He found me near the edge of the lawn, where the noise from the main crowd softened just enough to think clearly. I had been watching Theo chase bubbles with a group of other children, his laughter cutting through the artificial elegance of the setting in a way that felt almost rebellious. For a moment, I had allowed myself to forget why I’d been hesitant to come.
Then my father’s hand closed around my arm.
Not violently, but firmly enough to make his intent clear.
“Clara,” he said, his voice low but sharp, “we’re not doing this again.”
I turned to face him, already feeling the familiar tension settle into my shoulders. “Doing what?”
He leaned closer, his grip tightening slightly. “You sign the transfer papers on Monday. We’re not asking anymore.”
There it was.
The same demand, repeated in different forms over the past three weeks, each time with less patience and more pressure behind it.
“My apartment isn’t part of this,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “It never was.”
His expression shifted almost instantly, irritation hardening into something colder. “Everything you have is because this family opened doors for you.”
I felt something inside me settle—not anger exactly, but a kind of clarity that made the next words easier to say.
