Abruptly, a man sitting in a desk chair appeared on the screen with a smirk on his face. He looked to be within his early forties, youth still clinging to his chiseled jawline. Waves of raven hair swooped along his forehead of the right, combed back delicately on the left. And the same lucid blue eyes as Daphne and I. My first instincts were to hand Daphne her laptop until he spoke.
“Glad you actually answered this time, Daph,” he sighed in relief.
My eyes flickered to her in confusion. She purposely ignored my look, staring at the TV screen. But I knew she was listening. I turned back to him. “Sorry, but--”
“You’re damn right you’re sorry, little missy,” he chided, eyebrows furrowed. Could he not tell that I wasn’t his daughter? The visual between us looked clear with no crackling and
