Chapter 1

"Seraphina, take off that pilled sweater and hang it over the back of your chair."

My father's voice cut through my thoughts. He adjusted his cufflinks under the dazzling crystal chandelier, his eyes full of disgust.

"This is a fine dining restaurant, not one of those places you usually eat at."

"Dressing so carelessly—it's simply beneath the dignity of our artistic family."

This place was the city's top French restaurant, with a strict membership policy. My father had booked the best table in advance just for tonight.

"Ella gave a flawless performance today. It deserves to be celebrated with the utmost ceremony."

"I made this reservation a whole week ahead—all for tonight!"

He looked at my mother and Ella, who had just taken their seats, his voice swelling with pride.

My throat felt like it was stuffed with sand.

A week ago. That was exactly the day I'd begged my mother for that visitor's pass.

So while I was asking, my father had already been planning Ella's celebratory dinner.

And my future—where I'd end up—didn't even warrant a mention.

At the table, my parents kept dissecting Ella's performance. Ella, in her little French-style dress, toyed with her silverware.

"Hey, sis, you've been job hunting lately. Found anything yet?"

She turned to me out of nowhere.

My father paused his conversation and shot me a glance.

"I was going to ask the same thing. You spend all day typing away on that computer—what exactly are you busy with?"

"I've already gotten the offer I wanted."

I stared at the empty plate in front of me, my voice flat.

"So I don't need fancy clothes to prop up my image."

The air went still for two seconds.

My father set down his water glass.

"Seraphina, your thinking is permanently stuck at the most basic material level."

He looked at me, his voice cold.

"Ella is an artist with a soul—she pursues the finer things in life. You, on the other hand, are obsessed with worldly calculations. The harder you try, the more vulgar you become."

"Honestly, I don't know how a family like ours ended up raising such a mercenary child."

A waiter rolled over a cart. My father didn't even glance at the menu.

"One lobster seafood platter, two portions of foie gras, and open a bottle of Lafite. Ella's been working hard today—she needs something nourishing."

"Dad," I said quietly, "I'm allergic to seafood. And I don't drink."

He was already cutting his bread, not looking up.

"Tonight's about your sister. The ordering should revolve around what she likes."

"Your stomach can't appreciate good food anyway. Just pick yourself some sides and don't ruin everyone's mood."

My mother chimed in: "And add a beef bourguignon—Ella needs the energy."

Dishes arrived one by one. The giant seafood platter sat right in the middle of the table. My father peeled a piece of crab meat and placed it on Ella's plate.

Ella swirled her wine glass and let out a sigh.

"Thanks, Dad. But since Sis is allergic, maybe we should take this dish back?"

She looked at me, her eyes sincere and innocent.

"Take it back? We already ordered it."

My mother tapped the rim of her goblet.

"Seraphina, as the older sister, you should act like one. But at such an important occasion, you're still throwing a tantrum and making your sister accommodate you. We're really disappointed."

I took a big gulp of my iced lemon water and didn't argue.

I just pulled out my phone, opened a document labeled "Escape Plan," and typed one last line:

[This is the last time I sit at a table that was never meant for me.]

Halfway through the meal, my father took a call. A senior professor at the university.

"Yes, Thomas. Ella did wonderfully tonight. Master Wayne personally praised her musicality."

He leaned back in his chair, beaming.

Whatever Professor Thomas said on the other end, my father let out a light laugh.

"Seraphina?" He glanced at me.

"Zero musical talent. Always nickel-and-diming. She'll probably end up with some vulgar job. Doesn't matter—we have one kid who can carry on our legacy."

My fingers tightened around my fork. The tines scraped against the plate with a harsh screech.

Squeak—

My father's brow furrowed as he glared at me.

"No noise while eating. Have you forgotten basic Western dining etiquette?"

I let go and set the fork down.

"I'm full. I'm going to the restroom."

I pushed open the bathroom door, stood in front of the mirror, and ran cold water over my hands.

I pulled up my email. Right at the top: that fat offer from Wall Street.

I'd thought about it before—what their faces would look like if I laid that acceptance letter in front of them.

That ticket had been earned through endless all-nighters.

But I'd changed my mind.

To them, business, money, scholarships—all of it was just cheap and vulgar. Same as me, shoved into the corner all these years. Not worth showing off.

I locked my phone and looked at myself in the mirror.

Forget it.

Three more days, and I'm done with Ohio.

Let them stay trapped in their so-called palace of art forever.