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Chapter Text

(1: The Emperor of Ice and the Empty Plate)

The air conditioning in the boardroom of Lertratkosum Corp. was always set to exactly 18 degrees Celsius.

It was cold. Clinical. Unforgiving. Just like the man sitting at the head of the obsidian table.

Pond Naravit Lertratkosum didn’t just wear a suit; he weaponized it. The midnight-blue fabric clung to his broad shoulders, tailored to an inch of its life, emphasizing the dangerous taper of his waist and the sharpness of a jawline that could cut glass. He sat in perfect stillness, his long fingers steepled together, his gaze locked on the trembling executive presenting the quarterly losses.

"So," Pond said. His voice was a low, smooth baritone—the kind of voice that sounded like expensive whiskey poured over jagged ice. "You are telling me that we lost forty million baht because you… *felt* the market wasn't ready?"

The executive swallowed hard, sweating despite the chill. "Sir, the projections were—"

"I don't pay you for feelings, Khun Somchai," Pond interrupted, standing up.

The room collectively stopped breathing. Pond Naravit standing up usually meant someone’s career was sitting down—permanently. He walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over the sprawling, rain-slicked skyline of Bangkok. He looked like a god in a glass tower: untouchable, golden, and terrifyingly lonely.

"I pay you to know," Pond whispered, his reflection in the glass staring back at him with dead, tired eyes. He turned around, his face a mask of beautiful cruelty. "Pack your things. You’re done."

"But, Sir—!"

"Aou," Pond snapped, not even looking at the pleading man.

Aou, his harried Chief Operating Officer—a man who looked like he hadn’t slept since 2019—jumped to attention, clutching a tablet to his chest. "Yes, Boss!"

"Escort him out. And tell the legal team to prepare the acquisition of the Sathorn property. I want it done by tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow? But Boss, that’s—"

Pond shot him a look. A single, sharp glare that could freeze a volcano.

"Done. It will be done, Boss," Aou squeaked.

Pond checked his Patek Philippe watch. **6:00 PM.**

The mask of the CEO flickered for a microsecond, replaced by a flash of panic that no one in the room noticed. The Empire was secure. The stocks were up. The billions were safe.

But now, the real war began.

"Cancel the dinner with the Minister," Pond said, grabbing his briefcase. "I’m going home."

***

The Lertratkosum Mansion was a masterpiece of modern architecture. It was all white marble, steel beams, and towering glass walls. It was breathtaking.

It was also a mausoleum.

Pond walked through the massive double doors, the sound of his Italian leather shoes echoing sharply against the empty hallways. *Click. Clack. Click. Clack.* The staff—maids in crisp uniforms, guards with earpieces—bowed deeply as he passed, terrified to make eye contact.

"Where is she?" Pond asked, loosening his tie as he handed his jacket to a butler.

"Miss Anne is in the dining room, sir," the head housekeeper whispered, looking down. "She… she hasn’t touched the appetizer."

Pond’s jaw tightened. A vein pulsed visibly in his temple.

He marched toward the dining room. The room was vast, with a chandelier that cost more than most people’s lifetime earnings hanging above a table long enough to seat twenty people.

But there were only two chairs occupied.

At the far end sat Pond. And across from him, looking impossibly small in the cavernous room, was Anne.

His daughter. Five years old. Fragile as a glass doll, with big, dark eyes that looked too heavy for her pale face. She was staring at a porcelain plate. On it sat a meticulously plated dish: *Pan-seared Foie Gras with a Balsamic Glaze and Truffle shavings.*

It was a dish fit for a king.
It was absolutely ridiculous for a five-year-old.

Pond sat down, the leather of his chair creaking in the silence. He tried to soften his face. He tried to summon the smile he used for magazine covers, but it felt rusty.

"Anne," he said softly.

The little girl didn’t look up. She picked at the hem of her expensive dress.

"Anne, look at Papa."

Slowly, she lifted her eyes. They were devoid of light. They were the eyes of a child who had learned that the world was a cold place.

"Why aren't you eating?" Pond asked, forcing his voice to remain steady. "Chef Pierre made this specially for you."

Anne looked at the liver on the plate. She wrinkled her nose slightly. "Smells weird," she whispered. Her voice was so quiet it barely traveled across the table.

Pond gripped his fork. "It’s delicacy, Anne. It’s good for you. You need to eat. You look… you look sick."

"I’m not hungry," she murmured, pushing the plate away by a millimeter.

"You haven't eaten a full meal in two weeks," Pond said, his voice rising in pitch. The panic was clawing at his throat. He looked at her thin wrists, the dark circles under her eyes. Every rib he could see when he bathed her felt like an accusation. *You have billions, Pond. You run the world. Why can't you keep your daughter alive?*

"I want you to take a bite. Now."

"No," Anne whimpered.

"Anne."

"I don't want it!"

"Eat it!" Pond slammed his hand on the table.

***CRASH.***

The silverware jumped. The water glasses shook.

Anne flinched. She didn't scream. She didn't cry out. She just… shrank. She pulled her shoulders up to her ears and squeezed her eyes shut, trembling like a leaf in a storm.

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating, and violent.

Pond froze. He looked at his hand—the hand that signed billion-baht checks—and then at his terrified daughter.

*God. What am I doing?*

"Anne," he breathed, reaching out. "Baby, I’m sorry. Papa didn't mean to—"

Anne scrambled off her chair. She didn't look at him. She just ran. Her little feet slapped against the cold marble floor as she fled the room, disappearing up the grand staircase.

Pond sat alone at the massive table.

He looked at the Foie Gras. With a sudden, primal roar of frustration, he grabbed the plate and hurled it across the room.

***SMASH!***

The porcelain shattered against the wall, leaving a stain of expensive grease and truffle oil on the pristine white paint.

"Get out!" Pond roared to the empty room, though the staff were already hiding in the kitchen. "Fire him! Fire the chef! Get this trash out of my house!"

He collapsed back into his chair, burying his face in his hands. He was shaking.

***

An hour later, the Emperor of Ice was standing on his balcony, overlooking the city lights, a glass of amber liquid in his hand.

He wasn't seeing Bangkok.

He was seeing Paris. Five years ago.

*The rain in Paris was different. It was colder. He remembered the hotel room. The note on the pillow. The emptiness of the closet where her clothes used to be. And the sound—the piercing, heartbreaking wail of a six-month-old baby in a crib, hungry and alone.*

*Mint hadn’t just left him. She had left them. She had chosen her freedom, her career, her vanity, over the "burden" of a child.*

*Pond had stood there, twenty-four years old, holding a crying infant, realizing that love was a lie. Love was a weakness. Love was a menu item that looked good in the picture but gave you food poisoning when you ordered it.*

He took a swig of the whiskey, the burn grounding him.

Since that day, he had built a fortress. He became cold so no one could burn him. He became rich so no one could leave him. He gave Anne everything—the best clothes, the best tutors, the best nannies.

But he couldn't give her the one thing she needed. He didn't know how to give warmth. He didn't know how to make a home.

He heard footsteps behind him. He didn't turn.

"Boss?" Aou’s voice was tentative.

"Did you fire the chef?" Pond asked, his voice dead.

"Yes, Boss. He… he’s crying in the driveway."

"Good."

"Boss… that was the fifth chef this month. The agency says they have no one left. No one wants to work here. They call this place… well."

"They call it what?" Pond turned, his eyes narrowing.

Aou gulped. " The Ice Castle. And they call you… The Beast."

Pond laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound. "Appropriate."

"Boss, what are we going to do? Miss Anne… she’s losing weight. The doctor said if she doesn't eat properly by the end of the week, she needs to be hospitalized for IV fluids."

Pond felt a sharp pain in his chest, sharper than any business betrayal. Hospitalized. His little girl, hooked up to machines because he was a failure of a father.

"I don't care what you have to do, Aou," Pond hissed, stepping closer to his COO, his shadow looming large. "I don't care if you have to kidnap someone. I don't care if you have to steal. Find me a chef."

"But who? We’ve tried the Michelin stars! We’ve tried the celebrities!"

"Then stop looking for stars!" Pond grabbed Aou by the lapels of his suit. "Find me someone who cooks food that a human being actually wants to eat! Find me someone who doesn't treat dinner like a geometry exam! Find me…"

Pond’s voice broke. He let go of Aou and turned back to the city, his shoulders slumping. The anger drained away, leaving only exhaustion.

"Just find me a miracle, Aou. Or prepare my funeral. Because if anything happens to her… I won’t survive it."

Aou nodded frantically and ran out of the room, phone already to his ear.

Pond closed his eyes.

The wind howled around the penthouse. He was the King of the World, the Master of the Universe.

But as he stood there in the dark, Pond Naravit realized he would trade every single baht in his bank account for a simple bowl of rice that his daughter would actually eat.

He needed magic.
He needed warmth.
He needed something that wasn't on the menu of his cold, calculated life.

He didn't know it yet, but in a tiny, cluttered alleyway on the other side of town, a boy with flour on his cheeks and a smile like the sun was currently stirring a pot of porridge, humming a tune that was about to change Pond’s life forever.

---

Chapter Text

If Pond Naravit’s world was a silent, air-conditioned freezer, Dunk Natachai’s world was a wok on high heat—loud, messy, and threatening to burn you if you didn't keep moving.

Bangkok, Sector 4. The "Soi 18" Night Market.

"Order number forty-two! Pad Krapow Moo Saap, extra spicy, fried egg crispy on the edges, runny in the middle! Coming right up!"

Dunk Natachai yelled the order over the roar of a gas burner, his voice cracking with exhaustion but still carrying a strange, infectious melody. He slammed the wok against the metal burner, the sound ringing out like a gong. Clang-shhh-clang.

Flames licked up the sides of the blackened steel, reflecting in Dunk’s wide, dark eyes.

He was a mess. A beautiful, catastrophic mess.

His white t-shirt, once pristine, was now a canvas of chili oil splatters and soy sauce dots. His hair, usually soft and falling over his forehead, was pinned back with a bright pink clip he’d borrowed from a neighbor's daughter, exposing a forehead glistening with sweat. Flour dusted his cheekbones like cheap highlighter.

But when he turned to hand a steaming plate to a motorcycle taxi driver, he flashed a smile that could have powered the entire city grid.

"Here you go, P’Chai! careful, it’s hot like your temper!" Dunk teased, his dimples popping.

The taxi driver, a grumpy man in an orange vest, couldn't help but grin back. "You talk too much, Nong Dunk. Just give me the food."

"That’s extra rice for you, on the house, because you look skinny today," Dunk winked, scooping an extra ladle of jasmine rice onto the plate.

This was "Grandma’s Kitchen"—a stall no bigger than a walk-in closet, squeezed between a lottery ticket vendor and a shop selling knock-off sneakers. It consisted of three plastic tables, six mismatched stools, and a roof made of corrugated tin that rattled when the wind blew.

It was poverty. It was struggle.

But to Dunk, it was the center of the universe.

"Dunk… Dunk, my boy…"

A shaky voice came from the back of the stall, where the dishwashing station was set up.

Dunk abandoned the wok immediately, turning down the heat. He rushed over to the small, withered man sitting on a plastic crate, scrubbing plates with trembling hands.

"Grandpa Phok," Dunk said gently, his voice dropping an octave, losing the chaotic market volume. He crouched down, his long legs folding effortlessly. "Grandpa, I told you to sit down. I can do the dishes later."

Grandpa Phok blinked behind his thick, taped-up glasses. "But… but the customers. So many customers today. I have to help. Som isn't here."

"Grandma Som is working, remember?" Dunk soothed him, taking the soapy sponge from the old man’s hands. "She’s at the big house. The one with the scary gates. She’s taking care of the rich people."

"Ah. The rich people," Grandpa nodded vaguely. "Do they eat?"

Dunk let out a soft laugh, a sound like wind chimes. "I’m sure they eat, Grandpa. They probably eat gold."

He guided his grandfather to a plastic chair near the electric fan. He poured a glass of iced chrysanthemum tea and pressed it into the old man's hand.

"You sit. You be the manager. If anyone tries to leave without paying, you give them the 'Eye of Judgment,' okay?"

Grandpa Phok chuckled, toothless and warm. "Okay. I am the manager."

Dunk watched him for a second, the smile on his face faltering just enough to show the cracks.

He was twenty-four years old. He should have been in his final year of Culinary Arts at the university. He should have been interning at a hotel, wearing a crisp white chef’s coat with his name embroidered on the chest.

Instead, he was here.

He had dropped out two years ago when Grandpa got sick and the medical bills started piling up like unwashed dishes. His parents were gone—a story for a rainy day—so it was just him. Him, Grandma Som, and Grandpa Phok.

He wiped the sweat from his neck with a rag. No regrets, he told himself. This is real food. This is real life.

He turned back to the stove, ready to face the dinner rush.

The rush was brutal.

For three hours, Dunk didn't stop moving. He was a dancer, his rhythm dictated by the orders shouted by hungry factory workers and students. Chop, sizzle, flip, serve. Chop, sizzle, flip, serve.

By 9:00 PM, the crowd thinned out. Dunk leaned against the counter, his arms aching, his shirt clinging to his back.

"Meow."

Dunk looked down.

A scruffy, orange tabby cat with half an ear missing was winding itself around Dunk’s ankles.

"Oh, hello, Sir Tiger," Dunk cooed. He crouched down, ignoring the ache in his knees. "Are you here for the inspection?"

The cat bumped its head against Dunk’s hand.

"I see. You require a bribe." Dunk reached into the glass cabinet where he kept the leftovers. He pulled out a small fish head he had saved specifically for this moment. He placed it on a clean saucer.

"Eat slowly," he whispered, scratching the cat behind the ears. "Nobody is going to take it from you."

"Nong Dunk…"

Dunk looked up. A man stood at the edge of the stall. His clothes were tattered, his face hidden by grime and a beard that hadn't been trimmed in months. Uncle Dang. He lived under the bridge three streets over.

He held out a crumpled twenty-baht note. "I… I have money today. Half a plate?"

Dunk looked at the money. It was barely enough for a bottle of water, let alone a meal.

Dunk stood up, his face breaking into that sunflower smile again—radiant, devoid of judgment. He gently pushed the man’s hand away.

"Uncle Dang! Put that away. My Grandpa made a mistake with the rice cooker today," Dunk lied smoothly. "He made way too much. If you don't eat it, I have to throw it away. It’s bad luck to throw away rice. You’d be doing me a favor."

The man’s eyes watered. "A favor?"

"Yes! A huge favor." Dunk quickly scooped a massive portion of rice, topped it with a fluffy omelet and a generous ladle of pork broth. He handed it over with two hands, a sign of respect.

"Thank you," Uncle Dang whispered, taking the bowl as if it were a holy relic.

"Come back tomorrow," Dunk called out cheerfully as the man walked away. "Grandpa is very forgetful. He will definitely cook too much again!"

Grandpa Phok, who was dozing in the corner and hadn't cooked a single grain of rice today, snored softly.

"Wahhhhhh!"

The piercing scream of a child cut through the humidity.

Dunk froze mid-wipe of a table. Two tables away, a young, exhausted-looking mother was trying to wrestle a screaming toddler. The boy was red-faced, crying, kicking the table legs.

"Stop it, Tum! Everyone is looking!" the mother hissed, looking ready to cry herself. "Please, just eat the soup!"

"No! Yucky! I want candy!" the boy screamed.

The other customers were starting to glare. The atmosphere was getting tense.

Dunk didn't hesitate.

He walked over to his small dessert station. He didn't have much—just some coconut milk and flour.

He moved quickly. He poured the batter into the dimpled iron pan. Sizzle. He sprinkled a little bit of corn and green onion. He waited.

The smell wafted through the air—sweet, creamy coconut, warm sugar, and toasted flour. It was the smell of childhood.

Dunk plated three small, round Khanom Krok (coconut pancakes). He arranged them on a plate to look like a bear’s face—two for ears, one for the snout. He used a bit of sweet soy sauce to draw a smiley face.

He walked over to the screaming table.

"Excuse me, sir," Dunk said solemnly to the toddler.

The boy stopped screaming mid-breath, sniffing. He looked at Dunk.

"I have a problem," Dunk said, crouching down so he was eye-level with the kid. "I made these magic bear cakes, but they are too cute. I can't eat them. If I eat them, the magic won't work."

The boy stared at the plate. "Magic?"

"Yes," Dunk whispered conspiratorially. "If a brave boy eats them, he gets super strength. But only if he eats his soup first. The soup activates the magic."

The boy looked at his mother, then at the soup, then at the bear cakes.

Without a word, the boy picked up his spoon and shoved a mouthful of soup into his mouth. He swallowed hard. Then another. Then another.

"Is it working?" the boy asked.

"I can see your muscles growing already," Dunk gasped, flexing his own bicep.

The boy grabbed the coconut cake and stuffed it into his mouth. The sweetness hit his tongue, and a massive, sugary grin spread across his tear-stained face.

The mother looked at Dunk, her eyes filled with gratitude. "How much for the cakes?"

"Free," Dunk said, standing up and dusting flour off his pants. "Magic is always free."

He walked back to his station, feeling a pair of eyes on him.

Standing at the entrance of the alley were two men in black leather jackets. They weren't customers. They were holding ledgers.

Debt collectors.

Dunk’s heart hammered against his ribs. The smile vanished. The fear—cold and sharp—returned.

He met their gaze. He gave a tiny, imperceptible nod, signaling 'I know. Not now. Soon.'

The men lingered for a terrifying moment, then turned and walked away into the shadows.

Dunk let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. His hands were shaking.

He looked around his tiny kingdom. The peeling paint. The sizzling wok. The sleeping grandfather. The stray cat eating a fish head. The mother feeding her calm child.

It wasn't a billion-baht empire. It wasn't a magazine cover life.

Dunk picked up a spoon and tasted the broth simmering in his largest pot. It was salty, rich, and perfect.

"It’s okay," Dunk whispered to himself, though his bank account was empty and his future was a question mark. "We have food. We have today."

He didn't know that across the city, a man with a billion baht and a starving daughter was currently firing his fifth chef.

He didn't know that tomorrow, a black limousine would pull up to this dirty alleyway.

He didn't know that his "magic" was about to be ordered by the most dangerous man in Thailand.

"Grandpa," Dunk said softly, shaking the old man’s shoulder. "Wake up. It’s time to close. Let's go home."

Grandpa Phok opened his eyes and smiled. "Is the restaurant successful today, Dunk?"

Dunk Natachai looked at the empty cash box, then at the satisfied faces of the few people lingering around.

He smiled. And this time, it was brighter than the sun.

"Yes, Grandpa. We are very rich."

---

Chapter Text

The clock on Pond Naravit’s bespoke desk read 11:45 AM. He was supposed to be forty kilometers away, shaking hands with the Minister of Trade and finalizing a land deal worth half a billion dollars.

Instead, he was at home. Pacing.

His movements were sharp, controlled bursts of energy—the physical manifestation of a man drowning in anxiety but refusing to show it. He hadn't slept, and his perfect designer suit now looked less like armor and more like a heavy, suffocating constraint.

Aou, standing nervously by the office doorway, was whispering frantically into his phone.

"Yes, the CEO is definitely canceling the acquisition meeting," Aou murmured, running a hand through his already dishevelled hair. "He said if he doesn't see 'measurable improvement' in his daughter's weight by evening, he will buy the catering company and liquidate it for scrap metal. Yes, I'm serious. Yes, he threatened to wear my skin."

Pond stopped pacing and stared out the window. The city was just a blur of movement below him. None of it mattered.

"Aou," Pond snapped, his voice low and dangerous. "Stop speaking to the wall. Has the new temporary chef prepared lunch?"

"Y-yes, Boss. Chef Ben. He was flown in from Singapore. He’s trained in therapeutic children’s cuisine. He’s done an organic, steamed chicken breast, finely diced, mixed with mild mushroom crème and served with a butterfly pea flower purée. It’s blue, Boss. It's aesthetically pleasing."

Pond scoffed. "If Anne had an appetite for aesthetics, she'd be eating the chandelier. Bring her down. Now."

The meal was served in the small, rarely used breakfast nook—an attempt to make the process less intimidating than the vast main dining room. The table was still pristine mahogany, the plates still white bone china, but the sunlight pouring in felt less oppressive.

Anne was brought in by her nanny. Pond’s heart lurched.

She was thinner than yesterday. Her little frame was lost in the silky material of her dress. The dark circles under her eyes had deepened to a bruised purple, and her normally bright, copper-colored hair looked dull. She walked slowly, listing slightly to one side.

Pond swallowed the panic and forced a bright, fatherly tone.

"Look, sweetie," he said, gesturing to the plate. "Look at the pretty blue food. Chef Ben says this is what superheroes eat to fly. Try a bite, okay? Just one bite, and Papa will buy you the biggest dollhouse in the world."

Anne climbed onto her chair. She didn't look at the plate. She looked at Pond's face, searching for something she hadn't found in years: reassurance that didn't come with an expectation.

She picked up the delicate, child-sized spoon. Pond held his breath.

She raised it halfway to her mouth.

And then, she stopped. Her hand trembled, and the purée shook slightly.

A single tear, clear and silent, rolled down her cheek, splattering onto her silk dress.

"I can't," she whispered, her voice a thin thread of sound. "I'm sorry, Papa. It hurts."

Pond’s control snapped. It wasn't the failure of the food; it was the failure of his entire being staring back at him in the form of a fragile, hungry child.

"It hurts to eat?" Pond’s voice was loud now, filled with a sharp, misdirected anger. "It hurts to eat, but it doesn't hurt to starve yourself sick? What is wrong with this food?"

He grabbed the plate, shoving it toward the doorway where the temporary chef and the staff were anxiously waiting.

"You! Chef Ben! Come here!"

A terrified, portly man scurried forward.

"Is this chicken? Are you sure it's chicken? It tastes like a sponge!" Pond roared, his perfect face contorted by rage. "The purée is too floral! It's too cold! It’s too soft! What kind of five-star chef doesn't understand that a child needs texture? Or flavor! I am paying you five times your salary to poison my child with beautiful, inedible garbage!"

Pond threw the spoon down. It clattered against the marble floor.

"Get out! Get out of my house! The lot of you! You are all useless! Find a cleaner! Find a builder! Find someone who can do something useful!"

His voice was booming now, filling the entire wing of the mansion, echoing off the high ceilings like thunder.

Pond didn't see the temporary chef flee. He didn't see the staff scatter. He was still shouting, caught in the vortex of his own failure.

"She’s starving! She’s dying! And you stand there making blue mush! What is wrong with you people! What is wrong with this house! WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME!"

His final yell was raw, laced with genuine, self-loathing agony.

Anne didn't run this time. She couldn't.

She sat motionless in her chair, her tiny, pale body shaking silently. Her eyes, wide and filled with the terror of her father's noise, overflowed. Tears began to stream down her face, washing the faint dirt from her cheeks.

And then, she lifted her hands—small, translucent, five-year-old hands—and clamped them tight over her ears, trying desperately to block out the sound of the world's most powerful man utterly failing her.

Pond saw her. He stopped breathing. The thunder died in his throat.

He looked at the small, defeated figure of his daughter, her face crumpled in silent, helpless fear, her hands protecting her from him.

The silence of the mansion descended once more, colder and more crushing than before.

Anne sat there, tears still flowing, covering her ears as her father, the Emperor of Ice, stood paralyzed, staring at the visible wound he had just inflicted.

---

Chapter Text

The breaking point didn't come with thunder; it came with a terrifying silence.

It was 8:00 AM. Pond, refusing to leave the mansion, sat beside Anne at the breakfast table. He looked worse than Anne, his eyes rimmed red from fear, but he was wearing a different, softer suit—beige, an attempt at warmth.

On Anne's plate was a spoonful of organic vanilla bean yogurt with crushed raspberries—simple, light, and served in a delicate glass bowl. The new, terrified culinary team, working under the threat of Pond’s wrath, had focused on scentless simplicity.

Anne hadn't touched it.

"Papa is going to sit here," Pond whispered, his hands flat on the table. "You don't have to eat the whole thing. Just the spoonful. For energy, Anne. Just for your favorite toy."

Anne looked at him, her huge, exhausted eyes filled with compliance rather than hunger. She knew she was hurting him. She didn't want him to be angry anymore.

She picked up the spoon. Her hand shook so violently that the yogurt almost spilled. She forced the cold, creamy mixture into her mouth.

Pond leaned forward, hope—a brittle, dangerous thing—lighting up his gaze.

She chewed once. Twice. Her throat convulsed, attempting to swallow.

Then, her eyes flew wide open. A sound, half gag, half sob, escaped her lips. Her small body seized up in a physical, visceral rejection of the food.

Pond lunged forward. "Spit it out! Spit it out, baby!"

But she didn't spit. She just choked, her face turning an alarming shade of grey. Her hand dropped the spoon.

And then, with a terrifying suddenness, her eyes rolled back into her head, and her frail, five-year-old body went completely limp.

She collapsed right into Pond’s lap.

Pond was shaking. He wasn't shaking with rage or power—he was shaking with terror. He lifted Anne, cradling her against his chest. Her weight was almost negligible. She felt like a bird.

"Anne! Anne, wake up!"

He ran through the echoing halls of the Lertratkosum Mansion, shouting for the doctor, for the nanny, for anyone. He was a billion-baht CEO reduced to a desperate, screaming animal.

The private physician, who lived permanently on retainer nearby, arrived within minutes. Anne was settled in her beautiful, enormous bed—a princess unconscious in her gilded cage.

Pond stood rigid against the wall, his perfect suit now wrinkled and stained with a trace of spilled yogurt, his chest heaving.

The doctor finished the examination and turned to Pond, his face grave.

"Khun Pond," the doctor began, placing his stethoscope back in his bag. "Her blood pressure is too low. Her glucose levels are critical. This isn’t a psychological aversion anymore—it’s a self-defense mechanism. Her body is shutting down."

Pond gripped the edge of the wardrobe, his knuckles white. "What does that mean?"

"It means if she does not have consistent caloric intake within 24 hours, we must admit her to the hospital for intravenous nutrition." The doctor looked him in the eye. "And I have to be blunt, sir. The psychological component is strong. Every time she has tried to eat in this house, she has experienced high stress. She associates the food, the kitchen, and perhaps, with regret, the effort from you, with fear."

The words landed on Pond like a hammer blow: She associates the food with fear.

Pond didn't say anything. He just looked down at his beautiful, unconscious daughter. He had tried to buy her health, buy her love, buy her food, but all his power had done was make her afraid of him.

He was a failure.

A cold, determined resolve settled over his face, erasing the fear.

Pond marched, not to his office, but to the professional kitchen—a sprawling room designed for a team of ten, filled with expensive, imported stainless steel.

The Head Chef, a pompous man named François who specialized in modernist cuisine, was instructing his sous chefs on the proper angle for shaving edible gold flakes.

Pond stood in the doorway. He didn't raise his voice. His tone was flatter than the marble floor.

"Stop what you are doing," Pond commanded.

Chef François turned, wiping his hands on a pristine apron. "Khun Pond? Is everything acceptable? I was preparing the organic consommé—"

"You are all fired," Pond stated, his eyes sweeping over the team of five chefs, bakers, and assistants.

The Head Chef blinked. "Fired? Sir, for what? My consommé takes 72 hours—"

"I don't care if it takes 72 years. You are all fired," Pond repeated. "You make food for magazines. You make food for critics. You make food that is expensive. You are all useless to me."

"But, sir, this is highly irregular!" Chef François sputtered. "We have contracts! We have a non-compete clause!"

"I am Pond Naravit Lertratkosum," Pond stated, stepping into the kitchen. His shadow seemed to engulf the shiny steel. "Your contracts are dissolved. Your non-compete clauses are void. I will pay you double your remaining salary if you are out of this house in thirty minutes. If I see a single one of your immaculate knives, a single edible gold flake, or a single one of your arrogant faces after that, I will own the next three kitchens you work in and fire you personally. Now, get out."

The culinary team, stunned by the cold, surgical ruthlessness, scrambled to obey. The famous Lertratkosum kitchen—a monument to opulence—was emptied in under twenty minutes.

Pond stood alone in the silence, surrounded by gleaming, unused perfection.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He didn't call the police, the stock market, or his legal team. He called Aou, his COO.

Aou answered instantly, his voice a terrified squeak. "Boss! Did Anne eat? Did the blue food work? I was just about to contact a shaman—"

Pond cut him off, his voice low, gravelly, and shaking with the last vestiges of controlled rage.

"She collapsed, Aou. She fainted. She's going to the hospital if I don't fix this now. I just fired the entire kitchen. The whole wing is empty."

"B-Boss, what do you want me to do? Hire a five-star army?"

"I don't want a chef, Aou. I want a wizard," Pond growled, his gaze fixed on the empty space where the stove used to be filled with life. "Someone who can conjure hunger from thin air. Someone who can make food taste like love."

Pond squeezed his eyes shut. His voice broke, revealing the raw, bottomless fear beneath the CEO exterior.

"You have two hours, Aou. Two hours to find me a miracle worker who can get my daughter to eat one spoonful of anything. If you fail… I will not only prepare your funeral, as promised. I will be joining it."

He hung up, the sharp click echoing in the deathly quiet of the empty, sterile kitchen. Pond leaned his head against the cold steel of the industrial refrigerator, a king who had just willingly dismantled his final line of defense, knowing that his empire was crumbling around the tiny, fragile body of his daughter upstairs.

---

Chapter Text

The master bedroom of the Lertratkosum Mansion was draped in a silence that felt heavier and more suffocating than the humidity outside.

Pond sat on the edge of Anne’s monumental king-sized bed, his beige suit rumpled, his gaze fixed on the tiny, pale face resting on the silk pillow. Anne was breathing steadily now, but she hadn’t stirred since the doctor left. Pond gently held her hand, his thumb tracing the faint blue veins beneath her skin. He was watching the clock, mentally calculating the two-hour limit he had given Aou, and the next deadline: the hospital transfer.

He was ready for the failure. He was ready for the inevitable consequence of his helplessness.

Then, a movement at the door.

He barely looked up, expecting the nanny or a butler, but it was Grandma Som. The Lertratkosum family’s elderly, long-time caretaker, who moved through the house with the quiet dignity of a shadow.

She wasn't wearing the crisp mansion uniform. She was wearing a simple, comfortable floral blouse and a knowing, sorrowful look. In her hands, she carried a small, chipped ceramic bowl—the kind you’d find at a street stall, not in a billion-baht home.

"Khun Pond," she said, her voice a low, gentle rumble. She didn't ask if she could enter. She simply crossed the threshold. "I heard."

Pond immediately bristled, the CEO armor clicking back into place. "Khun Som, please. I appreciate the concern, but Anne cannot eat. I just fired the entire staff for failing to—"

"This is not their food," Grandma Som interrupted, her eyes never leaving Anne. She walked to the bedside table and placed the bowl down.

The smell hit Pond immediately. It wasn't complex or perfumed. It wasn't truffle or rosemary. It was simple, savory, and warm—a deep, honest aroma of slow-cooked rice, minced pork, and the sharp, clean bite of fresh ginger. It smelled like every rainy afternoon, every tired evening, every moment of unconditional comfort.

It smelled like home.

As the steam, thick with savory fragrance, wafted across the bed, Anne stirred.

Pond froze.

Anne’s eyes fluttered open. They didn't open in fear, or pain, or sadness. They opened slowly, deliberately, as if drawn by an invisible, magnetic thread. Her tiny nose twitched.

She looked not at Pond, but at the chipped, humble bowl.

Grandma Som gently picked up a small metal spoon and scooped a measure of the thick, creamy porridge. She held it to Anne’s lips.

Pond held his breath. His heart was hammering against his ribs, a frantic, desperate rhythm.

Anne’s eyes met the spoon. She opened her mouth.

She took the porridge.

The entire world seemed to tilt. Pond leaned closer, his eyes hyper-focused. He watched her little jaw work. He watched her swallow—not a gagging reflex, but a soft, satisfied gulp.

She let out a soft, unconscious sigh.

And then, she opened her mouth again, her eyes fixed on the bowl.

"More," she whispered, her voice weak, but clear.

Grandma Som smiled, the lines around her eyes deepening with warmth, and fed her a second spoonful. And a third.

Pond was paralyzed. He was watching a miracle unfold in his own bedroom. The CEO who controlled global markets felt his throat constrict, his control dissolving into pure, unadulterated relief.

Anne, the girl who had refused foie gras and edible flowers, was now avidly accepting the humble porridge. She even tried to lift her frail hand to guide the spoon.

"Here, my little one," Grandma Som murmured. "Slowly. It has magic. It will make you strong."

When the bowl was half-empty, Anne reached out and gripped the ceramic, holding it to her chest. She took the spoon herself, shaky but determined, and scooped the rest.

She ate the final spoonful, scraped the bowl clean, and let out a deep, contented breath. A faint, almost imperceptible flush of color returned to her cheeks. She handed the bowl back to Grandma Som, and within minutes, she was asleep—not a restless, fearful sleep, but a deep, healing slumber.

Pond didn't move until Grandma Som placed the empty bowl back on the table.

His vision was blurring. He reached up and touched his own face, realizing his cheeks were wet. He was crying—silent, ugly tears of a father who had been staring death in the face and was suddenly given back his daughter.

He turned slowly to the elderly woman, his CEO mask shattered, replaced by raw desperation.

"Khun Som," he choked out, his voice thick with unshed emotion. He grabbed her frail, comforting hand—the hand that held no power, only love—and squeezed it too tightly. "Who made this? Who cooked this?"

Grandma Som looked at the billionaire, the man capable of ruining lives with a single phone call, now broken and pleading.

"My grandson, Khun Pond," she said softly. "His name is Dunk Natachai. He runs the little stall near the Soi 18 market."

Pond stood up, towering over her, his shoulders still shaking with silent sobs. His eyes, usually cold, now burned with a terrifying, singular intensity. He had found his wizard.

"Call him," Pond commanded, his voice shaking. "Tell him… tell him I need to see him. Now. I will buy his stall, I will buy his block, I will buy his life. Just tell him to bring more of that… magic."

---

Chapter Text

The familiar, comforting chaos of the Soi 18 Night Market—the sizzling oil, the shouting vendors, the warm, pungent smell of chilies and garlic—was violently ruptured by the sound of a foreign object attempting to navigate the narrow street.

It was a custom-made, black Lamborghini Urus, a sleek, absurdly low-slung predator that looked like it had taken a catastrophic wrong turn off the freeway. Its polished obsidian surface reflected the peeling paint of the shop houses, turning the squalor into a funhouse mirror.

Behind the wheel was Pond Naravit Lertratkosum.

He was still in his rumpled beige suit, the jacket now abandoned in the passenger seat. His hair was slightly dishevelled, and the desperation in his eyes was so consuming it bordered on mania. He had found Dunk's location through Grandma Som’s phone history and hadn't waited for Aou.

He slammed the expensive car into Park, ignoring the blare of horns, and threw the door open. He stepped out, a figure of intimidating perfection and utter incongruity. His Italian leather shoes immediately crunched on grit and spilled dried rice. The air, thick with the smell of fermentation and exhaust, assaulted his senses.

He spotted the stall. Grandma's Kitchen.

Dunk Natachai was exactly as his grandmother had described: a sunbeam made flesh. He was laughing, tossing a handful of fried shallots onto a steaming bowl of rice porridge—the Jok—his long neck exposed by the effortless way he wore a damp t-shirt and a sauce-stained apron. His smile, when he handed the bowl to a grateful customer, truly was like a sunflower in full bloom.

Pond moved. He strode through the crowd, radiating cold, sharp energy. The movement was so aggressive, so utterly dominant, that the market went instantly silent. Customers paused mid-chew. The man selling knock-off sneakers ducked behind his table.

Dunk, sensing the shift, looked up.

His smile vanished. He saw the man: tall, impossibly handsome, dressed in more money than Dunk made in a year. The man looked terrifyingly angry, like a vengeful angel had descended into the alley. Dunk’s heart immediately hammered against his ribs. The debt collectors. No, worse. The government.

Pond stopped three feet from the counter, his expensive cologne battling the rich scent of ginger and oil.

"Dunk Natachai," Pond stated, his voice a low, hard demand that was deafening in the sudden quiet.

Dunk, instinctively trying to be polite, wiped his hands on his apron. "Y-yes, sir. That's me. How may I help you? I apologize, we don't have a reservation system."

"You are coming with me," Pond commanded, his eyes burning with singular focus. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a stack of crisp 1,000 baht notes—enough to buy the stall ten times over. He threw the money onto the stainless steel counter.

"Take this. Close this stall. Now. You are coming to my house to cook for my daughter."

Dunk stared at the money, then back at Pond. His confusion slowly morphed into fear and a familiar, quiet fury. This wasn't a customer. This was trouble.

"Sir, I think you have the wrong idea," Dunk said firmly, crossing his arms. "I don't know who you are. And I don't leave my grandparents. I run a stall, not a catering service for people who toss money around. I have customers waiting."

He gestured to Grandpa Phok, who was stirring awake nervously in the corner, and then to the line of people who were slowly inching backward.

"I don't care about your customers! I don't care about your grandparents!" Pond exploded, the force of his frustration finally erupting. "My daughter—Anne—she is five years old, and she is dying because she won't eat anything! And this morning, she ate your food! You are the only thing that works! You are coming with me, or I will buy this whole block and bulldoze it around you!"

The threat was real. The air crackled with Pond’s power.

Dunk’s eyes narrowed. He was shaking, but he refused to back down. He grabbed the wad of money and shoved it back across the counter at Pond.

"Then bulldoze it, sir," Dunk retorted, his voice trembling but steady. "I have worked too hard, and this food is too honest to be bought by a temper tantrum. I am not going anywhere."

Pond froze. He looked at the money, then at Dunk's fierce, beautiful face—the defiance, the refusal to be intimidated. His standard operating procedure had failed. Money, threats, and power meant absolutely nothing here.

And then, Pond thought of Anne. Her grey face. Her small hands clamping over her ears. The doctor's cold prognosis.

The Emperor of Ice broke.

It was the most unbelievable sight the Soi 18 Market had ever witnessed.

Pond Naravit Lertratkosum, the billionaire CEO, the man who never bowed to anyone, slowly sank. His knees hit the slick, dirty concrete floor with a scraping sound of expensive wool against grime.

The entire market gasped. Dunk’s jaw dropped, his eyes wide in utter disbelief.

Pond didn't look up. He kept his head bowed, his hands clasped together in the traditional wai—a gesture of respect and pleading that transcended money and status.

"Please," Pond begged, his voice cracking, raw with genuine terror and humiliation. He was crying again, silent tears dripping onto the greasy floor next to his polished shoes.

"Khun Natachai," Pond pleaded. "I don't care about the money. I don't care about the pride. I just watched my daughter pass out in my arms because she is starving. I have failed her. I am begging you. Please. The food is the only thing that works. I am Pond Naravit. I will be your slave. I will sign anything. Just come and cook for her. My daughter is dying."

Dunk stared down at the man kneeling before him. Not the billionaire. Not the terrifying angel. Just a desperate, broken father.

The absurdity of the scene—the man in the suit, the dirt, the silent market—hit Dunk with staggering force. He saw past the wealth, past the anger, to the raw, visceral pain.

Dunk’s heart, the heart big enough to feed the world, broke for the stranger.

He looked at his grandfather, who was watching with wide, confused eyes. He looked at the queue of waiting customers.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, his own fear dissolving into sympathy.

"Get up," Dunk said softly, stepping around the counter. He knelt down too, grabbing Pond by the elbow. "Get up, sir. You shouldn't be on your knees here. You'll ruin your clothes."

Dunk pulled him up gently. Pond stood, humiliated and shaking.

"I will come," Dunk said simply, looking right into Pond’s red-rimmed eyes. "But not for your money. Not for your threats."

Dunk looked back at his grandfather, then to the stack of orders.

"I will come because a child needs to eat."

---

Chapter Text

The Lertratkosum Mansion was a masterpiece built to intimidate. The marble floors were mirrors, the walls were cold glass, and the atmosphere was always kept at that glacial, clinical 18 degrees Celsius.

But when Dunk Natachai walked in, he brought the smell of heat and humanity with him.

He was still wearing his damp, sauce-stained market apron over his t-shirt. He clutched a worn canvas tote bag filled with his secret weapons-a special fish sauce, some high-quality jasmine rice, and a bottle of bright red ketchup. He looked entirely overwhelmed, his large eyes wide as they took in the scale of the entrance hall, which was larger than the entire Soi 18 Night Market.

Aou, who had arrived just in time to collect Pond, was hovering, pale and exhausted. "Welcome, Khun Dunk. This way. The kitchen is… extensive."

Dunk followed Aou through the echoing hallways until they reached the famous Lertratkosum culinary wing. He pushed through the swinging door and stopped dead.

The space was a cathedral of steel and glass. It was five times the size of his entire house. The untouched equipment gleamed—a bank of industrial ovens, deep fryers, and surfaces so vast and polished Dunk could see his own reflection in the countertop.

"It's empty," Dunk whispered, a note of awe and disbelief in his voice. "Where are the people?"

"Fired," Pond’s voice stated, cutting and dry, coming from the doorway. Pond stood there, cleaned up but still radiating exhaustion and residual terror. "They failed. They are gone. Now, cook."

Dunk turned, giving Pond a look that wasn't fearful, but mildly reproachful. He remembered the tears and the kneeling, and hardened his spine.

"Sir," Dunk said, pulling off his apron and placing it neatly on a clean steel rack. "We agreed. I am here for the child. Not for your orders. My term is non-negotiable: You stay out of my way, and you keep your temper out of this kitchen."

Pond blinked, momentarily stunned by the sheer audacity of a man in a cheap t-shirt dictating terms to him. He was about to retort—to remind Dunk who he was—but he saw Anne’s pale face in his mind.

He simply nodded, once. "Fine."

Dunk turned his back on the billionaire. He took his simple canvas bag and set about claiming a corner of the counter.

The silence of the immense room was broken by the mundane sound of a cutting board. Chop. Chop. Chop. Dunk found the refrigerator, pulled out some fresh scallions and minced pork (expensive, organic, but still the basics). He found a wok—a gleaming, brand-new model—and set it on a burner.

He refused to let the sterile environment intimidate him. He added a splash of oil and a pinch of salt. Soon, a warm, savory steam began to rise, chasing the cold air away.

Dunk was humming a soft tune—the same tune he hummed at his stall. It was a simple, repetitive melody that sounded like comfort. The smell of simple, honest fried rice began to permeate the massive, empty wing of the mansion.

Dunk plated the food not on fine china, but in a simple white bowl he found in a dusty pantry. He used the ketchup bottle to carefully draw a perfect, beaming smiley face on top of the golden rice.

If you’re scared of food, let it smile at you, Dunk thought.

As he finished, he heard a sound. Not Pond’s heavy step, but a light, tentative shuffle.

Anne.

She was standing at the edge of the kitchen, clutching a worn, faded teddy bear. Her small, delicate frame was swallowed by the doorway, her eyes—dark, still rimmed with exhaustion—were fixed on Dunk.

She hadn't hidden. She had walked downstairs, drawn by the sound and the smell.

Pond, who had been watching from the hallway, stiffened, ready to intervene, ready to command her to eat, ready for her to run away.

But Anne didn't run. She took a step closer. And then another.

Dunk looked up. He didn't rush. He didn't ask her name or tell her to sit. He simply let his sunflower smile unfurl—the one that chased the shadows away. He immediately crouched down, meeting her at her height, instantly discarding the physical power dynamic.

"Hello," Dunk said softly, holding out the bowl. "I hear we have a job to do. I need a very brave girl to test my Super Happy Rice. It only works if you smile back at the smiley face."

Anne blinked, her gaze traveling from the face on the rice to the genuine warmth in Dunk’s eyes. She slowly, hesitantly, extended one hand.

Suddenly, a massive, low growl vibrated through the floor.

A huge Doberman Pinscher—Parker, the family's aggressive guard dog, usually confined to the grounds or chained by the pool—trotted silently into the kitchen. He was magnificent and terrifying, built like a tank.

Pond swore under his breath, stepping forward to pull the dog back. Parker was notoriously vicious toward staff.

But Parker ignored Pond entirely. He walked straight past the billionaire and stopped directly beside Dunk. He nudged his huge head into Dunk’s elbow and, with a satisfied puff of air, rested his entire weight squarely on Dunk's left foot.

Dunk didn't flinch. He just rubbed the dog’s head with his free hand, still smiling at Anne. "Oh, hello there, big boy. You want to be the tester too? Sorry, this is kid food. No good for guard dogs. Now, where were we, Anne?"

Pond froze in the doorway, staring. His daughter was calmly reaching for the spoon, and his ten-thousand-dollar guard dog had just adopted the street cook as his new soulmate.

A profound, alien sensation—a strange, thrilling warmth—began to bloom in Pond’s chest, melting the ice that had been frozen around his heart for five long years. It wasn't the warmth of relief that Anne was eating, though she was already taking the first confident bite.

It was the warmth of seeing Dunk Natachai—flour-dusted, smiling, gentle, and utterly magnetic—bring sunlight into the dead heart of his fortress.

Who is this boy? Pond thought, watching Dunk laugh softly with the child and the beast. He doesn't just cook food. He cooks life.

And in that moment, Pond Naravit Lertratkosum fell stupidly, helplessly, embarrassingly in love. He just didn't have a name for it yet.

---

Chapter Text

Dunk Natachai was a whirlwind of well-meaning chaos in the Lertratkosum culinary wing.

His first week was a disaster of magnificent proportions, averted only by the fact that he was feeding Anne three square meals a day, and she was already looking healthier.

The problem wasn't the food; the food was magic. The problem was the technology.

"Khun Dunk, please do not use the sous vide machine to boil eggs," Aou had pleaded on Tuesday, after finding Dunk attempting to use the water bath meant for slow-cooking duck breast to heat his morning jasmine tea.

"It keeps the water warm!" Dunk had defended, already stirring a tiny pot of miraculous, hand-whipped custard for Anne.

On Wednesday, Dunk managed to accidentally set the automatic smoke alarm off by trying to caramelize onions too quickly, filling the marble halls with the smell of scorched sugar and causing a brief panic among the security team. Pond, viewing the security feed from his office, had merely told Aou, "Tell security if they approach the cook, I fire them."

By Friday, the grand kitchen, which Pond had spent millions designing, was operating at about five percent of its technical capacity, but one hundred percent of its emotional capacity.

It all came to a head at 7:30 AM on a crisp morning. Pond, impeccably dressed in a dark grey suit, entered the kitchen for his mandatory pre-work observation ritual.

Dunk was wrestling with the massive induction stove, attempting to make a simple batch of fish broth for Anne’s soup base. The appliance, which looked like the dashboard of a spaceship, kept flashing error codes.

"Ai-ya, you useless metal box!" Dunk muttered, gently slapping the control panel with a flour-dusted hand. "I just want it to simmer! Do I need a degree in astrophysics for soup?"

Pond watched from the doorway, instant irritation battling a strange, soft concern. Dunk’s exasperation was palpable, yet he handled the appliance with a gentleness Pond usually reserved only for his daughter.

"That dial," Pond finally interrupted, his voice clipped and precise. "The power output is set to 8,000 watts. You need to use the simmer function, lower left quadrant. It overrides the temperature sensor."

Dunk spun around, surprised. "Khun Pond! Don't sneak up on me! And you speak kitchen technology? I thought you only spoke 'buy out' and 'hostile takeover.'"

Pond ignored the jab, walking closer, the polished shine of his shoes contrasting sharply with the small puddle of water Dunk had spilled.

"The unit requires manual adjustment of the power density for simmering," Pond explained, leaning over the control panel. He reached out, his hand—cool, large, and tailored for signing billion-baht contracts—hovering over the complicated display.

DDunk leaned in at the same moment, trying to point to the function he thought Pond meant.

Swish.

Their fingers brushed—Pond’s dry, cold skin against Dunk’s warmer, slightly sticky fingertip (Dunk had been kneading flour for the bread rolls).

The contact was fleeting, less than a second. But for Pond, it was a sudden, disproportionate jolt. It wasn't electricity; it was a pure sensory shock, like cold water hitting a raw nerve. He snatched his hand back, his entire system locking up.

Dunk didn't notice, already engrossed in the dial. "Ah! Simmer! Why didn't it say 'Simmer'?"

Pond ignored the question. He retreated two steps, putting a safe distance between them, feeling a strange flush creep up his neck. It was just a hand. It was just a cook.

He cleared his throat. "It's programmed for efficiency, not semantics. Now, the broth."

Dunk, oblivious, turned the setting down. The massive stove finally settled into a gentle, happy bubble. Dunk sighed in satisfaction.

"Thank you, Khun Pond," Dunk said, turning around with his sunflower smile full wattage. "You are quite smart, for a scary boss."

Pond simply stared, trying to reset his internal systems.

"You need coffee," Dunk diagnosed, already reaching for a worn tin. "You look like you wrestled a crocodile last night. Don't worry, I won't use the espresso machine. Too complicated."

Pond’s high-tech office had a fully automated, $15,000 espresso machine capable of pulling a perfect single-origin shot from anywhere in the world. He drank it black, precise, and fast.

Dunk, however, was now mixing a saccharine, creamy brew—instant 3-in-1 coffee powder mixed with scalding water from the kettle he used for tea.

"Here," Dunk said, holding out a generic, white ceramic mug. "It's sweet, but it gets the job done."

Pond took the mug. The cheap ceramic was warm, not temperature controlled. The coffee was syrupy and completely wrong.

Pond took a sip.

It was dreadful.

And yet, he didn't move. He stood in the sterile, high-tech kitchen, drinking the sugary instant coffee, leaning against a clean counter, and watched Dunk work.

Dunk was humming again—the same simple, comforting tune. His whole body moved with a fluid, natural rhythm as he diced vegetables, his apron tied tightly around his small waist. He was focused, gentle, and emanating a peaceful energy that was completely intoxicating.

Pond found himself lingering. He was supposed to be in his car, en route to a critical board meeting. Aou was currently texting him in all caps: The Swiss delegation is waiting!

Pond looked down at the mug in his hand, then back at Dunk, who was now carefully peeling a tiny mango for Anne’s snack. He felt an absurd, overwhelming urge to skip the board meeting, tell the Swiss delegation to buy their own mango, and just watch Dunk peel fruit all day.

Why is this instant coffee better than my espresso? Pond thought, taking another slow, deliberate sip. Why does the humming of this boy make my stress disappear faster than my therapist?

Pond felt a cold dread mix with the strange warmth in his chest. He wasn't just observing his daughter's recovery anymore. He was observing his own unraveling. The ice around his heart wasn't melting; it was breaking apart, and the simple, sweet sunlight of Dunk Natachai was flooding in.

This was dangerous. This felt like the beginning of something Pond Naravit was completely unequipped to handle.

He finished the coffee, putting the cheap mug down with a decisive clink.

"I'm leaving," Pond announced abruptly, sounding harsher than intended.

Dunk just smiled, unconcerned. "Drive safe, Khun Pond. And don't forget to eat your lunch. I packed you something special—it's in the silver box on the counter."

Pond walked out, feeling the pull to look back, and refused it. He was leaving the fortress, but for the first time in his life, he was taking a piece of sunlight with him—a slightly sticky memory of a brief touch, the syrupy taste of instant coffee, and the quiet sound of Dunk’s simple, loving hum.

The billionaire had officially changed his routine. And his life was about to follow.

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