Stanley sighed, his voice dry. "What's the point of asking if the damage is already done?"
As he grumbled, his eyes found Vivi again—and she was staring at him intently, as if examining him.
She tilted her head, then suddenly gasped. "Daddy, your hair is wet! You'll get sick!"
Before he could react, she marched up to his chair, full of purpose.
And once again—like she had rehearsed it—Mrs. Groover appeared with a towel, her timing impeccable.
"Princess," she said, holding out the towel, "why don't you dry your daddy's hair?"
Vivi lit up, accepting the towel with excitement.
Stanley, however, was done. He cast a tired glare at Mrs. Groover. "No need. I'm alright."
But one look at Vivi's face—her wide eyes, the way her hands clutched the towel, the small pout forming—made the entire room collectively ache… well, everyone except Stanley, who simply felt a massive headache building.
Still, he sighed, long and loud, and muttered, "Fine."
Mrs. Groover looked delighted, and Vivi? She looked like she'd just won the lottery.
Without hesitation, Mrs. Groover lifted her up and gently helped her stand on Stanley's lap, steadying her carefully before handing her the towel.
Now came the challenge.
The towel was too big. Her arms were too short. Her target was too tall.
Vivi tried to dry his hair, but it was more like she was swatting at it. She frowned, struggling.
Stanley raised an eyebrow but didn't move.
Finally, the little girl let out a dramatic sigh and said, "Daddy, bend down a lil' bit… I can't dry your hair properly."
"Demanding brat," Stanley muttered, but this time, there was no edge in his voice.
He leaned down.
With great effort—and lots of little grunts—Vivi did her best. The towel flopped over her head a few times, and she had to push it back each time, but she was determined. She gently patted and rubbed, drying his hair the best she could.
When she was finally satisfied with her work, she stepped back and gave him a proud smile.
"Now Daddy won't get sick," she declared.
Stanley stared at her… and without a word, lifted his hand and gave her head a small, gentle pat.
The atmosphere in Stanley Gosling's study was oddly cheerful—a soft warmth lingered in the air as his daughter, small and bright-eyed, sat contentedly on his lap after drying his hair. But while the mood in the room felt light, elsewhere—specifically on the laptop screen before him—chaos brewed quietly.
Across the screen, the executives attending the video conference were frozen in utter disbelief.
They had been trying, desperately, to continue their presentation. But it was impossible. None of them had anticipated what they were seeing. Their notoriously sharp, cold, and ruthlessly efficient boss was currently letting a small chubby child, who was clearly wearing one of his own shirts, dry his hair.
Was this… real? Had their meeting been hacked?
No—this wasn't a glitch.
It was happening live.
The executives exchanged confused looks. Their brains struggled to process the sight of a little fatball perched on the boss's lap. A fatball who, quite clearly, had just called Stanley Gosling Daddy.
Had their boss made a mistake? Or worse—had he gone soft?
Their collective spiraling was interrupted sharply by Stanley's voice, cool and cutting:
"Did I ask you to stop?"
The temperature in the room seemed to drop instantly. The executives sat up straight, their faces returning to their usual expression of fear-driven concentration.
Vivi, meanwhile, peeked at the screen curiously and pointed. "Wow, Daddy! There are so many people in the mini TV!"
Stanley leaned back in his chair with a sigh.
The little girl leaned forward slightly and gave the laptop screen a big wave. "Hello! My name is Waneja!"
Stanley raised an eyebrow and looked at the row of stunned faces. "My daughter said something to you all."
The response was immediate and mechanical.
"Hello, young miss," they said in unison, like school children greeting a stern headmaster's child.
Pleased, Stanley turned back to Vivi. "Now sit quietly and listen to what they're saying."
Obediently, she gave a serious nod and settled into his lap once more.
But, of course, silence from a six-year-old never lasted long.
Just a few minutes later, Vivi began to shift and squirm. The presentation on the screen didn't make much sense to her. The words were long, the people were boring, and nobody was singing or showing her toys. Her pout deepened as her boredom grew.
Eventually, she leaned forward and rested her arms on the desk, spotting something far more interesting.
A keyboard.
Letters.
And when she pressed them—they made clicking sounds!
Her eyes lit up. One key, then another. Click, click, click.
Stanley's eyes narrowed.
"I told you to sit quietly. Why are you doing stupid things?"
Startled, Vivi looked up. "Daddy, I'm not doing stu… stu—" she stumbled, then frowned. "What was that, Daddy?"
Stanley gave her a mock sigh. "Not only do you do stupid things, you are stupid."
"I'm not stu… st… stewfish!" Vivi declared, puffing out her cheeks in protest.
"Stupid and ugly brat," he said casually, almost enjoying the teasing.
Before she could respond with her own comeback, the study door flew open, and in came Mrs. Groover with the authority of a general and the timing of a savior.
"Princess," she said briskly, "come, let's change. Your daddy's order of clothes has arrived."
Without waiting for an answer, she scooped Vivi up from Stanley's lap and walked out of the room.
Stanley sat there, blinking.
He was supposed to be the boss—but these days, no one seemed to care about that.
First the brat, now Mrs. Groover.
He rubbed his temples, grumbling under his breath. "I really should've left her at the office…"
When he glanced back at the laptop screen, he realized the executives were all still frozen in place, unsure of whether they were even allowed to breathe.
Stanley's eyes narrowed.
"I guess," he said slowly, "you don't want to work with Gosling Enterprises anymore."
The message was received loud and clear.
The presenter immediately resumed speaking, faster than before.
Inwardly, the executives sighed. Working under this boss is too hard. He doesn't even spare his own daughter… what chance do we have?
But just as things started returning to normal, the door burst open again.
And there she was.
The tiny tornado.
"Daddy, am I looking pretty?" Vivi asked, twirling into the room in her brand-new outfit, eyes shining with excitement.
Stanley barely looked up. He was still irked by the interruption and didn't bother softening his tone. "You look fat and ugly."
Vivi gasped in outrage. "I'm not fat and ugly! Vivi is a cute baby!"
"Keep deluding yourself," he said dryly.
The tension was rising once again, but fortunately, Mrs. Groover appeared just in time to prevent another word war. She swooped in like a seasoned negotiator, gently tugged Vivi away by the hand, and said, "Come now, princess. Let me show you the new toys."
Vivi nodded eagerly and turned to wave. "Bye-bye, Daddy!"
Stanley waved a hand absentmindedly, his attention only half on the screen and the rest focused on how peace had finally, temporarily, returned.
But deep down—though he would never admit it—something about the chaos didn't feel entirely unpleasant.