SOPHIA

"I’m twenty-six, Dad," I said, my voice echoing against the stone balustrade of the terrace. "I’m finishing my Master’s. I don't need a babysitter. I need a life.”

The air in the Hamptons always smelled like money and comfort, but that morning, it felt suffocating. I stood on the manicured lawn of our estate, the grass so green it looked artificial, watching my father clip the heads off perfectly healthy roses.

It was a direct metaphor of my own life— if something grew too tall or too beautiful, Arthur Monroe, my lovely father, made sure to prune it back into place.

He didn't look up, not even once. He...