Donovan pulled his Porsche into the entrance of his building.
The drive back from the SoHo Grand had been a quiet one, filled only with the low hum of the engine and the nagging voice in his head telling him he was dodging his responsibilities.
There was a joke to be made about his encounter with Lana—something about palindromes and irony—but he felt too intellectually drained to construct it. It was funny, though. In a dark, twisted way.
He sat in the car for a long time after he killed the engine. The silence of the garage was heavy. He stared at the steering wheel, dreading the elevator ride.
He hadn't felt this way in years—the reluctance to go home.
Usually, his home was his fortress.
Now, it was a minefield of glitter, attitude, and questions he didn't want to answer.
Knock. Knock.
Donovan jumped.
The valet was standing outside the window, looking concerned. "Mr. Knight? You okay, sir?"
Donovan sighed, unbuckling his seatbelt. "Yeah. Just... meditating."
He stepped out of the low car, tossing the keys to the valet. "Thanks, man."
As he walked toward the elevator bank, a blonde woman rushed past him, clutching a binder to her chest like a shield. It was Blondie, the tutor. She looked frazzled, her hair slightly askew, and she was muttering something about "unreasonable working conditions."
"Hey!" Donovan called out. "Where you going? Class dismissed?"
She didn't stop. She just broke into a run, her heels clicking frantically on the concrete.
"I quit!" she shouted over her shoulder. "Keep the check!"
Donovan watched her disappear around the corner.
"Well," he muttered. "That's not a good sign."
He took the elevator up. The doors opened directly into the penthouse.
Donovan went upstairs, as he entered his apartment, as it was a mess.
The usually pristine, minimalist living space had been transformed into a battlefield of childhood chaos. Cushions were ripped and scattered across the polished concrete floor like fallen soldiers. A half-eaten bag of bright orange cheese puffs lay overturned on the plush rug, leaving a vibrant, greasy stain that screamed of imminent dry-cleaning bills.
Drawings, rendered in crayon with the wild abandon of a budding abstract expressionist, were taped haphazardly to the pristine white walls, some peeling at the corners, others already drooping to the floor.
A trail of crumbs, suspiciously uniform in their circular shape, led from the kitchen island, which was now obscured by an avalanche of cereal boxes, a spilled carton of milk, and what looked like an entire roll of toilet paper unspooled across its surface.
Empty juice boxes lay crushed like fallen titans, their straw wrappers creating a confetti of sugary litter.
A bright pink blanket, embroidered with cartoon unicorns, was draped over the flat-screen TV, obscuring the screen entirely, while a scattering of plastic toys – miniature dinosaurs, dismembered dolls, and a few brightly colored building blocks – crunched under Donovan's expensive loafers with every step.
The coffee table was the epicentre of the disaster, laden with more drawings, a half-finished puzzle, and a jar of what appeared to be industrial-strength adhesive.
Jordania was sitting at the coffee table, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and defiance, as one hand was stuck fast to the surface, a sheen of clear, gummy substance binding her small fingers to the table.
Samantha stood next to her, arms crossed, looking equally culpable and exasperated.
"What the hell happened here?" Donovan asked, stepping over a pile of pipe cleaners.
"She left," Jordania said, pointing at the door with her free hand.
"What do you mean she left?" Donovan asked, dropping his keys on the console table. "She ran past me like she was escaping Alcatraz."
"She quit," Samantha clarified, taking a crunchy bite of her apple. "She said we were 'unteachable'."
"She just left," Jordania repeated, looking down at her hand.
"Yeah, I saw that," Donovan said, walking over to inspect the damage. "What did you do? Did you bite her?"
"Nothing," Jordania whispered.
"Your hand is glued to the table," Donovan observed, leaning closer.
Her small hand was firmly adhered to the wood surface. There was a dried, clear residue around her fingers. "Why do you even have glue?" Donovan asked, looking around. "I don't own glue."
"The tutor gave it to her," Samantha explained. "For a 'bonding exercise'. Get it? Bonding?"
Donovan put his head in his hands. "Bonding. Right. How am I go—"
He massaged his temples. The headache from the morning was returning with a vengeance.
"Oh my god," he groaned.
He pulled out his phone, typing furiously. How to remove superglue from wood and skin.
"I've got no glue remover," Donovan muttered, scrolling through DIY forums. "Acetone? Do we have acetone? That's nail polish remover, right?"
He looked at Samantha. "Do you have nail polish remover?"
"No," she said. "I don't paint my nails."
"Seriously, Jordania," Donovan sighed, looking down at the little girl. "How did you get your hand stuck on a table? It takes effort. You have to hold it there."
"I'm sorry," she whispered, her lip trembling.
"You keep saying that, and you keep doing silly stuff," Donovan snapped, frustration boiling over. "First the blender, now this. Can we go one hour without a disaster?"
"She's only four," Samantha defended her sister. "What do you expect? She thinks glue is magic potion."
"When I was four, I wasn't gluing my hands to stuff," Donovan countered. "I was dribbling a basketball. I was productive."
Donovan let out a long, weary sigh, the kind that came from the deepest parts of his soul.
He vanished into the kitchen, returning moments later with a large bowl filled with steaming hot water, a generous dollop of dish soap swirling on its surface, and a butter knife.
The aroma of lemon dish soap filled the air, a stark contrast to the saccharine smell of spilled juice. He carefully placed the bowl on the floor beside the coffee table, a look of grim determination on his face.
He knelt, his knees protesting slightly on the hard floor, and gently, began to work at the edges of Jordania's stuck hand.
"Alright, stay still," he murmured, more to himself than to her, his voice softer than before, edged with a paternal concern he hadn't known he possessed.
The warm, soapy water was his first weapon. He poured a small stream directly onto the glue around her wrist, letting it seep into the crevices where skin met wood.
He waited, watching the clear, viscous substance for any signs of softening.
Jordania whimpered slightly, her eyes fixated on his movements, a mixture of fear and newfound trust in her gaze.
Donovan then took the butter knife, its dull edge gleaming under the overhead lights.
He dipped the tip into the soapy water, then carefully, painstakingly, began to slide it under the very edge of the glued area on her palm.
It was slow, delicate work, requiring the kind of patience he usually reserved for reviewing game footage.
The process was agonizingly slow, each millimeter of progress a small victory. He spoke in low, calming tones, reassuring Jordania even as he swore under his breath at the tenacity of the glue.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, with a small, almost imperceptible pop, her hand came free. Jordania gasped, her fingers wiggling, red and a little sticky, but free.
"There," Donovan said, relief washing over him in a warm wave. He took her hand, still sticky, and guided it into the bowl of hot, soapy water. "Clean your hands in that."
Donovan got back up to his feet, stretching out the kinks in his back before he looked at the residue left on his table. It was ruined. A permanent handprint on a $5,000 piece of furniture.
"After dinner, I don't want to see you for the rest of the night." He looked pointedly at his kids. "And I'm taking my bed back."