were drawn tight in confusion, his lips trembling into a small, broken smile—like he didn’t understand what he said that was so wrong.

Neither did I.

I swallowed hard, stepping forward, heart thudding. “Dad,” I said softly, my voice a little shaky, but I had to speak. “You don’t need to get so angry. Marco didn’t mean anything wrong. We all know how much he admires him. What’s wr—”

“Don’t interfere, Aria.” Dad's voice was still stern, but it wasn't cruel anymore. It held something softer. A thread of something unspoken. A message only parents seemed to know.

His eyes flicked over me, worried, guarded. “Go to your room and get changed before you catch a cold,” he added, quieter this time.

I blinked at him, surprised by the shift. My hands fidgeted with the sleeves of my shirt, and though I didn’t want to leave Marco alone in that moment, I nodded slowly. “Okay,” I murmured, giving Marco one last glance.

His eyes met mine, silently asking me if I understood. I didn’t. I turned away anyway.

Behind me, Dad’s voice rose again, this time directed at Marco. “And you! Get ready for university. And stop with this nonsense about admiring him.”

Marco, too, turned reluctantly, his head low, hands clenched at his sides. Neither of us said anything as we disappeared upstairs—silently, slowly.

But I paused.
Something pulled me back.

I turned, glancing over my shoulder just in time to see Dad letting out a long, heavy sigh. His shoulders slumped as he walked over to the couch and sank into it, his hands burying into his face.

For a moment he looked like he’d shattered completely. I’d never seen him like that before. Never. My confident, firm, unshakeable dad—sitting there, looking.. broken?

Mom followed him, her steps quiet, but sure. She sat beside him and gently rubbed his back, her voice barely above a whisper, soft and soothing. “Don’t worry, Arlo. Everything is fine.”

But Dad shook his head. When he looked up at her, his eyes weren’t just tired—they were afraid. “But Marco… he doesn’t understand,” he said, voice trembling slightly. “I can’t let him get close to Ronan. I don’t want any of my children around that family.”

Ronan?
Why not?
Does his family do some shady business?

Mom reached up to cradle his cheek, her expression etched with a sadness I didn’t understand. “But Ronan is una—”

“I don’t care, Sofia!” Dad snapped, cutting her off. His voice cracked as if he was holding something back. “I don’t want any member of their family near my kids… She’s a psycho…”

His voice faded into silence, but the weight of his words lingered like smoke.

She? Who’s she? Who is he calling a psycho? Why is he scared? Do they really do some underground shady business? Wait.. is Ronan.. like.. a gangster or something?

My eyes widened at the ridiculous thought. But something didn’t feel so ridiculous about it anymore.

Mom leaned in and pulled him into a tight hug, wrapping her arms around him like she was holding a man on the verge of falling apart. Dad clung to her, his face hidden in her shoulder, and for a while, the only thing I could hear was the quiet hum of her voice.

“Everything is fine now,” she whispered, gently tracing soothing circles on his back. “We’re safe. The kids are safe. That’s all that matters.”

But nothing made sense to me. None of it. Their words, their fear, their silence—everything bounced off the edge of my understanding like it wasn’t meant for me to grasp. And maybe it wasn’t.

Not yet.

Not wanting to eavesdrop anymore—or see my parents like that—I slowly turned and climbed the rest of the stairs.

Still confused.
Still unaware.
Still completely weirded out.