The morning at Virjon Manor did not bring the clarity of a new day; it brought only the suffocating weight of an old tradition. Styler stood at the head of the long, mahogany dining table, her breakfast untouched. Her parents sat at either end like bookends to a life she no longer recognized.
"Dad, Mom," Styler began, her voice tight but controlled. "I am asking you, one last time, as your daughter and not as an heir. Let me go. I have a life at the hospital. I have a home. I have people who need me—not for my name, but for my hands and my heart. Keeping me here under a false pretense of a medical emergency is kidnapping in all but name."
George Virjon didn't look up from his financial paper. "You are being dramatic, Styler. You are 'home.' The hospital has been notified that you are on personal leave. As for your 'other' life... that was a fever dream. It's over."
