Sylvie had always been something of a fast driver—_no_, a driver with purpose. But that was par of the course in the Big Apple. You either bobbed and weaved or plowed your way through rush-hour traffic to escape the inevitable gridlock.

Today, however, different. Today, Sylvie drove with a razor-sharp fastidiousness. Almost mechanical in how she navigated from lane to lane, smooth as silk in changing gears or making turns. Hands steady on the wheel, ten and two.

The city whizzed by in a haze of silver and cobalt and gunmetal gray.

Until she reached the fork in the road. The one leading to her parents’ estate. Bump, bump, bump. The engine hummed softly.

Sylvie slammed a boot to the pedal; the tires screeched, the engine roared. Bits of gravel flew like white marble. She paid it no mind. When the car finally jerked to a stop, she wrenched herself free of the seatbelt. Grabbed the thick Manila folder that had fallen from the passenger seat to the floormat.

The keys were still in the ignition. Engine still purring. None of it mattered. It all faded to white noise as she stormed through the front door, pushing it open with enough force to bounce off the wall.

Her hands shook. Pulse thundered. Color rose in her cheeks, breath trembling. It took every ounce of energy to suppress the salt stinging her eyes.

She found her parents on the patio, as she knew they would be at this time of day, bathed in the soft, tangerine rays of the dying sun. Discussing their latest art acquisitions or waxing poetic about their latest charitable endeavors over wine—Sylvie had no patience for it now.

Henrik in dark slacks and crisp shirtsleeves, tortoiseshell glasses halfway slipped down the curve of his nose. Anastasiya as immaculate and polished as ever, her expression betraying nothing. Neither seemed surprised or shocked by the vehemence of their daughter’s entry, sudden as a summer storm; the fury shining in her gray eyes like pits of quicksilver.

Nor by the way she slammed the thick folder down on the tabletop between them. Some of the photos and papers within slipped to the floor like autumn leaves.

“I have done everything by the book,” Sylvie began, voice cracking. “I worked. I threw myself into my studies. All these years, I was just trying to be what you wanted; every step of the way, I molded myself according to your desires and your wants, bent over backwards to meet your expectations. And the one time, _just this once_, when I come to you, honestly, openly, with someone I love, you...”

Sylvie’s breath caught like splinters lodged deep in her windpipe; she could barely get the words out, her rage thicker than glue, heavy and thick on her tongue. She forced a short, sharp, humorless laugh.

“You… you couldn’t even say it to my face. That wasn’t _enough_, was it? To turn your noses up at Levi in person? You couldn’t just disapprove, _no_… you hire a private investigator to pry into his past? His traumas? As though it would change how I feel about him.”

Her voice trembled, and yet her hands were steady as she stooped. Gathered the scattered pages. Slipped them back into the folder.

“Was it worth it?” Sylvie asked, quieter now, though her fury still simmered. “Do you feel **any better** about yourselves, knowing that you went behind my back, instead of trusting my judgment? Allowing me to make my own choices?”

The silence that greeted her was deafening.

Henrik exhaled slowly, removed his glasses. Sylvie bit her lip, turned away; jaw clenched. Knuckles turning white as she gripped the folder; hugged it to her chest as though its contents were some sort of ink-and-paper panacea, and not filled with the contents of her own flesh-and-blood’s temerity.

She had already known.

She had _always_ known.

But this was the final straw. The last time they would ever try to have their say in her life again.

This time, from now on, she would play by no one’s rules but her own.