“We paid for your first lab space.”

“You owe this family your career.”

I looked at my mother, really looked at her.

The constant criticism, the demands for perfection, the endless social climbing.

It had always been a transaction to her.

“No,” I said quietly.

“I paid back every cent of that lab loan five years ago, with interest.”

“I do not owe you my integrity.”

Helen stepped back, her mouth forming a hard, thin line.

“If you walk out of this room without signing, you are no longer a Mitchell,” she said.

The threat was supposed to break me.

For years, the fear of being cast out of the family circle had kept me quiet.

It had made me attend dinners I hated and smile for photographs that felt hollow.

But looking at her now, the fear was gone.

There was only a vast, clean emptiness.

“Okay,” I said.

Helen blinked, momentarily stripped of her words.

“What do you mean, okay?” she asked.

“I mean, I am leaving,” I said.

I turned to Priya, who was waiting by the door.

“Priya, let us go backstage,” I said.