Closing the door behind me, I lock it with a quick flick of my wrist—a habit by now—and the smart home system springs back to life. I’d shut it down earlier before heading out. There was no point in racking up a high electricity bill if I might end up in jail, right? Better safe than sorry… or broke.
“Lights on, seventy percent,” I command, and the space illuminates with a warm, welcoming glow. “Blinds open,” I add, and the window coverings retract to reveal the sun setting slowly between the buildings.
It’s a view that never fails to take my breath away, no matter how often I see it.
I slip off my shoes and head straight to the kitchen counter, where I place my backpack. Shaking off the lingering anxiety, I take my dinner out of the refrigerator and slide it into the microwave, commanding the smart kitchen to heat it up—it’s nothing fancy, just some leftover tomato soup.
Cooking was never a skill I picked up, thanks to a childhood of perfectly curated meals that appeared like magic, courtesy of the house staff. Now, it’s just me and the microwave, a partnership born of necessity rather than passion.
With careful hands, I take out the bag holding the neon tetras from my backpack. “Let’s get you settled,” I murmur to them as they flicker nervously.
I float the sealed bag in the tank to acclimate them to their new environment. The microwave beeps, signaling that dinner is ready. I collect my bowl and sit at my dining table, the warm soup a small comfort in the otherwise suffocating silence of the apartment.
This is my home, yet it also feels like my cage—a place where I’ve isolated myself not just from my past but also from any potential friendships or connections that could have filled these quiet moments.
Unable to stand the silence any longer, I command, “Play “Für Elise-Reimagined” by Alexander Joseph.”
The piano sounds fill the space with the familiar melody. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, letting the memory that always comes up with the song wash over me so it’s out of the way and I can enjoy the music for what it is.
My defiance.
The polished blackkeys of the grand piano glimmer under the lavish ballroom lights. I sit, my fingers lightly touching the cool ivory, my heart pounding not with excitement but nerves.
Tonight, my family is holding one of its many charity events, and the room is alive with the rich and influential, all here to mingle and showcase their generosity. But for me, it’s just another stage set by my parents, another script to follow—except tonight, I’ve changed the ending.
I’ve been ushered through the classics for hours, note by note, the music flowing from years of rigid, disciplined practice.
Piano lessons, tutoring, tennis lessons, church—it’s all been laid out for me since I could remember. My life is timed to the minute, packed with everything they’ve decided is essential. No time for what I want, no time for late-night reads or anything that’s a little fun. But over the years, the piano transformed from a shackle into an escape. Playing became my solitary freedom, the music a vessel carrying my thoughts away from the crushing expectations.
But not tonight.
I draw a deep breath and launch into the final piece, a modern rendition of “Für Elise” by Ludwig van Beethoven. It’s unexpected, unconventional—rebellious. I pour every ounce of my frustration, dreams, and defiance into the keys. The music swirls around the room, vibrant and alive, each note a declaration.
I’m still behind the mask they make me wear.
They informed me earlier today that they have planned out my entire educational path over my head. It’s not the college I dreamed of, MIT in the US, where I was accepted into a leading tech program that promised a future I could be passionate about, far away from them. Instead, they chose a university for me.
Here in London.
At least they let me have computer science as my major.
And I’m supposed to act as if I’m grateful for that.
It hasjustenough prestige to it.
I’m starting university at sixteen, having skipped some grades. And without their permission to study abroad, I’m anchored here, in this godforsaken, opulent prison, potentially for another eight years if I pursue the PhD they expect.
As the last note of my modern rendition of the classic lingers in the air, a defiant echo, the room fills with hesitant applause. I stand and bow stiffly, my eyes scanning the reactions in the crowd—mostly shocked, some intrigued, others clearly disapproving. I step away from the piano, aiming for the anonymity of the crowd and the trays of food the waiters are holding.
But I don’t make it far.
My father quickly intercepts my passage, his grip firm on my upper arm. The tulle of the hideous lavender dress they made me wear rustles when he pulls me to a stop. He hisses, “What was that, Amelia Charlotte?” His smile returns as someone passes by, his mask of civility snapped back into place.
As soon as they’re gone, he pulls me out of the ballroom and up the stairs to my room, his grip unyielding.
“I haven’t eaten yet,” I protest weakly, feeling my fingers twitch.
“That serves you right,” he retorts, glaring down at me with a mixture of anger and disappointment. “You’re a disgrace, turning this ball into some sort of spectacle.”
