The sound of the front door opening carried through the penthouse like a signal flare, followed by my father's distinctive footsteps—measured, confident, carrying the weight of someone who had built something substantial from nothing. I was in the kitchen helping my mother prepare dinner when I heard Aria's delighted shriek from the living room.
"Dad's home!"
I set down the knife I'd been using to slice vegetables and made my way to the entrance hall, arriving just as my father dropped his travel bags and swept Aria into one of his legendary bear hugs. Douglas Nightingale wasn't a particularly large man—average height, lean build, the kind of person who could disappear into a crowd if he wanted to. But when he hugged you, it felt like being wrapped in absolute safety.
"There's my favorite daughter," he said, spinning her around despite her protests that she was too old for such treatment.
"I'm your only daughter," Aria giggled, clinging to his shoulders.
