Chapter 1: The Weight of Expectations

The cursor blinked on the blank page for what felt like the hundredth time. I kept staring at the white void, knowing I needed to fill it with something academic, something profound, definitely something worthy of a passing grade in Advanced Legal Theory. My desktop was littered with tabs outlining the historical application of mens rea in corporate liability cases, a topic so dry it felt like I was actively choosing to suffocate myself. This was supposed to be my life now. This was the success my parents had groomed me for, the path to a reputable law degree. I just wished the path didn't require me to care about punitive damages on a Friday night when the weather outside finally felt warm.

I chewed on the end of a pen, the cheap plastic tasting faintly metallic. The paper, a twenty-page monstrosity, was due on Monday. I hadn't even finished the introduction yet. The sheer weight of the expectation felt physical, pressing down on my chest, slowing my breathing down to shallow, meaningless gasps. I was nineteen, living under the roof of people who treated my education as their sole remaining investment, and right now I was drowning in the details of Victorian-era case law. It seemed like a terrible way to start my actual life, though I kept telling myself it was only temporary.

The floorboards creaked downstairs, signaling the approach of a parent. My body tensed almost involuntarily. I quickly replaced the pen and started typing random legal jargon, hoping to look productive, but knowing it wouldn't matter. They could tell when I was faking it.

The door to my small, meticulously organized room opened without a knock. My father, Robert, leaned against the frame of the door. He wore his usual Friday night uniform: pressed khakis and a polo shirt, looking entirely too put-together for someone spending the evening watching cable news. He looked straight past the screen and at me, disapproval hanging heavy in the air.

“Emma. Are you on schedule for the theory paper?” he asked, his voice low and carrying the familiar texture of quiet authority. He didn't ask if I was working; he asked if I was on schedule. I mentally checked the two paragraphs I had managed to scrape together in the past ninety minutes. The answer was no, definitely not on schedule.

“I'm working on the structural outline now,” I lied, pulling up the document that listed five poorly phrased bullet points. I tried to sound confident, hoping the sheer boredom of the topic would deter him from further inquiry. That usually worked best for my mother, but not for him.

He pushed off the doorframe and took two steps into the room. He didn't need to yell for me to feel the full force of his disappointment. He was a man who communicated stress through silence and small, precise movements, which I found far more exhausting than a confrontation.

“I saw you glancing at your phone just now,” he observed. He didn't say it like an accusation, only a fact. “Distractions are expensive, Emma. You told us you want to attend Georgetown next fall, correct? Do you know the acceptance rate for first-year transfers? Do you understand the caliber of the students you are competing against?”

I felt a familiar, hot anger bubble up, though I kept the expression off my face entirely. I knew the statistics, of course. I had memorized the statistics, the average GPA, and the exact percentile I needed to hit to be competitive. The goal of Georgetown wasn't even mine, really, not anymore, but it was the one they had chosen for me, and therefore it had become my primary function.

“I know, Dad,” I said, trying to maintain a neutral tone. “I’m focused on this, but a few minutes of planning is necessary.”

“Planning is good. Efficiency is better,” he corrected me, his eyes now scanning the titles of the heavy textbooks stacked perfectly beside my desk. He seemed to be mentally calculating the cost of the tuition I was currently failing to earn. “We had a conversation last week about priorities. The other students in your cohort who do make it won’t be wasting time on planning. They execute. We expect execution.”

He was worried about more than just my paper. He was worried that I wasn’t enough, that I didn't have the cold, aggressive ambition required to ascend to the status he felt the family deserved. He and my mother had sacrificed a lot, at least according to them, to give me this privileged start. My job was to justify it. Every hour I wasn’t studying was an hour they had wasted.

“I’ll have a full draft ready for you to review by Sunday evening. I promise,” I managed, making the promise sound like an official sealed contract. He liked that kind of rigid assurance.

He nodded slowly, seeming only partially satisfied. “Your mother wants to speak with you about dinner. Do not spend longer than five minutes away from your work. This is important.”

He left, closing the door softly, which always felt worse than if he had slammed it. The silence he left behind felt heavy, filled with the echo of his expectations. I waited until I heard his footsteps retreat down the hallway before I finally let out the breath I had been holding.

I hated that I was still so compliant. I hated that I still felt the need to lie about my efficiency, when really I was just terrified. The academic pressure was a constant, suffocating blanket. It was inescapable, and I had no idea how to tear it off without destroying everything my life was built on.

I pushed back from the desk, giving myself the five minutes he had allotted. My stomach lurched slightly when I saw the phone on the corner of the desk. I knew I shouldn't touch it. Touching it meant inviting in the outside world, a dangerous place that might distract me from the essential task of becoming an accredited professional. Still, I picked it up anyway.

There was a text waiting for me. It wasn't from a classmate, or anyone I regularly spoke with.

The name on the notification screen was Eliza Thorne. I paused, needing a moment to place her. Eliza: tall, perpetually bored, extremely privileged, and someone who had peaked around the junior year homecoming dance. We hadn't spoken since high school graduation, three years ago.

ELIZA THORNE (7:03 PM): OMG! Massive party tonight. Ethan’s place. You need to come out, Emma. It’s been forever. You still studying or does the good girl ever get to breathe?

I looked at the text with a detached, clinical interest. A party. Ethanol and poor decisions in an overcrowded suburban house. Everything I had been taught to avoid, certainly everything that would jeopardize my Georgetown application. The thought of going was absurd. I intended to reply with a polite, concise decline, citing my paper and the need to prioritize.

I opened the contact thread to reply, letting the message sit unanswered for a minute, almost enjoying the small sense of power I had over the frivolous social obligation. I knew my life was dull, but I needed the dullness. I needed the control that came with the boring routine.

Then something shifted in my focus. My eyes caught a piece of physical nostalgia on the shelf above my keyboard. It was a cheap, plastic-framed picture, the edges slightly yellowed. It was the only photograph I had kept from high school, the only one I had risked having out in the open, even though my parents hadn't asked about it in months.

It was a picture of me and Liv.

We were standing somewhere outside, maybe near the bus stop, both of us blindingly overexposed by the flash. I was thirteen, still wearing the awkward braces and oversized gray hoodie I practically lived in. I looked like a textbook example of ‘timid observer.’ I was leaning slightly inward toward Liv, already seeking her gravity.

Liv was already a force of nature even then. Her dark hair was cut short, sharply defined, and she was already wearing a leather jacket that was far too adult for the suburban middle school we attended. Her arm was slung around my shoulder, holding me close. We were both caught mid-laugh, our mouths wide open in genuine, uninhibited joy. Liv’s eyes were bright, fierce, and entirely focused on the joke that I, apparently, had just made. It was the kind of laugh that felt like a release of pure, unadulterated energy, a sound that only Liv could pull from me.

That photo was taken the summer before Liv vanished. She had transferred out a few months later, mid-semester, and then she was just gone. No note, no explanation, no forwarding address. My parents had expressed quiet relief when she left, always calling her a ‘distraction’ who pulled my focus from ‘what mattered.’ Liv had been everything I wasn't: reckless, confident, completely unbound by trivial societal rules.

Seeing the photograph now, I felt a familiar pang of longing, a desperate ache that always seemed tied to that specific memory of freedom. I missed the girl in the gray hoodie who used to laugh that easily. I missed the intimacy, the sheer exhilarating chaos that Liv brought into my calculated life. My life now was so precise, so tightly controlled, that the simple act of genuine laughter felt like a distant, impossible landscape.

I touched the glossy surface of the photo, tracing the sharp line of Liv’s jaw. She had been my escape hatch back then, the person who made my world feel bigger than the three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and mandatory weekly tutoring sessions that defined my existence. Now, stuck here, facing a future written in bullet points and liability waivers, I felt the walls of my cage closing in tightly. I didn't want the life they had laid out for me. I wanted to feel something real again, even if it was just the adrenaline rush of breaking a small, meaningless rule.

The text from Eliza was still open on my phone. Massive party tonight.

The decision formed quickly, quietly, deep in the pit of my stomach. It wasn't logic that drove it; it felt more like primal desperation. I wasn't going to spend another Friday evening sacrificing my entire sense of self to impress an admissions officer who wouldn't read my application until January.

I needed to see something messy. I needed to breathe the air of the outside world, even if it was only for an hour. Liv wasn't there, of course, but the party was a symbol of the life I had been barred from. Maybe I could experience a sliver of that reckless autonomy myself.

I typed a reply to Eliza: I might swing by. Send the address.

I immediately felt a rush of anxiety, followed by an unnerving, subtle sense of power. I was choosing something for myself for the first time in months, maybe years. It was a terrifying decision, a direct violation of my father’s precious schedule, but the idea of seeing familiar faces, even unwanted ones, suddenly felt infinitely more appealing than the complexities of criminal intent.

I quickly minimized the text thread. I needed an exit plan, and I needed it instantly. My father had just left, and my mother was presumably downstairs planning dinner, which would involve excessive instruction on how many calories I should consume.

I pushed my laptop closed. The sound of the plastic snapping shut seemed deafeningly loud in the quiet room. I grabbed my worn backpack, the same one I’d used since freshman year, and threw a legal pad and a textbook into it. I needed to maintain the illusion of compliance until I was safely out the door. The library was the only excuse that would allow me to leave the house at this hour without requiring a debate I couldn't afford to win.

I stood up, walking silently to the door. I pulled on a light jacket. I took a deep breath, trying to steady the slight trembling in my hands. This was a ridiculous, small act of rebellion, yet it felt like I was defecting from the country.

I found my mother, Elizabeth, in the kitchen, meticulously arranging organic kale onto a cutting board. She looked up as I entered, her expression immediately shifting into the familiar blend of concern and critical assessment that had been aimed at me my entire life.

“You’re leaving the theory paper now?” she asked, not looking at the clock, but at the backpack slung across my shoulder.

“I’m going to the university library,” I explained, pointing vaguely toward the bag. “I need a change of scenery. The quiet reading room helps me focus better on the structural elements. I’ll be back by ten, obviously.”

She paused her chopping, holding the knife mid-air. “Ten is late, Emma. You know the importance of a proper sleep cycle, especially when engaging in high-level analytical work. Also, I don't like you walking back alone at night, though I know you won’t take the bus.”

I felt the familiar tension rise. This was the suffocating part: the instruction masked as care. They never trusted me to make a good decision, or a safe one, and any deviation from their set routine was met with immediate, anxious pushback.

“I’ll take a taxi,” I offered quickly. “It will be efficient. I’ve already flagged one on the app. I just need to get through these articles without my attention wandering.”

My mother considered this for a moment. She seemed marginally convinced by the reference to ‘efficiency’ and the promise of a paid vehicle. Money was always more reliable than my common sense, in her view.

“Fine,” she conceded, though she added a warning, naturally. “Do not let yourself be distracted by social media in the library. This paper is a reflection of your commitment, Emma. We are counting on you to deliver.”

“I understand,” I said, maybe too quickly. I moved toward the back door, trying to maintain a normal pace. “I’ll see you later.”

I didn't wait for her to respond again. I pushed the door open to the silent garage, feeling the cool air of the evening immediately hit my face. I walked quickly across the polished concrete floor, pulled the door shut behind me, and finally allowed myself to sprint the remaining distance to the driveway.

I pulled out my phone as soon as I reached the sidewalk. I had already activated the taxi app while in the kitchen, a necessary precaution. The driver was already turning onto my street, heading toward my location. It felt like a small, unexpected victory that I had managed to execute the escape so cleanly.

I typed out the address Eliza had sent, a street name I vaguely recognized from the wealthier, more chaotic end of town. The car pulled up silently beside me, a dark sedan with tinted windows. I pulled open the back door and slid inside, feeling an intense, almost sickening surge of adrenaline.

“To the address I sent?” I asked the driver, trying to keep my voice even and calm.

“Yes, ma'am. Heading there now,” he confirmed, pulling away from the curb before I could second-guess myself.

As the car accelerated, leaving the quiet, judgmental silence of my suburban street behind, I pressed my head back against the upholstery. I didn't look out the window, even though the familiar blocks were rushing past. I focused instead on the strange, buzzing feeling in my body. Relief, fear, anticipation—it was a cocktail of emotions I rarely allowed myself to feel. I had chosen chaos over compliance, even if the chaos was probably just a lot of loud music and cheap beer.

The ride felt short, too short, and during the ride I felt myself growing more terrified the further we drove. What was I doing? I hadn't prepared a social facade. I didn't know how to talk to former classmates, especially Eliza Thorne, who was only interested in surface-level interactions and gossip. I hadn't been to a true party since high school, and even then, I only went under the protective orbit of Liv. Now I was going alone, completely unarmed.

I began to worry about the logistics. What if I knew no one there? What if I spent an hour leaning against a wall, feeling awkward, only to rush home, having wasted two hours and a fifty-dollar cab fare? The whole plan suddenly felt stupid, amateur, a failure from the very start. I should have stayed home, completed two more paragraphs, and maintained my perfect illusion of control.

The car slowed, turning onto a sprawling residential street filled with cars parked haphazardly on the lawns and shoulders. Up ahead, one giant stucco mansion was glaringly illuminated against the falling darkness. Even from inside the car, I could hear the deep, thumping bass line of the music vibrating through the night air. It was overwhelmingly loud, an assault on the quiet precision of my academic life.

“Here you go,” the driver said, pulling up near the overflowing driveway.

I paid him quickly, feeling suddenly desperate to get out of the car, anywhere but inside this vehicle. I grabbed my backpack and slid out onto the curb. The noise enveloped me instantly—a wall of synthetic music and the shrieks of dozens of people socializing loudly. The air smelled sharp: cheap booze, cheap perfume, and something faintly floral.

I stood there for a moment, completely paralyzed by the sensory overload. The sheer volume of the party felt aggressive, like the house itself was screaming. My immediate instinct was to turn around, hail another cab, and retreat to the sterile safety of my room. The memory of my father's disappointed expression still felt miles away, but it was nothing compared to the immediate social anxiety that threatened to consume me whole.

Still, I forced myself to walk toward the house. I couldn't go back now. I had breached the boundary, and I needed to at least look inside, validate the escape.

Navigating the crowd on the front porch was difficult. It was packed with people laughing, smoking, and shouting to be heard over the music. I kept my head down, maneuvering past elbows and accidental bumps. I felt intensely visible, like everyone could instantly sense that I was the one person who didn't belong here, the girl who was supposed to be studying the finer points of common law.

I found the main entrance and pushed the heavy door open. The interior was even worse than the porch. The living room had been entirely cleared of furniture, replaced by a churning mass of dancing bodies. The air was thick with humidity, and strobe lights flickered, turning every drunk, expressive face into a rapid-fire succession of distorted masks.

I managed to push through the main cluster and found refuge near an archway leading to the kitchen, a slightly less crowded area. I leaned against a wall, clutching my backpack in front of me like a flimsy shield. I immediately regretted coming here. It wasn’t exhilarating, just exhausting. It was overwhelming.

I mentally scanned the room, trying to find Eliza, or anyone I could use as a small anchor. The faces were mostly unfamiliar, slightly older, or simply too obscured by the darkness and the dizzying light show. My mission seemed impossible. I had broken the rules, stepped out of my academic cage, only to find myself standing alone in an entirely different kind of suffocating environment.

I was about to admit defeat and reach for my phone to order the escape vehicle when my focus snagged on something across the room.

The house had several distinct levels, steps leading down from the kitchen area into a lower, darker den. I wasn't looking for her, couldn't have predicted her presence, yet she was there.

Standing on the step leading down into the den, looking perfectly framed by the chaos, was Liv Hartman.

She wasn't dancing, barely even moving, but she commanded the room. She was talking to a small group of people, older faces, men in pressed shirts and women in clothes that looked expensive. Liv had aged beautifully in the three years since I had seen her, the fierce energy in the photograph now tempered into something impossibly magnetic, completely self-aware. She wore a dark, form-fitting top and jeans that seemed both casual and entirely intentional. Her hair was still short, still dark, framing a face that was sharp, striking, and absolutely fearless.

She hadn't changed at all, only intensified.

I froze against the wall, utterly unable to move. The noise of the party receded, replaced by the startling clarity of my own rapid heartbeat.

I watched her talk, noticed the way she used subtle hand gestures to draw people in, the way every single person in her immediate vicinity was focused on her, anticipating her next word. She was everything I was not: autonomous, articulate, impossibly powerful.

I realized I must have been staring, openly, foolishly, across the room because Liv paused in her conversation for a fraction of a second. She turned her head, slowly, scanning the room over the heads of the dancers. It was deliberate, and she was looking for something specific.

For a terrifying, heart-stopping moment, I thought she might see me and look away, failing to recognize the awkward girl pressed against the wall.

Then her eyes found mine.

The strobe light caught her face, giving her vision an immediate, startling clarity. She saw me. Instantly.

A slow smile spread across her face. It was the same smile from the photograph, wide, uninhibited, entirely genuine. The sight of it felt like a physical recognition, like a key turning in a lock I hadn't realized was holding me captive. It was a smile that promised release, power, and perhaps a glorious kind of destruction.

She didn't wave, didn't shout a greeting over the music. She simply held my gaze, her dark eyes locking onto mine, and she kept smiling directly at me.

The sight of Liv Hartman, standing there, radiating the possibility of a completely different life, stripped away the terror of the academic cage, the awkwardness of the party. All I registered in that moment was the intoxicating sense of recognition. The escape hadn't been to the party. The escape had been to her.