The word Dad hit Daniel’s chest like a door thrown open.
Not because the child could possibly be his—but because the word carried something he hadn’t touched since he was a boy himself.
Need.
Real need.
“It’s fine,” the maître d’ said quickly. “We’ll take care of this—”
“Wait.”
Daniel’s voice came out firm. Solid. Like he’d finally decided to exist in his own life.
The maître d’ froze.
Daniel looked at the girl.
“Why did you call me that?”
Lily swallowed, terrified—but didn’t step back.
“Because you look kind,” she said simply. “Like my dad used to… before he left. And because I’m really hungry.”
No acting.
No manipulation.
Just truth—bare and shaking.
A woman nearby muttered, “This is unacceptable. I come here so I don’t have to see things like this.”
Something burned inside Daniel—not at the girl, but at a world where a child had to call a stranger Dad just to eat.
He motioned to the waiter.
“Bring her bread. Butter. Orange juice. And a soup—something easy on her stomach.”
The waiter hesitated, glancing at the manager.
“Now,” Daniel said.
The waiter hurried off.
The manager tried to intervene. “Sir, we have protocols—image, hygiene—”