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I'D like to say I chose to go into law for the right reasons. That I felt this deep calling to use my power to change the world. To defend the defenseless and put the scum of the earth behind bars.

But that wouldn't be true.

I chose the law because it's what flows through my blood. I'm determined and logical and this field of study pushes and challenges me. Because I see most of the world as black and white, but the law can't be seen like that. You can mold the law to fit what is needed. It's in shades and scales of gray that force me to think and change my context every single day.

The law is what my father doesn't want me to study. It's useless to him to see me go after a career that he isn't going to support me in. He's already made it clear I won't be taking over the firm. So why am still going after this career path?

Because I have to prove him wrong. I have to show him that even without his support I can flourish and dominate in an industry that he thinks women can't thrive in.

"If you need some help let me know." The teacher's assistant for this class murmurs as he slides a pop quiz onto my desk face side down. His brown eyes framed with black square glasses give me a sympathetic look before turning to continue to pass out the papers.

I flip the thin sheet over to see a C- written at the top along with my percentage. The sheet is fully marked up in red ink with mistakes and points I should've expanded on.

My stomach sinks and acid slides through my veins. I don't get bad grades. I am a straight A student. Everything might not come easy to me like for my brother, but I study the hardest so I can become the best. I practice and read and research deep into the middle of the night filling my brain with every area of the law that I can.

I'm only a pre-law minor, with double majors in English and political science, but this program feeds directly into major law schools in the country. Specifically Yale.

The law school my father graduated from.

I knew this class would be tough for me. It's an elective and not a requirement for a reason, but it looks amazing on a transcript. It's only offered to the upperclassmen, and as a junior it's my first semester in the class. It's a collective overview of what the first year of law school will actually be like. A small taste of what many consider the hardest year.

The method of teaching is completely different and the topics we cover involve in-depth reading and comprehension to be able to have in class discussions on detailed topics three days a week.

This year will involve covering topics from constitutional law to property law to tortes and civil procedure. The class is newer, only having been around for the last five years. But it has prepared students like nothing else can. With LSAT prep included in the course as well. Most people that take this class with our professor get into a top law school within a year of graduation.

This class can make or break the next two years of my life. And as my eyes take in the glaring grade on my paper, and heat flushes my neck, I start to believe it may break me.

"How are classes going?" my mother asks as she tosses the salad that accompanies our weekly family dinner.

I lean my hip against the marble counter and pick at the cuticles on my thumb. I've been in a fit of nerves since I received my terrible grade and I almost backed out of dinner tonight, but I knew it would only raise questions with my family.

My shoulders lift in a shrug as I stand next to her trying to remain nonchalant. "Okay," I breathe.

Her hazel eyes rise from the large wooden salad bowl and land on me. "Care to elaborate?" she inquires.

A sigh flutters from my lips. My mother and I might not see eye to eye on some things, or most things, but she's still my mother and she's able to read me even when I don't want her to. "I'm taking an elective this year that gives us an overview of what the first year of law school will be like," I explain to her. It was a class I was so excited about, but now worry weaves it's way through me. I never allow myself to doubt my abilities in this world. Doubt doesn't have a place in my life, because it's only a poison that will hold me back from taking what I want.

But for the first time in years I doubt myself. It not only scares me and makes my hands tremble, it shakes my entire existence.

A tentative smile touches her lips. I can see the side of her that wants to abide and stand by her husband's ideals, which include me not pursuing law as a career. But behind that always sits the side of her that I know secretly wants me to blaze my own trail. Because it's everything she couldn't do. "That's good," she murmurs as she cuts a few extra cucumber slices to add to the salad.

My teeth worry against my bottom lip. "Yeah," I trail not wanting to expand on the topic at hand, but knowing my mother won't stop asking until I come forward with the truth. She's very good at getting the answers she wants, but also at ignoring the truth that sits directly before her and weighs heavily on her shoulders.

"Jamie," she says the nickname I despise with a pointed glare.

I huff out a deep sigh. "We just started class and already I'm feeling a little behind," I confess letting my eyes fall to the custom oak hardwood floors my mother had updated a couple years ago when she redid the entire house. My foot kicks into the floor, my shoe stopping me from bruising my toes.

Suddenly the sound of rigid footsteps echo from behind me, and my entire body tenses. "Behind in what?" My father's deep voice barks with authority and a tone of disapproval that always seems to be on his tongue when I'm in the room.

My cheeks flame, and I hate that even after all these years he still affects me. That he's able to infuriate me even with just a few simple words. "Nothing," I whisper before clearing my throat and straightening my spine. I don't bow down to anyone, but something about my father's presence still chills my bones. But I refuse to let him see the weakness. He would only feast on it until he could tear me apart.

He moves to stand beside my mother to place a possessive hand on her hip before he sets down his crystal tumbler on the counter with a clink. The clear liquid sloshes slightly and I stop myself from scrunching my nose at the faint smell of gin.  

My tongue darts out to wet my lips. "Just a prep class for law school," I say trying to remain casual knowing if I make a big deal about it my father will instantly attack like a rabid dog.

His thick, dark eyebrows furrow accentuating his deep frown lines. "Why are you taking that?" he asks gruffly.

My mother sets a delicate hand on his shoulder as if to hold him back. "You know she wants to go to law school honey," she croons cautiously as her eyes flicker between her husband and me.

Silence falls over us like a dense scratchy blanket as my father lets his gaze settle over me. He focuses on me intensely almost as if he's evaluating me, and he doesn't look impressed. He swipes his drink from the counter and stalks out of the kitchen without another word. My shoulders fall as a deep pent up sigh flies from my parted lips. But I don't relax because I know this conversation is far from over.

My eyes lift to meet my mother's and a touch of sadness fills them as she holds my gaze before she puts up the wall, and becomes the perfect wife she was designed to be. She only ever shows emotion when my father isn't around, and even then it's rare. It's not who she, it's not who she was raised to be. Without another glance she turns her attention back to the food before her.

I head towards the dinning room, not the grand dinning room, just the small twelve-person table that's for everyday use. I walk through the archway and my eyes land on my brother who sits across from my father towards the end of the needlessly long table. I've never understood why we eat here when there are only four of us, but I don't dare ask again. I asked once when I was five and my mother looked at me as if I killed a puppy.

"Hey Aid," I say as I slide into the cushioned seat next to him.

"Hey," he nods with the touch of a smile teasing his lips. His dark hair looks a little wild, not as groomed as it usually is, and his cheeks look flushed almost windblown. My eyes fall to his navy trousers to see a small tear in the pocket. What the hell was he doing before this?

When I lift my gaze his is already locked on me and his jaw tenses in realization I've noticed his slightly rumpled appearance. But as our mother walks into the room with our cook, Cynthia, by her side I decide to ignore my brother's exterior.

Together they place the silver platter of carved chicken between us, along with seasoned green beans, mashed potatoes, and homemade bread. And of course my mother's signature salad, the only thing she ever contributes to these dinners.

She lowers herself gently into the seat next to her husband and pulls the cloth napkin from the solid gold napkin ring to lay it on her lap.

"Dig in," she encourages with a clasp of her hands and a bright smile as if she cooked this delicious meal all by herself.

My father grabs the small tongs to grab a few slices of perfectly cooked chicken. "If you're having trouble in your classes Jameson you should consider a change in your career path," he tries to pass off as a suggestion though we both know it's anything but. It's an order, but one we also both know I won't follow. At least willingly.

I drop a slice of bread on my plate and I can feel my brother's eyes lock on me as if waiting for my reaction. "I'm not having trouble in my classes," I tell him through gritted teeth.

"It's just one—" my mother attempts to stand up and defend me but barely gets another word out before she's cut off. I know she won't try again.

"Well that one class is mirroring what law school is going to be like so maybe you should consider the idea of moving on," he tells me before using his fork to stab the slice of chicken on his plate a little too forcefully.

"Dad—" I start but his booming voice stops me from speaking any further.

"It's not needed anyways," he says with a wave of his hand as if dismissing me and my dreams. As he always has and always will.

Ugly, dark, untapped anger floods my chest until I feel as if I may burst. My fingers wrap tightly around the cutlery in my hands letting the engraved silver imprint against my palms. "What's that suppose to mean?" I ask bitterly as my eyes narrow in on my father with contempt clear as day in them.

His vivid green eyes that match my own lift to meet mine. "Aiden is taking over the firm," he states as if it's fact. As if my brother has somehow magically at the age of nineteen already graduated college, taken the LSAT, graduated law school, and passed the bar exam. As if it's already a done deal. "Not you," he tells me firmly.

My jaw flexes as my body reels with rage. "I know that," I respond as calmly as possible though my hands continue to tremble.

His lips purse, and I can see the nerves in my mother's eyes at our argument. "Then why even go into law," he begins. "The family practice doesn't need you," he tells me pointedly.

I drop my silverware letting them clank against the table noisily. "Cause I'm not a man," I comment venomously. My mother drops her head as if committing to the knowledge that her dinner is ruined.

Aiden slides his body lower in his chair as if he can sink away from this conversation. Though I can see the flicker of amusement in his eyes because he may listen to our father and follow his every demand, but I know he secretly loves seeing him riled up. If only it wasn't me who provoked him I would probably find it funny as well.

My father leans forward. "Cause you obviously can't handle it," he spits brutally at me as his face turns red with evident anger at my palpable disrespect. "You can't even handle one class," he points out with a wave of his hand.

I let my eyes close for a single second to stop the words I want to say next. So instead I settle on, "I'm done." The two words come out with disdain and defeat.

Aiden's eyes flare with pity, and it only pisses me off more. "James—" he tries but I refuse to hear his next words.

"No," I growl raising a hand to stop him. "Don't you dare stand up for him," I direct heatedly before I push myself away from the dinner table with anger blazing in my blood. Without another look back at my dysfunctional family I storm out the front door and make my way down the winding driveway needing the air, needing the space.

Tears prick at my eyes and fury cuts through me for being so weak. I can't let my father know he's getting to me. I can't show him he's winning, because I refuse to let him win. I reject the ideal that I won't be a lawyer, and I won't rise up and show him how wrong he is.

I let my feet lead me further down my family's property until I'm the full half-mile down the driveway and past the front gate. I turn around to look at the three-story home I grew up in. I was molded in. A home that sits on a slight hill though partially covered with large grandiose trees.

The crackle of gravel catches my attention as I rotate on my heels to see a single man standing across the street. At the entrance of his estate. His castle that turned him into who he is today.

Of all The Heirs, Preston has always been the one to intimidate me the most, which I would never admit aloud. Even when we were younger he had this way about him that drew the attention of everyone around him.

He's smart. He's a leader.

He's a murderer.

Preston begins to stalk forward. Towards me. Long steps with an elegant gate. I swallow the growing lump of nerves that grows in my throat and push my shoulders back and lift my chin. I fear no one. Especially not a man, and especially not an Heir.

He keeps his distance as he comes to a stop a few yards away from me. "Little Davenport," he smirks as his brown eyes fall over me. I stop myself from rolling my eyes at the stupid nickname. He doesn't get to know how much he irritates me.

I'm in a pair of chinos with a button up. Simplistic, easy, and most of all what my mother approves. But most importantly it doesn't show me off. I don't want to my body to define me. I want my intelligence and hard work ethic to be the first thing people think of when my name comes to mind. Not a great pair of tits.

He doesn't try to hide his obvious disdain for my clothing as his gaze instantly rises back to my face finding nothing fascinating with me from the neck down.

"Preston," I say his name hating how much I secretly enjoy the taste it.

His bronze eyes flicker across my face as if examining me. "What's wrong?" he asks immediately.

My eyebrows draw together. "Nothing," I assert as I cross my arms over my chest. I don't like the way he looks at me, and I don't like the way he thinks he can read me. He doesn't know me, and he never will.

He scoffs as he takes a calculated step forward. "Doesn't look like nothing," he comments as his eyes continue to watch my every move.

My head tilts with annoyance clear in my expression. "Well aren't you observant," I remark snidely.

A whisper of a smile creeps onto his perfect lips. "I am," he tells me smugly.

I can't help but roll my eyes this time. I hate his arrogance and his handsome face. It's gotten him far in life, but there will come a time when he doesn't get what he wants and it will crush him. Because men like him wouldn't know adversity if it shot them in the chest. "You wouldn't understand anyways," I say as my gaze drops to the asphalt driveway I stand on with the setting sun heating the back of my neck.

There's a brief pause as silence flurries around us before a set of shoes enters my sight. "Try me," he pushes as my eyes trail up his body to land on his inquisitive ones.

My tongue traces my teeth before I exhale. "How could you understand what I'm going through?" I question him letting resentment coat my every word. "You're a man," I state as I lift my hand to motion at his body as if to prove my point.

"Oh," he drawls as confusion slowly turns to awareness. "It's your time of the month," he states with a slight teasing wince.

A mumbled growl escapes my throat. "You're a dick," I tell him harshly.

A wicked grin takes over his face. "Tell me something I don't know," he states humorously.

I shake my head as my foot begins to tap against the solid ground relentlessly. "I just need a break from my family," I disclose with a shrug.

Preston laughs darkly. "Who doesn't," he comments.

The next words escape my lips without thought. "I'm having issues with one class," I tell him with emphasis. If I'm being honest I'm not sure why I'm telling him my truth other than that I need to get it off of my chest. "And apparently it warrants a change in my major and my career," I finish with aggravation cutting through my words.

"So get help," he advises as if the option is so simple.

My teeth clamp together. "It isn't that easy," I refute.

He presses his lips firmly together and shoots me a dark glare refusing to back down and let me take the easy way out. "Pretty sure it is," he says.

My body sags knowing what I should do, but what I didn't want to have to do. "I guess I could get a tutor," I murmur more to myself. Even if I hide the fact I was getting help I just know my father would somehow find out and use it to fuel the fire against me. Use it to prove that I'm weak. That I'm not smart enough.

"Jamie! Come back inside dinner is getting cold," my mother's shrieking voice cuts through the air and pulls both of our gazes towards my house.

Preston takes another single step forward as his intense stare takes me in. "Don't let them hold you back," he guides with force as if he truly wants me to take in his every word.

I nod weakly. "Okay," I breathe not sure why he's even talking to me. Since that night he's kept his distance from me. Never once starting a conversation with me like he did right here that very night. "Thanks...I guess," I trail awkwardly never thinking I would be thanking Preston Rothwell. Or having him give me advice. But his advice also wasn't terrible. Though something about his help makes me feel a bit dirty as if I've done something wrong by associating with him.

"Yeah," he grumbles before flipping on his heel and heading back towards his house. My eyes watch him until he completely disappears from my gaze as he descends up the hill to his palace.

"Jamie, what are you doing down here?" my mother's voice questions from right behind me. I turn to see she's pulled on her cashmere wrap before coming out to find me.

My eyes flicker over my shoulder as if I can still feel his presence lingering over me. Watching me. "Just needed some space from dad," I say as I swallow to clear my throat.

She walks down to me and grabs onto my arm as she begins to pull me back towards the house. "Well stay away from Preston," she instructs coldly.

"Why?" I ask. "Aiden hangs out with him," I point out as if she isn't fully aware who my little brother surrounds himself with.

She shakes her head and continues to tug me up the driveway. "That's different, you don't need to be around him," she tells me before she halts and casts her warm eyes to land on me. "We all know he killed that boy,"

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