I wake up groggy, the remnants of last night clinging to me in waves. There’s a dull throb in my head—not quite painful, but enough to remind me that maybe I should’ve had one less drink. I groan and stretch, trying to shake the sleep off, before flopping back onto my pillow. The party was fun, no doubt. Grace and Henry were in their element, and for once, I allowed myself to let loose, even if just a little. But now, in the quiet of my dorm room, reality creeps back in. I glance over at my desk, where a pile of books for my new classes sits, reminding me that the semester is about to start, and I still haven’t fully prepared. I sigh, swinging my legs out of bed and padding over to the window. Outside, the morning sun bathes the campus in a soft golden light. Everything feels too calm after the chaos of last night. I pull on a pair of leggings and an oversized sweater, deciding that today I need something different—something quieter. As I sit down to check my phone, a message from Grace pops up. **Grace**: _Brunch? Need carbs to recover from last night._ I laugh softly. Of course, Grace is already rallying for the next thing. **Lillian**: _Sure. Ivy?_ **Grace**: _Obviously. Meet you there in 30._ I toss my phone onto the bed and start getting ready, but not before giving the quiet of the room another moment of appreciation. I’ve been enjoying the solitude lately, especially with all the noise from my parents about the business dinner tomorrow. I know they’ll be expecting a perfect performance from me, but I’m trying not to think about it yet. At The Ivy, Grace is already waiting at a sunlit table outside, her hair piled up in a messy bun and sunglasses shielding her eyes from the too-bright morning. She waves when she sees me, motioning for me to sit. “I need coffee,” she groans as I slide into the chair across from her. “Like, immediately.” I laugh, ordering a coffee and some eggs when the waiter comes by. “You look like you had a rough night.” “Oh, please. You saw me. I was _thriving_,” Grace says with a wink, but there’s a hint of exhaustion in her smile. “But I need a recovery brunch every once in a while to balance it all out.” We spend the next hour sipping coffee, eating brunch, and gossiping about the party. Grace recounts some of the wilder moments I missed—Henry nearly falling off the coffee table, some guy trying to start a spontaneous dance battle—and I can’t help but laugh. But as the conversation drifts, I feel the weight of my responsibilities slowly creeping back in. The business dinner, my new major, my parents. It’s all waiting for me, just beyond this brief moment of calm. “So, what’s your plan for the rest of the day?” Grace asks as we finish up our meal. “I’m thinking of heading off campus for a bit,” I say, stretching back in my chair. “I need some quiet time before classes start. Maybe check out the museum.” Grace raises an eyebrow, smiling. “Museum? Look at you, being all cultured. I’d join you, but I’ve got to get some work done. Architecture waits for no one.” “I’ll be back later,” I say, standing up. “Thanks for brunch. It was nice to just… relax.” “Anytime, Lillian,” Grace says, giving me a mock salute as she walks away. Back in my dorm room, I gather my things and text my driver to pick me up. One of the perks of having a family as wealthy as mine is the access to luxury services, but I try not to lean on it too much. Today, though, I want to be off campus, far from the noise of ==Riverton==, and just be by myself for a little while. The drive to the museum is peaceful. I sit in the back, watching as the city rolls by, buildings giving way to leafy parks and open spaces. There’s a certain freedom in leaving the university bubble, and I take a deep breath, feeling the tension in my shoulders slowly melt away. When we arrive at the museum, the driver opens the door for me, and I step out into the crisp afternoon air. The building looms ahead, grand and elegant, with wide stone steps leading up to towering columns. I haven’t been here in a while, but something about this place always calms me. It’s quiet, filled with art and history that makes everything else feel smaller. I make my way inside, wandering through the exhibits at a leisurely pace. The museum is nearly empty, save for a few tourists and art students with sketchpads. I stop in front of a large painting, admiring the brushstrokes and the way the colors blend together, when my phone buzzes in my bag. I frown, pulling it out and glancing at the screen. **Mom**. I hesitate, my finger hovering over the screen. I haven’t spoken to her since she and my father visited my dorm, and I’m not exactly in the mood for another lecture about the business dinner. But I know ignoring her won’t help, so I sigh and answer. “Lily,” my mother’s voice comes through the line, as formal as always. “We’ve been trying to reach you.” “It’s Lillian, Mom,” I mutter, my voice barely audible. “What was that?” she asks, clearly not hearing me. “Nothing,” I say quickly, shaking my head. “What do you need?” “I need you to come home this afternoon,” she says, her tone leaving no room for argument. “You need to be fitted for your dress for the dinner tomorrow.” I roll my eyes, already feeling the familiar pressure tightening around me. “Mom, I’ve got plenty of dresses. I don’t need a new one.” “This is a _business dinner_, Lillian,” she says, emphasizing the word like it holds some deep, sacred meaning. “You represent the family, and your father has already arranged for a custom gown. You’ll be here at three o’clock sharp.” I grit my teeth, wanting to argue but knowing it’s useless. My father has always been meticulous about appearances, especially when it comes to family events. Everything has to be perfect, down to the last detail. “Fine,” I say, my voice clipped. “I’ll be there.” “Good. I’ll see you soon,” my mother replies before hanging up without waiting for a goodbye. I lower the phone, staring at the painting in front of me without really seeing it. The familiar sense of frustration bubbles up inside me, and I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. This is just another part of being a Prescott—fitting into the mold they’ve created, playing the role they’ve assigned. But it doesn’t mean I have to like it. I take one last look around the museum before heading back outside. The peace I found here feels fragile now, like it could shatter at any moment. As the driver pulls up, I get into the car, staring out the window as we head back to my parents’ estate. When I arrive at home, the grand estate feels even more suffocating than usual. The perfectly manicured gardens, the sprawling mansion, the servants bustling about—it’s all too much. I’ve grown up here, but every time I return, it feels less like home and more like a gilded cage. My mother is waiting for me in the sitting room, a seamstress already laying out fabrics and sketches for the gown I’ll be wearing tomorrow. “Ah, there you are,” my mother says, standing up and giving me a quick once-over. “We don’t have much time, so let’s get started.” The fitting is tedious, with my mother commenting on every little detail, ensuring that everything is perfect. I stand there, trying not to fidget as the seamstress measures and adjusts the dress, my mind wandering to anything other than the business dinner tomorrow. “This dinner is important,” my mother says as if I don’t already know. “Your father has high expectations for you.” I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. Of course, he does. He always does. “I know, Mom.” “You’ll need to make a good impression,” she continues. “Your father’s been discussing potential partnerships with some key families, and it would help if you could… socialize.” “Socialize?” I repeat, raising an eyebrow. “Yes, dear. Make connections. Be charming.” She waves her hand dismissively, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. “These dinners are more than just business—they’re about building relationships. You understand that, don’t you?” I nod, though my stomach churns at the thought. I know what my parents expect of me. To be the perfect daughter. To play my part in the family business. To do everything with grace and poise, no matter how much it grates on me. After what feels like hours, the fitting is finally done, and my mother seems satisfied with the results. The dress is beautiful, of course, but it feels like just another costume—a uniform I’m expected to wear for the Prescott family brand. “You’ll be ready by six tomorrow,” my mother says as I gather my things to leave. “Don’t be late.” “I won’t be,” I say, my voice tired. As I step out of the house and into the car waiting to take me back to campus, I feel the weight of tomorrow pressing down on me. The expectations, the pressure, the constant need to be perfect—it’s exhausting. But it’s my life. Back at ==Riverton==, I collapse onto my bed