Chapter 4 Four

Skylar's POV

"Your application to the University has been finalized," my mother said, her tone as precise as the crease in her white blouse. "Political Sciences, International Relations. It's the perfect foundation for..."

"For the life you want me to have," I cut in, stabbing my fork into a piece of asparagus.

My father didn't look up from his plate. "For the life you were born to have, Skylar. You're not just our daughter-you're a Reed. That comes with responsibility."

I leaned back in my chair. "Right. Responsibility. You mean power lunches, photo ops, and shaking hands with men who care more about land ownership than clean drinking water."

My mother's lips thinned. "Don't be dramatic."

I laughed, sharp and humorless. "I'm not being dramatic, I'm being honest. I don't want to spend my life in some overpriced suit, smiling for cameras while pretending I care about politics. I want to be a doctor."

That got my father's attention. He set his fork down slowly, like the act required more control than he wanted to admit. "Medicine is not an appropriate career for someone in your position."

"In my position?" I repeated, the words bitter on my tongue. "What is that, exactly? Your pawn? The next trophy in the Reed dynasty?"

His eyes narrowed. "Watch your tone."

Mila's voice echoed in my head from earlier that afternoon: You're going to snap one day, Sky, and when you do, make sure they hear it in every room of this house.

I folded my arms across my chest. "I've watched my tone for twenty years. All it's gotten me is a life planned down to the brand of pen I'm supposed to use in my first council meeting."

My mother's expression was as unreadable as ever, but her fingers tightened around her wine glass. "Your future isn't something you can improvise. Politics is in your blood. You'll have resources, influence things most people could never dream of."

"I don't care about influence," I shot back. "I care about doing something that matters. And for me, that's medicine. Helping people when they're at their worst, not just... pushing policies from a marble office while the real work happens somewhere else."

Silence hung over the table like smoke.

Finally, my father spoke. "You think medicine is noble, but you haven't seen the reality. Years of study, exhausting hours, little thanks. You're too "

"Too what?" I challenged. "Too privileged to care? Too delicate to get my hands dirty? Or is it that being a doctor won't get my face on the front page next to yours?"

His jaw clenched. "Medicine will not happen. This family's name belongs in the political sphere. We've built our legacy there, and you will continue it."

I pushed my plate away, appetite gone. "Your legacy is not my life."

The words hit like a spark in dry grass.

My mother set down her glass, her voice deceptively calm. "You will attend Rothmore. You will study International Relations. You will be presented at the autumn gala as our successor. This is not negotiable."

Something in me cracked. "Do you even hear yourself? You're talking about me like I'm a campaign strategy, not your daughter. Every other person got to attend the university of their choice what's your problem with me."

"You're both," my father said simply. "Our bloodline and our investment. You have no idea how many people would kill for the position you were born into."

I stood so quickly my chair scraped against the polished floor. "Then give it to them. Let someone else be your perfect little heir, because I'm done pretending that's who I am."

My mother's voice turned sharp. "Sit down."

I didn't. "You've never asked what I wanted. Not once. You've just decided for me, every step of the way. But I'm not a child anymore. I'm applying to medical schools with or without your blessing."

Her eyes narrowed to slits. "If you walk away from this family's path, you walk away from its protection. From everything we've given you."

The air felt colder somehow, like the walls themselves were siding with her. "Then I'll survive without it," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

My father leaned back in his chair, studying me like I was an unpredictable witness on the stand. "You think independence is romantic. It's not. It's brutal. And when you realize you've made a mistake, this door won't be as easy to open again."

"Good," I said. "Then I won't be tempted to come back."

For a moment, no one moved. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner was the only sound.

Then my mother spoke, each word clipped and deliberate. "You're young. You think you know yourself, but you don't. We will not support this... rebellion."

"I don't need your support," I said, though my chest ached with the weight of it. "I just need you to stop controlling me."

I turned to leave, my pulse pounding in my ears.

"Skylar," my father's voice was low, almost dangerous. "If you walk out now, understand that you're making a choice that will define you forever."

I looked over my shoulder. "Good. Maybe for once, it'll be a choice I made for myself."

And then I walked away past the oil portraits of ancestors who'd never known my name, past the hall that always smelled faintly of polish and dust, past the part of me that used to think maybe, someday, they'd see me for who I was.

But everything didn't move as smoothly as I thought.