Chapter Text
//
The ballroom was gilded in gold and crystal. Chandeliers hung like frozen fireworks, spilling light across the polished marble floors.
Megan glided through the crowd in a backless black gown, heels clicking softly but deliberately, the fabric of her dress whispering against her skin.
Every head turned. Every smile pointed toward her.
“Miss Skiendiel.”
A man with slicked-back hair and an impeccable navy suit extended his hand. “We’ve been expecting you. Your father mentioned this partnership could be pivotal.”
Megan smiled. Just a polite tilt of lips, controlled and even. She shook his hand. “I’m delighted to meet you. I hope everything has been… agreeable?”
“Most certainly,” he said, leaning slightly to meet her gaze. He was old money, or at least he acted like it.
Megan’s eyes skimmed over his cufflinks, gold and monogrammed.
She nodded, softly laughing at something he said—something she didn’t even register, but her voice was warm enough to seem engaged.
“Miss Skiendiel, you must be tired of these gatherings,” another woman murmured, pearl earrings glinting in the chandelier light. “Your mother always says you carry yourself so… perfectly.”
Megan’s smile flickered. “One must,” she said lightly, raising her glass. “It’s what they expect.”
And there it was again—the subtle recognition.
Not of Megan herself, but of the Skiendiel name, the dynasty, the wealth that had wrapped her childhood in silk and expectation.
Her laugh was soft, the perfect pitch.
Every word calculated. Every gesture timed. Every glance polite. Perfect.
Inside, though, Megan was fraying. A thread pulled here, a seam stretched there. She had been doing this all her life.
Gliding, smiling, bending to the shape of everyone else’s expectation. Even her own reflection had stopped recognizing her beneath the mask.
And then she saw them.
Across the room, near the orchestra stage, her parents stood like kings and queens in their own court.
Her mother wore a fitted sapphire gown, back straighter than a marble column—a woman groomed for empires, not rooms.
The Lee family had been one of Singapore’s wealthiest and most influential dynasties for generations, their name threaded through old money, politics, and industries that practically built half the skyline.
And beside her, Megan’s father—tall, sharp in a tuxedo that looked carved rather than tailored.
A man descended from a powerful Swedish line, once known for cold efficiency and corporate ruthlessness.
Alone, each had been formidable.
Together, they became unstoppable.
The Skiendiels, people now whispered, were the new generation of power—born from an alliance that merged East and West, old legacy and strategic ambition.
They commanded the room as if it were merely an extension of their estate.
Every greeting, every nod, every smile was a chess move. Control. Poise. Power.
Megan’s chest tightened. She felt the old familiar squeeze—the weight of being seen, but not as herself.
Only as Skiendiel, heir, trophy, emblem.
She lifted her chin, adjusted the gown at her shoulders, and let her practiced smile bloom across her face. A mask fitted perfectly over fraying nerves. She floated closer to her parents, melting into the shape they had carved for her.
“Miss Skiendiel,” a voice said as she passed, bowing slightly.
Another handshake, another polite nod, another small compliment delivered and returned.
She said the right things, laughed in the right places, her voice even, practiced.
And for a moment, she almost believed it—the illusion of belonging, of control, of being part of this perfect, gleaming family empire.
Almost.
//
The night ended the same way it always did—applause for the orchestra, fading chatter, the clink of crystal dying out one by one.
Megan smiled her last smile, air-kissed her last investor, and let the exhaustion seep into her bones the moment she stepped out of sight.
The corridor outside the ballroom was quiet, lined with portraits of Skiendiels who all looked like they’d never smiled in their lives.
She almost made it to her room before the butler appeared, perfectly timed as always.
“Miss Megan,” he said softly, “your parents would like to see you in the study.”
Of course they would.
The study was dim, lit only by the glow of a chandelier smaller than the one in the ballroom but somehow heavier.
Her parents were already seated—her father behind the desk, her mother beside him, posture regal even in fatigue.
“Megan,” her father began, voice smooth as polished glass. “Sit.”
She did. Her heart, though, was already pacing.
He folded his hands. “Your twenty-third birthday will be right after you finish your degree, won’t it?”
Megan blinked. “I—yes?”
“Perfect timing,” he continued. “A wonderful opportunity to make an announcement. Your engagement.”
The words dropped like a stone in her stomach.
For a second, she thought she’d misheard him. Then she saw the look in his eyes—pleased, final.
“I’m sorry, what?” she asked, forcing a laugh. “Engagement to who?”
Her mother sighed softly, eyes not meeting hers. “Someone suitable. Your father and I have made arrangements. The heir to a major conglomerate. The families will complement each other beautifully.”
“Complement,” Megan repeated. The word tasted like rust. “You’ve decided without me?”
Her father’s tone didn’t shift. “You knew this was coming. It’s time you start thinking of your role seriously. You’ll lead this family one day, but you can’t do it alone. You need a partner who understands power.”
“And what if I don’t want a partner who understands power?” Megan shot back. “What if I just want—”
“Enough.” His voice cracked through the air, sharp and absolute. “This isn’t about what you want. You will finish your studies, come back to Singapore, and the engagement will be announced.”
He paused, eyes narrowing, voice dropping to the tone he used only when delivering warnings.
“And Megan… finish your studies quietly. We don’t want to hear you making trouble again in the States. We’ve already heard enough. Remember—your name carries our name. Stop creating problems.”
Heat rushed up Megan’s spine—humiliation, frustration, rage all tangled together.
She stared at him, disbelief crawling its way up her throat. “So I just—say yes? Smile and pose for pictures with someone I don’t even know?”
Her father’s gaze hardened. “You will do what is expected of you. Do not embarrass your mother. Or me.”
Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.
Megan turned to her mother, hoping—stupidly, desperately—for an ally.
Her mother’s expression softened, but her hands stayed folded in her lap. “Megan,” she said quietly, “please… try to understand.”
Understand what? That her life had already been traded for convenience?
That love was a privilege her bloodline couldn’t afford?
Her father rose from his chair, signaling the end. “Get some rest,” he said. “We’ll discuss the details once you’re back from the States.”
He left first. Her mother lingered just long enough to look at her—sadness flickering behind polished composure—before following.
The study door clicked shut.
Megan sat there alone, surrounded by the smell of old books and expensive whiskey.
The clock ticked. The chandeliers hummed faintly overhead.
She laughed once—short, brittle.
“Happy early birthday to me.”
//
The night air was too still for someone trying to breathe.
By the time Megan slipped out of the house, the city had already tucked itself into silence—just the low hum of distant traffic, the faint rustle of leaves, the whisper of her heels on the pavement.
She didn’t know where she was going, only that she couldn’t stay in that house another minute.
The perfect Skiendiel daughter didn’t run, but she walked fast enough that her lungs burned.
She ended up in a park not far from the estate. Empty benches. Streetlights spilling gold on the path. Somewhere, a stray cat darted between the hedges.
Megan sat down, crossed her arms over her knees, and looked up.
Stars. Dozens of them, scattered carelessly across the sky—small, cold things that had nothing to do with her.
When she was little, her mother used to say she could have anything she wanted.
And she did.
The biggest dolls, the prettiest dresses, the kind of birthdays that made other kids cry from envy. Anything.
Now she had everything—the Skiendiel fortune, the mansion, the name.
Every single thing except herself.
She smiled bitterly at the thought. In order to have everything, she had to lose everything that was hers.
The right to choose. The right to make mistakes. The right to love.
Even love was now a decision made by someone else, neatly packaged and arranged for convenience.
She didn’t even know who the person was. Her future had a name and a face—she just wasn’t allowed to see it yet.
“Some life,” she muttered to the stars. “Some empire.”
The silence answered her.
A single tear slipped free before she could stop it—quick, almost embarrassed, like even her sadness had to obey her family’s sense of dignity.
She wiped it away, stood, and started walking back before she could think too hard.
The mansion glowed in the distance, every window lit, grand and hollow like a museum no one visited anymore.
Inside, the halls gleamed too perfectly. No sound except the soft tap of her footsteps.
On her way to her room, she passed the wall of family portraits—her parents’ wedding photo, her father shaking hands with foreign diplomats, her brother’s smiling face framed beside his wife and their son.
Her brother looked happy.
Or maybe just trained to look that way. He had his own arranged marriage, handled the company’s UK branch, smiled through every headline. His life was the picture of success.
Maybe that was the point. Maybe it did work out. Eventually.
Maybe she just had to stop fighting.
She stood there a moment longer, staring at the photograph—at the little boy’s toothy grin, at her brother’s hand on his wife’s shoulder. Then she turned away.
Back in her room, the air smelled faintly of perfume and paper. The city lights flickered against the window. She lay down on the bed, still in her gown, hair tangled, eyes open.
Half of her was still burning—angry, trapped, defiant.
The other half whispered the same lie her brother probably told himself once: Maybe this is what I need to do. Maybe it’ll work out.
That night, she fell asleep between those two halves—one refusing to surrender, the other already learning how.
//
The airport gleamed under harsh white lights, all steel and movement—rolling suitcases, flight announcements, strangers hurrying to lives that weren’t hers.
Megan stood among them in a beige trench coat, her passport tucked neatly into her hand. Her luggage sat beside her, expensive enough to scream money even without the bodyguards discreetly trailing behind.
Her family came to see her off. Of course they did. Everything in the Skiendiel world was always for show—even goodbyes.
Her mother fussed over her scarf. “Text when you land. And eat properly this time, not just coffee and croissants. You know how thin you get when you’re stressed.”
“I’ll be fine,” Megan said, smiling like she meant it.
And then there was her father. Still in his business suit, tie perfect, expression unreadable.
“You know who you are, Megan,” he said, his voice calm, commanding. “Don’t forget what you represent. When you come home, you’ll be ready to take your place—as a Skiendiel, and as the woman we’ve raised you to be.”
That word—represent—sank like a weight she couldn’t set down.
She nodded, smiling because that was what she’d been trained to do. “Of course, Father.”
He seemed satisfied. Her mother smiled, a little watery at the edges. “Take care of yourself, darling.”
“I will.”
They waved one last time as she turned toward the gate, heels clicking against the polished floor.
And for the first time in days, she didn’t have to smile.
The moment she passed the security checkpoint—the moment the crowd swallowed her family’s faces—her lungs finally expanded. She drew in a breath so deep it almost hurt.
Freedom. Thin, fragile, temporary. But hers.
The announcement echoed through the terminal: Flight 202 to Los Angeles now boarding.
Megan walked toward the gate, her steps light, almost reckless. Her heart raced the way it always did when she was about to run—not from a place, but from everything that tied her down.
Just one last semester, she told herself.
One last six months of freedom before it all ends.
As the plane took off, the city below shrank into glittering dots—the empire she would return to, waiting like a promise she didn’t want to keep.
For now, she watched the lights fade into clouds and whispered under her breath,
“Just one last taste of being me.”
//
The plane landed with a gentle shudder, sunlight bleeding through the windows like a slow exhale.
Los Angeles—wide sky, noise, color, chaos.
By the time Megan stepped out of the terminal, she’d already loosened her hair from its perfect chignon. The Pacific air was warmer, softer—and for the first time in days, she didn’t feel watched.
Outside, a sleek black car waited—the kind of thing her father’s people always arranged. The chauffeur rushed to take her luggage.
“Miss Skiendiel,” he greeted with a respectful nod. “We’ll take you straight to your apartment.”
Megan’s fingers tightened on the suitcase handle. She looked at the car—tinted windows, spotless leather interior and felt that familiar tightness return to her chest.
“No,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “You can go. I’ll meet my friends from here.”
The man blinked. “Ma’am, your father instructed—”
“Tell my father I arrived safely,” she interrupted, already smiling. “That’s all he needs to know.”
He hesitated, clearly torn between duty and the quiet authority in her voice.
Eventually, he bowed slightly. “Very well, Miss.”
She waited until the car disappeared down the road before letting out a deep breath—one that turned into a quiet laugh.
And right on cue, a messy silver convertible came skidding to a stop beside her, music blasting.
“MEGAN SKIENDIEL!” Lara practically screamed from the driver’s seat, sunglasses perched crookedly on her nose. “Is that a Chanel suitcase? Girl, you’re insane.”
Megan laughed, tossing her hair back. “Hi to you too.”
“Get in, princess!” Manon called from the passenger seat, waving a half-eaten fries packet. “We’re starving and Lara’s driving is life-threatening!”
“That’s because you keep distracting me with your fries!”
They both laughed, and Megan—smiling in a way she never did back home—climbed in, suitcase and all.
The wind tore through her hair as they sped down the freeway.
LA stretched endlessly—street art splashed on walls, strangers in neon roller skates, palm trees bending toward the sun.
“God, I missed this,” Megan said, leaning her head back.
“Missed us, you mean,” Lara teased, swerving dangerously close to another lane.
“Missed you and this chaos,” Megan replied, laughing as Manon shoved a paper bag into her hands. “What’s this?”
“Lunch,” Manon said, grinning. “Burger, fries, and sugar death in the form of milkshake.”
Megan blinked. “You got me fast food?”
“You’re welcome.”
She stared at the greasy paper wrapping like it was contraband.
Back home, she ate things served under cloches—plated like art. Here, the burger was dripping sauce and freedom.
“God, my mother would faint if she saw this,” she murmured—right before taking a massive bite.
Lara whooped. “There she is! Megan freaking Skiendiel, the fallen heiress!”
Manon burst out laughing. “We love a rebellious icon!”
The car filled with the smell of fries and laughter, music thumping from the radio. For a moment, Megan forgot who she was supposed to be.
This was who she really was—messy, hungry, alive.
And as the city stretched before them, glowing in gold and promise, she smiled to herself.
For the first time in a long time, the future didn’t look like a cage.
It looked like possibility.
//
The car rolled into the university parking lot—a sleek matte-black Mercedes G-Wagon Megan definitely did not need but absolutely enjoyed—subwoofers still thumping like they were late to a club instead of a lecture.
Megan swerved into a parking space she definitely didn’t have the permit for.
“Last semester, baby!” she shouted, killing the engine. “Six months and we’re free!”
“Correction,” Manon said dryly, unbuckling her seatbelt. “We're free. You are going to be chained to a marble office and a lifetime of quarterly reports.”
“Don’t remind me.”
Megan stepped out of the driver seat, the California sun hitting her full force.
She shoved her hands into the pockets of her oversized hoodie, baggy jeans hanging low on her hips, silver rings glinting on her fingers. A messy bun and sneakers she actually scuffed on purpose.
Nothing like Singapore, where every outfit had to be polished, tailored, and disgustingly expensive.
Here, she was rich—but she could look normal.
Or at least… her version of normal.
The campus buzzed with life: someone spilling coffee on their laptop and screaming about it, couples kissing by the fountain like they were in a Netflix show, freshmen running around with maps like lost puppies. The smell of fresh-cut grass mixed with burnt espresso.
It was a mess.
It was imperfect.
It was alive.
And God, she loved it here.
The trio walked through the courtyard, weaving past familiar faces. Heads turned—they always did. Megan wasn’t exactly low-profile, even in baggy streetwear.
Some knew her family background, some didn’t. Some only knew she was rich rich because she drove a car that cost more than their tuition.
Most knew her because she was loud, unfiltered, and distractingly attractive.
“Megan Skiendiel, right? The Singaporean princess?” someone whispered as they passed.
Megan turned, flashing her signature grin, the kind that made people forget their own names. “Wrong country, right attitude,” she quipped, earning a chorus of laughs.
Lara bumped her shoulder. “You love the attention.”
“I tolerate it,” Megan said, smirking. “It’s a hobby.”
They stopped by the business building—a glass monolith that looked way too serious for its students.
Inside, the walls were plastered with posters about innovation, finance, leadership.
Everything Megan was expected to be.
“So,” Lara started as they walked toward class, “whatever happened to that girl you were seeing last semester? What’s her name—uh, Jess? June? Something with a J?”
Megan frowned, thinking. “Jess? Oh. The marketing major?”
“Yeah! You were all over her during finals week!” Lara said, laughing. “You even said she was different.”
Megan paused, genuinely trying to remember her face. It took a second too long. “Oh. Right. The one who couldn’t stop talking about NFTs.”
Manon groaned. “Wow. Truly the romance of the century.”
Megan smirked. “Hey, I didn’t say I was in love. I said she was different. That’s my version of optimism.”
Lara rolled her eyes. “You’re such a menace.”
“Guilty,” Megan said, spinning the keys around her finger.
They reached the lecture hall, a big glass room filled with students already half asleep. Megan slid into her usual seat near the back, pulling out her tablet.
The professor started talking about their final project—something about international business models, market penetration, strategy reports. The usual buzzwords.
But Megan wasn’t really listening. Her mind drifted—to home, to her parents’ faces, to the word engagement echoing like a curse.
So she did what she always did. She smiled wider. Joked louder.
Halfway through the lecture, she leaned over to Lara and whispered, “If I die during this class, tell my father I died rebelling.”
Manon snorted into her notebook. “You’re going to get us all kicked out again.”
The professor glanced their way. Megan grinned innocently, pen tapping rhythmically against her notebook.
When class ended, they spilled out into the sunlight again, laughing. Megan linked her arms with both her friends.
“Lunch?” Lara asked.
“Always,” Megan said. “And then we’ll pretend to start our project.”
“That’s the spirit,” Manon muttered, but she was smiling.
As they walked toward the food trucks lined along the quad, Megan’s laughter echoed—light and unbothered.
It was a mask she wore perfectly.
Because beneath it, she knew the truth.
Freedom was temporary.
And every smile she gave was a small act of rebellion—a way to say I’m still mine, even if only for now.
//
The next class was one of those electives Megan only took to fill her final semester’s credit requirement—Strategic Innovation and Global Leadership.
It sounded impressive, but she already knew it would be a drag.
The three of them arrived a few minutes before the start, weaving through the hallway.
“New class, new faces,” Lara said, glancing around with interest. “And you know what that means.”
Megan grinned. “New possibilities?”
“New victims,” Manon corrected.
Megan gasped dramatically. “Excuse you. I don’t victimize. I inspire temporary joy.”
Lara rolled her eyes, but she was laughing. “Sure, keep telling yourself that.”
They pushed open the classroom door—wide, bright, a little too sterile with its white walls and the faint buzz of the projector. Students were scattered around, some chatting, others scrolling through their phones.
Megan scanned the room out of habit, her practiced gaze assessing and dismissing in seconds.
Cute. Taken. Loud. Boring. Tries too hard.
Nothing interesting.
She sighed and plopped down in the middle row, twirling her pen between her fingers as the professor entered.
“Good afternoon, everyone. I’m Professor Rowe, and this is Strategic Innovation. I know most of you just need the credits—” he paused, as half the class chuckled, “—but I promise this will be useful for the real world.”
The real world. Megan fought not to roll her eyes. Her real world was boardrooms and family expectations, not hypothetical case studies.
Half an hour passed. Slides, buzzwords, charts. She tuned in and out, doodling swirls and champagne glasses in her notebook.
“Now, here’s a question,” Professor Rowe said suddenly, pacing across the front. “Why do you think most legacy companies fail to innovate even with all their resources?”
He looked around.
“Megan Skiendiel,” he said, recognizing her from previous courses.
Heads turned toward her.
Megan straightened up, slipping effortlessly into performance mode.
“Because money makes people lazy,” she said, smiling. “Once you have enough to keep the lights on, you stop wondering if there’s another way to make fire.”
The class laughed. Even the professor smiled. “Interesting metaphor,” he said. “Anyone care to build on that?”
A quiet pause followed. Then—
A calm voice from the back. “I don’t think it’s laziness.”
Megan’s eyes flicked up.
“I think it’s fear,” the voice continued. “When you inherit something, you’re told not to change it. You’re told to protect it, not reinvent it. So even if you have ideas, you end up guarding a cage instead of opening the door.”
The class turned toward the speaker—a girl seated near the window, posture relaxed but deliberate.
Megan’s gaze followed, and the world narrowed just slightly.
She wasn’t sure what she expected. But it wasn’t her.
The girl was quiet in a way that pulled attention without asking for it.
Her long, straight black hair fell neatly over her shoulders, brushing the edges of her rimless glasses. She wore a simple white blouse under a small black cardigan—an outfit clean and understated, like she didn’t need anything extra to be noticed.
And she didn’t fully look up.
Not at Megan. Not at the class.
Just a quick, almost absent glance upward as she answered—like checking her aim before her eyes dropped back to her notebook, pen gliding steadily as if she had somewhere more important to be than this conversation.
Professor Rowe nodded, clearly impressed. “Excellent point. What’s your name?”
This time, the girl finally paused her writing and looked up properly. A small, polite smile—directed only at the professor, nowhere else.
“Jeung Yoonchae,” she said, voice low, steady, deliberate.
“Good. I hope we’ll hear more from you, Miss Jeung.”
Megan was still watching her, something unfamiliar tugging at her chest.
It wasn’t attraction—not yet. It was irritation, maybe. Curiosity wrapped in bruised pride.
No one corrected her in class. Not like that.
Especially not calmly.
She caught herself staring, waiting for Yoonchae to glance back. But the girl had already gone back to her notes, utterly unbothered.
Megan bit her lip, smirking faintly.
So this one’s different.
She didn’t know why that thought felt like a challenge. Or why, for the rest of the lecture, she couldn’t seem to look away.
//
The lecture wrapped up with the clatter of laptops closing and students stretching in their seats. Megan was halfway to zoning out when Professor Rowe lifted a clipboard.
“Before you go, one announcement,” he said. Groans echoed. Everyone stopped packing.
“This semester’s project will be completed in pairs. I’ve already assigned them based on your concentrations and academic records.”
Megan perked up. Lara groaned dramatically beside her.
Manon whispered, “If I get paired with that crypto guy again, I’m dropping out.”
Professor Rowe began reading names, and Megan half-listened—until she heard her own.
“Megan Skiendiel…” Megan straightened.
“…and Jeung Yoonchae.”
Silence.
At least for Megan.
Her head whipped toward the corner where Yoonchae sat, calmly sliding her notebook into her bag like nothing interesting had just happened.
But then—as if sensing the weight of Megan’s stare—Yoonchae looked up.
And their eyes met for the first time.
Yoonchae’s gaze was steady, unreadable, impossibly calm.
Megan’s breath hitched—just for a second because it felt like Yoonchae was looking straight through the persona she wore like armor.
Yoonchae gave a small nod. Polite. Measured. Almost… inevitable.
Megan’s fingers tightened around her bag strap.
Professor Rowe dismissed them, chairs scraping and chatter bursting back to life.
But Megan stayed frozen for a heartbeat longer, watching Yoonchae walk out of the room, quiet and composed and absolutely not aware of the hurricane she had just set off.
Lara jogged up beside her. “You good?”
“No,” Megan muttered, eyes still trailing the doorway where Yoonchae disappeared.
Then she smirked, half-nervous, half-thrilled.
“But I will be.”
//