The penthouse smelled like pancakes.
Bai Yue hadn't expected that. She had braced herself for cold marble and sterile luxury, the kind of place where children weren't allowed to touch things and everything was exactly where the interior designer had placed it.
Instead, she walked into warm vanilla and burnt edges and the sound of someone humming off-key.
"Cookie lady!"
Zhen launched herself across the living room like a tiny white-haired missile. Bai Yue barely had time to set down her bag before the five-year-old collided with her legs, wrapping her arms around Bai Yue's knees.
"Hi, Zhen," Bai Yue laughed, crouching down. "You smell like syrup."
"I helped make breakfast. Papa let me flip the pancakes. I flipped one onto the floor."
"I see."
"The floor is clean though. Papa said we have standards."
From somewhere in the kitchen, Han Shān's voice drifted out, flat and dry. "I said we have standards because you flipped a pancake onto the floor."
