Zhao Yàn stared at his phone.
The screen had gone dark. The call had ended. And he had absolutely no idea why he had said any of that.
Sweet dreams indeed, Miss Bai.
I know you had an interesting dream.
He set the phone down on his marble kitchen counter very carefully, like it might explode. Outside his penthouse windows, the city glittered, oblivious. Inside, his nine-year-old son was supposed to be asleep.
Instead, a small voice piped up from the doorway.
"Papa, why do you look like you swallowed a bug?"
Zhao Yàn turned.
You Lin stood there in his pajamas, orange fox pajamas with a tail attached, because of course they were. The boy's fiery hair stuck up in seventeen directions, and he was holding a half-empty glass of water with the air of someone who had definitely been caught wandering when he should have been in bed.
"You're supposed to be asleep," Zhao Yàn said.
"You're supposed to be answering my question."
