The silence of the penthouse was shattered not by the soothing chime of a high-end digital alarm, nor by the morning sun filtering through the automated blinds.
It was shattered by the sharp, rhythmic, and incredibly persistent barking of a creature that believed itself to be a wolf but was shaped like a loaf of bread.
Woof. Woof. Woof.
Donovan groaned, burying his face deeper into the Egyptian cotton pillows. His head felt heavy, a dull throb pulsating behind his eyes.
The scorecard from the previous night—Rihanna vs. The King of New York—might have ended in a victory, but the physical toll was real.
Woof! Woof!
"Go away, big dawg," Donovan mumbled into the mattress, his voice thick with sleep. "I'm trying to sleep."
Big Dog did not care about recovery.
Big Dog did not care about the three-peat. Big Dog cared about one thing: the routine. And the routine had been violated.
The biological clock of a Corgi was more precise than a Rolex, and right now, the alarm was ringing.
The barking didn't stop.
If anything, it became more frantic, a high-pitched staccato that drilled directly into Donovan's nervous system. The Corgi started scratching at the side of the bed, his claws clicking against the expensive wood frame like a tiny prisoner trying to dig out of a cell.
Woofwoofwoof!
"Fine!" Donovan shouted, throwing the duvet off his body with a violent thrust.
He sat up, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. He looked at the digital clock on the nightstand.
7:02 AM.
"Seven?" Donovan whispered, horrified.
Panic spiked through his chest.
He was late. He was never late.
His internal clock was usually calibrated to the second—4:00 AM wake up, 4:30 AM shots up.
He had missed his morning workout entirely. He had missed the meditative silence of the gym.
He had missed the sunrise.
It was supposed to be time for breakfast, for both of him and the dog, but he had completely missed the window.
His schedule was thrown off, and for a creature of habit like Donovan, that was a disaster.
It was the butterfly effect; miss the workout, miss the rhythm, miss the shot in the fourth quarter.
He swung his legs out of bed, rubbing his face aggressively to wake up his nerve endings. "You happy now?" Donovan grumbled at the dog.
Big Dog wagged his tail, spun in a circle, and trotted toward the door, looking back expectantly.
Donovan stood up, stretching his massive frame. His back cracked—a sound like a pistol shot. He reached down to the floor where he had discarded his mesh shorts the night before in the heat of the "game."
As he picked them up, the morning light caught something. He paused, bringing the fabric closer to his face.
There, clinging to the orange mesh of the Knicks shorts, was a single, long strand of hair.
Donovan plucked it off, holding it up to the light.
It was his. Thick, dark, and unmistakably his. He frowned.
Was he shedding? He ran a hand through his own hair, checking for thinning.
"Stress," Donovan muttered to himself, dropping the hair onto the carpet. "Heavy lies the crown."
He pulled the shorts on, ignoring the existential dread of hair loss, and walked toward the door.
As he walked, his nose twitched as he smelled something.
It wasn't the sterile, clean scent of his apartment, which usually smelled of sandalwood and expensive cleaning products. It wasn't the lingering smell of expensive perfume or the musk of the previous night's activities.
It was... butter? And eggs?
"Who's cooking eggs in my apartment?" Donovan asked the empty hallway.
He didn't have a chef. He blended his own sludge.
He didn't do cooked breakfasts.
The kitchen was for show, a marble monument to wealth, not for culinary arts.
He walked down the hall, following the scent like a bloodhound. He turned the corner into the kitchen.
There, standing at his pristine marble island, wearing one of his oversized t-shirts that looked like a dress on her, was Rihanna.
She was humming to herself, flipping a spatula with a practiced ease that looked bizarrely domestic in a kitchen that cost more than most houses.
Donovan stopped in his tracks, leaning against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest. "Girl, what the fuck are you doing?"
Rihanna didn't jump. She didn't look guilty. She just turned her head, offering him a lazy, satisfied smile. "I was hungry."
"I was hungry," Donovan mocked, rubbing his eyes. "Normally, girls see themselves out. You know, like a magician. You disappear before the applause dies down. That's the etiquette."
"I was hungry," she repeated, turning back to the stove. She plated a mound of scrambled eggs that looked surprisingly fluffy. "You want some? I made enough for two. You look like you need the protein. You worked hard last night. Burned a lot of calories trying to keep up."
Donovan scowled. He looked at the eggs. They looked decent, but that wasn't the point. The point was the violation of his sacred morning space. The kitchen was his laboratory for sludge, not a diner.
"You don't got no food outside?" Donovan asked, gesturing vaguely to the city of New York through the window. "You're Rihanna. You're a millionaire, why are you dirtying my pans? Do you know how hard it is to clean that copper?"
"Oh come on, stop being such a downer," she laughed, leaning against the counter and taking a bite of the eggs. "You're grumpy in the morning."
"I got practice," Donovan snapped, checking the wall clock. "I'm already late. My routine is cooked. Can you see yourself out? The valet can get you a car."
Rihanna rolled her eyes, chewing slowly. "Like you care about practice? You're the franchise."
"Not the point," Donovan said, walking past her to the fridge as he grabbed his pitcher of pre-made smoothie sludge from the fridge.
"You going to drink that?" Rihanna asked, grimacing at the grey liquid. "It looks like wet cement mixed."
"It's fuel," Donovan said, popping the top. "Go. Please."
Rihanna sighed, putting the plate down. "Fine. You're no fun when you're sober. Or hungry. Or awake."
She walked past him, trailing a hand across his back. "I'll get my things."
Donovan went back to the bedroom, avoiding the mess on the bed. He showered in record time—three minutes, cold water only. He scrubbed the night off him, resetting his mind.
When he exited the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, Rihanna was already dressed in her outfit from the night before—a sleek black dress that looked slightly less glamorous in the harsh morning light, but she still pulled it off because she was her.
She was putting on her heels near the door.
"This was fun," Donovan said, his voice flat. "See you never."
Rihanna stood up, smoothing her dress. She looked him in the eye, a smirk playing on her lips. "It wasn't that good, I'll be honest," she lied, checking her reflection in the hallway mirror. "I've had better."
"Sure," Donovan scoffed. "That's why you were singing opera at 4 AM. See ya."
He opened the front door for her.
"Bye, King," she said, stepping out.
"Bye." Donovan shut the door in her face. He locked it. Then he engaged the deadbolt.
He walked back to the kitchen. The plate of eggs was still sitting on the counter, steam rising from them. They smelled good. Really good. His stomach rumbled. "Damn that smells good."
He picked up the plate, looked at it for a second, and then dumped the contents into the trash can.
"Body is a temple," he muttered. "Can't be eating unauthorised calories. That's how you get slow."
He grabbed his shaker cup of sludge and chugged it in three massive gulps. It tasted like earth, discipline, and misery.
He checked the time. 8:15 AM.
He needed to leave in five minutes to make it to Tarrytown by 9:00 AM for the start of the team meeting.
Just as he was grabbing his gym bag, the landline on the wall—a phone he literally never used, a relic of the building's infrastructure—rang. It was a sharp, jarring sound that echoed in the silent apartment.
Donovan stared at it as only the front desk called that line He picked it up "Yo."
"Pardon me, Mr. Knight," Larry's voice crackled through the speaker. "I have visitors here at reception."
Donovan groaned, tilting his head back. "Larry, man. I'm late. Tell them I'm already gone"
"They are insistent, sir," Larry said, sounding unusually polite. "They're here for you," Larry continued. "It's a young lady and her friend."
Donovan paused. He looked at the clock. 8:20 AM.
He did the math. If he rushed, he could handle a "meet and greet" in twenty minutes.
Worst case, he was thirty minutes late to practice.
He was the franchise player; he could miss practice and just get there in time for Media Day.
And "young lady" usually meant one thing in Donovan's world.
Models.
The type of distraction he usually welcomed, even if the timing was terrible.
Maybe Victoria came back. Or maybe Megan wanted round two.
"Are they cute?" Donovan asked, checking his reflection in the microwave door.
"Exceedingly so," Larry replied instantly.
Donovan smirked.
Larry had good taste, he was pretty much the reason, he slept with Rihanna last night. "What are you waiting for, Larry?" Donovan chuckled. "Send them up. But tell them I got twenty minutes before I got to go."
He hung up the phone.
He quickly walked to the foyer mirror. He checked his teeth. Clean. He blew his breath into his hand and sniffed it.
"Damn," he winced. The smoothie breath was potent. Tuna did not smell like romance.
He grabbed a pack of mint chewing gum from the bowl on the console table and popped two pieces, chewing aggressively to generate saliva and mask the scent of health.
Ding-dong.
The doorbell rang as Donovan smoothed his tracksuit, put on his most charming, half-awake-but-still-sexy smile, "Showtime," Donovan whispered before he swung the door open. "Hello," Donovan said, his voice dropping to a smooth baritone.
He looked straight ahead, expecting to see a pair of glamazons, or maybe a couple of influencers looking for a tag.
He saw the hallway wall. He looked left. He looked right. There was nobody.
"Goodbye," Donovan said, annoyed. He stepped back to close the door.
"Hey!" A joint shout came from below his line of sight.
Donovan stopped. He looked down. Way down.
Standing on his welcome mat were two girls.
Donovan blinked. He blinked again.
Larry had said "young ladies." He hadn't specified that they were very young ladies.
The older one looked to be about nine years old. She was tall for her age—lanky, with limbs that seemed a bit too long for her body, a trait Donovan recognized instantly as "hooper build."
She was wearing denim overalls with one strap undone, a graphic tee that said "Skate or Die," and scuffed high-top sneakers.
Her stance was wide, confident, almost confrontational.
She stood with her hands on her hips, her chin tilted up, looking Donovan dead in the eye with zero fear.
But what struck him most was her hair.
Thick, wild, and tied back in a messy ponytail that was fighting a losing battle against gravity.
Beside her was the younger one. She was much smaller, barely out of the toddler phase—four years old at most.
She was microscopic next to Donovan's 6'11 frame, barely reaching his knee. She was the polar opposite of her sister in style.
She was dressed like a cupcake—a pink dress with frills, white tights, and shiny patent leather shoes that looked brand new.
Her hair was styled in two puffy pigtails held by pink ribbons, but the hair itself was that same colour.
She was clutching a small, worn-out teddy bear to her chest with both hands. Unlike the older one, she looked intimidated, wobbling slightly in her shoes, staring up at Donovan with massive brown eyes like he was a skyscraper that had suddenly sprouted legs.
They looked different, yet exactly the same.
They had the same nose.
The same shape of the eyes.
And they were both smiling. One with a smirk, one with a shy, gap-toothed grin.
Donovan's face fell. His charm evaporated. "Listen," Donovan said, his voice losing the baritone and gaining a distinct edge of annoyance. "I don't do Girl Scout cookies. I don't eat Thin Mints. I don't eat Samoas. I don't care if it's for charity."
The girls' smiles faltered.
"We aren't—" the older one started, stepping forward.
"I didn't become an NBA champion by eating cookies," Donovan interrupted, launching into a lecture. He lifted his shirt slightly to flex his abs. "You see this? You don't get a six-pack like this eating peanut butter patties, you know? I'm a tight 260 pounds of twisted steel. Sugar is the enemy. It destroys your fast-twitch muscle fibers. It makes you slow."
He looked at the older one, who was staring at his stomach not with admiration, but with a critical eye. "You don't believe me?" Donovan challenged, misinterpreting her look. "Give it a shot. Hit me. Best shot. Come on, don't be shy."
The younger one, the princess, gasped. Her eyes filled with fear. She took a half-step back, clutching her bear, looking terrified that this giant man was asking to be assaulted.
"Don't hit him!" she whispered to her sister. "He's huge!"
However, the older one didn't seem to share that fear. In fact, her eyes lit up. A mischievous, almost predatory grin spread across her face.
It was a look Donovan had seen on his own face in game tape.
She didn't hesitate. She didn't ask for permission twice.
She wound up her arm and threw a punch directly at Donovan's gut.
Thwack.
Her form was terrible—thumb tucked in, wrist bent—but she put her hips into it. It bounced off Donovan's abdominal wall like a tennis ball hitting a brick wall.
Donovan didn't even flinch. He laughed, a booming sound that echoed in the hallway.
"That's ridiculous, isn't it?" Donovan chuckled, looking down at her reddening knuckles. "That's like blowing bubbles at a tank. You got to work on your mechanics, kid. Elbow in, twist the hip. You punched with your arm, not your core."
The girl shook her hand out, frowning, but she didn't look defeated. She looked determined. She looked like she wanted to try again.
"Bye bye," Donovan said, still laughing. "I got to go. Stay in school. Eat your vegetables. Don't punch strangers." He grabbed the door handle and swung it shut.
"Unbelievable," Donovan muttered, turning back to the foyer. "Larry sending up door-to-door salesmen."
Ding-dong. Ding-dong. Ding-dong.
The doorbell rang in a rapid-fire staccato, like someone was playing a video game on the button. Donovan sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Girls, I'm not in!" he shouted through the wood.
"We just saw you!" the older one's voice came through, muffled but defiant.
"That was AI!" Donovan yelled back. "Hologram! Technology is crazy these days! Watch this!" He changed his voice to a robotic monotone. "Please. Leave. A. Message. Beep. Boop."
There was a pause. "Hello, A.I.," the younger voice squeaked politely.
Donovan suppressed a laugh.
Then, the bell spamming resumed. Ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong.
Donovan pinched the bridge of his nose. He checked his watch. 8:25 AM. He was going to have to physically move them to leave.
He ripped the door open again.
"Okay, look," Donovan said, leaning down to their level, hands on his knees. "Whatever you're selling, I ain't buying, yo. I respect the hustle. I really do. But I got places to be. I'll give you two a hundo to leave me alone. Split it fifty-fifty. Go buy... whatever kids buy. Toys? Slime? Sweets? Go crazy I don't know do whatever, just don't do it here"
He reached into his pocket and pulled out two hundred dollar bills
The younger girl looked at the money like it was alien currency. "I don't want any money," she said softly.
"Me neither," the older one said, crossing her arms.
Donovan paused, holding the bill out.
They didn't want money. Everybody wanted money. Everyone he knew wanted money.
"Okay," Donovan said slowly, putting the cash back. "That makes me change my approach. It's normally one of two things. Money or..." He sighed. "The second thing is never going to happen."
"What's the second thing?" the older girl asked, tilting her head.
"An autograph," Donovan said with the weariness of a superstar. "They all want it. Eight to eighty, blind, crippled, or crazy. You're probably going to give it to your parents, and they're going to try to sell it on eBay to pay for your college tuition. But I'll do it. Because I'm Donovan Knight, humanitarian. Philanthropist. Man of the people."
He pointed a finger at them. "Wait here. I'll be right back," Donovan said, turning to head into the living room to find a black sharpie.
As he turned, he heard the click-clack of claws. Big Dog had heard the commotion and had come to investigate.
"You have a dog!" the younger girl squealed. It wasn't a question. It was a declaration of pure joy. Before Donovan could stop her, the little girl in the pink dress darted past him, running into the apartment.
"Come here! You're so cute!" she cried, dropping to her knees on the expensive rug.
Big Dog, traitor that he was, immediately rolled onto his back, exposing his belly and wagging his tail furiously.
"Easy!" Donovan shouted, rushing after her. "He's a very vicious attack dog! He's trained to kill! He will bite your finger off!"
The girl was already burying her face in the dog's fur, giggling. Big Dog was licking her cheek with enthusiasm. "Yeah, he's going to lick me to death," she giggled.
Donovan stood over them, hands on his hips. He looked at the open door where the older girl was still standing, watching with a smirk.
"Listen," Donovan said, trying to regain control of the situation. "You can't just walk into strangers' homes like this. That's how you get shot. Or kidnapped. Or sued."
He looked at the younger girl, who was ignoring him in favor of the dog.
"Or worse, there's weirdos out there," Donovan added. "I could have been a crazy person. I could have been a Celtics fan."
He turned his attention to the older girl in the doorway. She walked in slowly as her ponytail swung as she left the door open. "Shouldn't you be looking after her?" Donovan asked, gesturing to the floor. "Where are your parents? Didn't they ever teach you stranger danger?"
"Yeah," the younger one said, looking up from the dog. "Mommy told us."
"Where is she?" Donovan asked, looking around as if the mother might pop out of the closet.
"She left," the older girl said casually, picking up a basketball from the rack near the door and bouncing it off the floor. She dribbled it well. Surprisingly well.
Donovan frowned. "She left? She just dropped you off at the penthouse of an NBA player and dipped? That's terrible parenting. Who are you here with?" Donovan asked, getting serious. "Is there a nanny? A driver? An agent?"
"We're here with our father," the older girl said, looking him dead in the eye.
Donovan blinked. "Well, you better go find him because he's probably looking for you. He's probably freaking out right now. And if he finds you in my house, he's going to think I kidnapped you, and that's a PR nightmare I don't need, I'm not getting lumped with those weirdos, and I'm not going to jail and wasting years of my prime"
The older girl stopped bouncing the ball. She held it against her hip, mirroring Donovan's stance. The resemblance in that moment—the posture, the attitude, the hair framing a face that was undeniably stubborn—was striking.
"He's not looking for us," she said calmly. "He's looking at us."
The room went silent. The only sound was the younger girl cooing at the dog. Donovan stared at her. His brain tried to process the sentence, but it jammed. "Is your father Casper?" Donovan asked, looking around the room. "The Invisible Man? Like... what? Am I supposed to see a ghost?"
The girl rolled her eyes. A gesture Donovan had seen in the mirror a thousand times.
"I'm Samantha," she said clearly. "But I prefer Sami."
Samantha.
The name rang a bell. A distant, rusty bell buried deep in the archives of his memory. It wasn't a recent memory.
It was old, like a past he tried his hardest to forget and move on from.
The younger girl looked up, finally releasing Big Dog. Her pigtails bounced as she stood up. "I'm Jordania," she announced proudly.
"Her real name is Jordan," Sami corrected. "But she goes by Jordania because she thinks she's a princess."
"Jordania!" the little one insisted, stomping her foot. "My name is Jordania."
Donovan looked between them. The same hair. The same eyes. The timestamps.
Nine years old. Four years old.
Sami took a step forward, dropping the basketball. It bounced once, echoing loudly in the silent apartment.
"We haven't seen each other in a long time," Sami said, her voice wavering just slightly, betraying a hint of nervousness beneath the bravado. "We are your daughters."