At sixteen, Harper wasn't ready to openly oppose her father yet. But she wanted to push until something broke. Until Henry showed her what lay beneath his perfect father performance.
"I'm not going to the gala today," Harper announced at breakfast, cutting her eggs.
Henry didn't look up from his newspaper. "The car leaves at seven."
"Did you hear what I said?"
"I heard." He turned a page. "The car still leaves at seven."
Harper set down her fork. "What if I'm not in it?"
"Then you'll miss dinner." Henry folded the paper neatly. "And your allowance will reflect your absence from family obligations."
No anger. No pleading. Cold calculation.
Harper felt something twist in her chest. "That's it?"
"What did you expect?"
"I don't know. Something."
Henry stood, straightening his tie. "Expectations lead to disappointment, Harper. I thought you'd learned that by now."
He left her sitting there, staring at eggs that suddenly tasted like ash.
She went to her classmate's party anyway. The boy, whose parties made the society pages for questionable reasons.
Harper wore a vintage dress she'd found in some downtown thrift shop. It was burgundy velvet, too old-fashioned, completely wrong for her age. She looked like she was playing dress-up in her grandmother's closet.
"Jesus, Owen, what are you wearing?" her school friends laughed, wine already making her loud.
"Fashion," Harper said, taking a champagne flute and holding it like she'd seen in old movies.
She drank exactly one glass. Enough to look social, not enough to lose control. When someone offered her pills, she turned away with disgust. When the classmate tried to corner her in the garden, she slipped away before his hands could find anything important.
But she let photographers catch her laughing with her head thrown back, looking wild and inappropriate in all the right ways.
By midnight, the photos were online.
By morning, Henry took care of them.
He said nothing at breakfast. Didn't even look at her.
"Aren't you going to yell?" Harper finally asked.
"Should I?"
"The photos are still everywhere."
"Yes, I saw them." Henry buttered his toast with careful strokes. "Interesting dress choice."
"It was vintage."
"It was attention-seeking."
Harper's cheeks burned. "So?"
"So nothing. You got what you wanted?" He met her eyes for the first time. "Was it worth it?"
The question possessed her. What did she want? Henry's anger? His attention? Some proof that she mattered to upset him at least?
She'd gotten indifference. And somehow that hurt worse than any punishment.
"I'm thinking of dyeing my hair," she said the next week.
"What color?"
The casual question threw her. "Black. Blue, maybe."
"That would suit you, Harper."
Harper blinked. "You don't care?"
"It's your hair."
"…"
"You'll look like a dramatic teenager. Society will whisper, and people will stare." Henry sipped his coffee.
Harper wanted to scream. Where was the controlling father she'd been rebelling against? Where was the man who'd slapped her for asking about her mother? Where was the man who checked on her every night?
"I'm not going to college," she announced during what was supposed to be a celebration dinner for her early acceptance.
Henry cut his steak methodically. "I see."
"I want to take a gap year. Maybe travel."
"Alone?"
"With friends."
"Which friends?"
Harper listed names. Henry nodded like he was taking notes.
"And how will you fund this travel?"
"What?.."
"You thought I'd pay for you to waste a year of your life?" Henry's voice remained perfectly level.
Harper's stomach dropped. "You paid for everything else."
"Educational expenses, yes. Character-building experiences." Henry set down his knife. "This sounds more like delayed adolescence."
"I'm an adult."
"Legally, yes. Emotionally?" Henry shrugged. "That remains to be seen."
"I could get a job." Harper felt exposed, childish, exactly like the delayed adolescent he'd accused her of being.
"Yes, you should."
"I will."
"Then you won't need my financial support for your gap year."
"You'd cut me off?" Harper stared at him.
"I'd let you make your own choices." Henry resumed cutting his steak. "Isn't that what you want?"
That question again. There was no answer anymore.
But this? The detached interest of someone observing an experiment?
Harper moved out the next week, crashing with her high school friend, whose parents were forever absent. She got a job with a minimum wage. But it felt like proof she could survive without her father's money.
Henry didn't call. Didn't check on her. Didn't seem to notice she was gone.
After two months, her friend made it clear Harper's welcome had expired. After five months, she was fired for showing up late once too often. After six months, she was sleeping on friends' couches and eating cereal for dinner.
Henry still didn't call.
Pride kept her from calling him. But desperation finally drove her to the Henry Owen's building, where she waited in the lobby like any other appointment.
"He'll see you," his secretary said after an hour of deliberate waiting.
Henry looked up from his desk like she was a mildly interesting interruption.
"Harper, what a nice surprise."
"Father."
"How can I help you?"
The formal politeness was worse than anger. Harper sat in the visitor's chair, the one reserved for business.
"I want to come home."
"I see."
"I'm ready."
"..." Henry's face showed no emotion. "What changed your mind?"
"I'm ready to go to school."
"Are you?"
"Yes."
"And the gap year?"
Harper's cheeks burned. "Was a mistake."
Henry nodded slowly. "Expensive mistakes teach the best lessons."
"Can I come home?"
"Of course. It's your home, you're my daughter."
Something had shifted. The word 'daughter' sounded different, more distant. Like a role she'd auditioned for and barely qualified to keep.
"There will be conditions," Henry continued.
"Conditions?"
"You'll attend the best school in the country. You'll major in business or economics, something useful. You'll participate in every family obligation without complaint." Henry's eyes never left her face. "And you'll stop performing your rebellion for public consumption."
"What if I don't agree?"
"Then you're welcome to continue your independence experiment." Henry gestured toward the door. "I'm sure it's going exactly as you planned."
Harper wanted to argue, to push back, to reclaim some dignity. But the six months had taught her exactly how much her pride was worth when she was hungry and scared and sleeping on other people's charity.
"Fine."
"Fine?"
"I agree to your terms."
"Excellent. My secretary will arrange for your things to be moved back today." Henry smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"Just like that?"
"Just like that." Henry returned to his paperwork. "Unless there's something else?"
Harper sat there for a moment, waiting for some warmth. She needed a hint that he'd missed her; she got efficient politeness.
She'd wanted to prove she didn't need him. Instead, she'd proven exactly how trivial she was.
"No," she said finally. "Nothing else."
Henry didn't look up as she left.
The trust never came back after that. Harper played her part exceptionally: a dutiful daughter, she appeared an appropriate companion at social events.
Love, if it existed at all, was conditional on her usefulness to him. The knowledge made her careful. Guarded.
Harper learned to smile at Henry's praise without feeling warmed by it. Learned to navigate the elaborate performance of being his daughter while protecting the small, secret parts of herself he could never touch.
She was everything he'd wanted her to be: poised, intelligent, untouchable in a way that made men want to possess her and women want to destroy her.
She became perfect. Perfectly hollow.
Two years later, Harper watched herself perform.
"You look beautiful tonight, dear. That dress is divine."
"Thank you." Harper's smile was perfect, grateful but not desperate. "You look lovely as well."
Harper had learned the script by heart. Different places, different faces, the same small talk.
"Your father must be so proud. Top of your class, I heard?"
"I will try my best."
"Such a good girl. Nothing like that wild phase you went through. We were all so worried."
Harper's smile never wavered.
Across the room, Henry was deep into conversation with potential investors. He caught Harper's eye and nodded once in approval for her act.
Harper excused herself and headed for the bathroom, needing a moment away from the suffocating praise.
"Harper?" Her childhood friend, Sarah, appeared beside her, wine already making her voice too loud. "Jesus, you look like a politician's wife."
"Is that bad?"
"It's weird. Remember when you wore that insane vintage dress? That was you."
Harper checked her lipstick in the mirror. "That was stupid."
"It was fun."
"Fun doesn't pay for college."
Sarah studied her reflection. "You know what's creepy? You sound exactly like your dad when you say stuff like that."
Harper's hand stilled on her lipstick. "..."
"'Fun doesn't pay for college,'" Sarah mimicked in a deeper voice. "That's pure Henry Owen."
"He has a point."
"Ahh, come on. We are so young for all of this."
Harper turned to face her. "I used to be broke and sleeping on couches."
"When was the last time you were relaxed? Honestly, you seem kind of...."
Harper stopped her with a glance. She felt like her careful mask slipped for just a moment before snapping back into place.
"I should get back. My father will wonder where I am."
"See? That's what I mean. The old Harper would have said 'screw Henry' and snuck out to get real food instead of picking at fancy appetizers all night."
Sarah grabbed her arm. "The old Harper was alive."
"The old Harper is gone."
"If you say so."
Sarah's words followed her as Harper found herself watching other people.
Henry appeared at her elbow, and Harper followed him across the room, her smile already in place. Later, in the car ride home, Henry was unusually talkative.
"Your presence helped, and you handled everything well."
"Thank you."
"You've grown into exactly the daughter I hoped you'd become."
The words felt like a door closing.
"You would have cut me off completely if I hadn't."
"I would have let you make your own choices."
"That's the same thing."
They rode the rest of the way in silence.