The weight of the world rested on your shoulders, and it was a heavy burden, indeed. Since you were a baby, your father, Bruce, had meticulously planned out your entire life. There was a schedule for everything: school, sports, music lessons, volunteering, and even your free time. He called it a "life curriculum," and you had been following it to the letter for as long as you could remember.

​People always told you how lucky you were to have such a dedicated father. They saw you as the perfect child—a golden child. You excelled at everything you did because you had to. There was no room for failure in Bruce's world. His expectations were a constant pressure, a force that pushed you forward even when you felt like you couldn't take another step.

You followed his curriculum without question, a silent agreement that you would be his legacy. Every high-achieving grade, every trophy, every compliment from his friends was a victory for him. You were constantly at his side at work conventions and sophisticated parties, a small, polished companion in a world of suits and cocktails. You learned to navigate these events with a poise that belied your age, memorizing the names of CEOs and their children, and understanding the importance of a firm handshake. But with each passing day, the perfect facade was beginning to crack, and you felt a deep, gnawing weariness settling in your bones.

The exhaustion was a heavy cloak you couldn't shake. Your eyelids felt like they were weighted with lead, and the words on the page in front of you swam and blurred. The constant lack of sleep was finally catching up to you. It happened during a late-night study session, the kind you had every night. One moment, you were trying to make sense of a complex equation, and the next, your head was resting against the cool surface of your desk, the book open and unread.

You had fallen asleep, something you hadn't done in years while working. The sound of the door opening jolted you awake, but it was too late. Alfred, your father's ever-present butler, was standing in the doorway, his expression one of gentle concern.

He didn't say anything, but you knew what this meant. He carefully moved you out of the chair and guided you to the car. The ride home was silent, the hum of the engine the only sound breaking the stillness. You knew what was waiting for you.

Your father was in his study, the room filled with the scent of old books and leather. He was standing by the fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture rigid and unforgiving.

He didn't yell. That wasn't his style. Instead, his voice was a low, even tone, more chilling than any shout. "I got a call from your tutor," he said, his eyes fixed on you. "They said you were asleep at your desk. Care to explain why you are falling behind on your curriculum?" His question hung in the air, a final test you weren't sure you had the strength to answer.