Burned and Crowned
The day I died, the baby in my womb was only five months old.
In that final phone call, my father, John Harlow, the godfather of the Harlow family, spoke with a voice as icy as a loaded gun.
"A married woman belongs to her husband's family, even in death."
When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day I had been placed under house arrest.
He was circling my college application with a red pen. "Girls who study art are easier to marry off."
In front of him, I tore the family's marriage alliance files into pieces.
"I'm going to Camford University. I'm studying Computer Science."
He sprang to his feet so suddenly that his finger nearly jabbed my face, his sleeve cuff revealing the family crest tattoo.
"If you dare defy me, don't ever regard me as godfather."
I smiled.
"Exactly what I want."
Meeting his stunned gaze, I spoke each word deliberately. "The name Harlow. I have long stopped wanting it."