"What condition, Dad?" Anne asked, her fingers tightening inside her jacket pockets. The living room fell completely still. Even her brothers, usually so quick to jump in with advice, stayed quiet, waiting to hear what Richard had to say. Her father leaned back against the edge of the dining table, folding his arms across his chest. His expression was serious, but the sharp tension in his eyes had softened into something far more calculated. "You’ll go to an architecture firm," Richard said calmly. "Through your uncle’s connection—the internship program at his associate's firm that your mother mentioned. You’ll shadow them during the school term when your schedule allows, and you’ll work there full-time during your breaks and after exams." Anne stared at him, her heart skipping a beat. "An internship? Dad, I haven't even taken my first lecture yet! Why on earth would I need to work at a firm before I've even started the degree?" "Because if you're going to split your focus between art and architecture, you need to understand what you're stepping into," her father explained smoothly, his voice carrying the calm authority of someone who spent his days negotiating high-stakes contracts. "It’s one thing to draw blueprints on paper in a classroom, Anne. It’s another to see how a real studio runs, how client meetings work, and how concepts turn into physical structures. Familiarize yourself with the profession early. If you're genuinely going to balance two paths, you can't afford to waste time figuring out the basics on the fly." He paused, looking at her intently. "You want my financial support for your art classes and supplies, and you want me to back you up when the rest of the family thinks you're taking on too much. That is my price. Show me you're serious about the professional route, and I will fund your passion without a single complaint." Anne looked at her family, then back at her father. It was a steep demand—adding a firm placement on top of architecture school and art academy classes sounded almost exhausting to think about. But looking at her dad’s resolute face, she knew this was the ultimate olive branch. He wasn't shutting her down; he was testing her grit. She took a slow, deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment. "Okay. I agree." A subtle wave of relief passed through the room. Her mother offered a quiet, approving nod, while her siblings traded glances, clearly surprised that their father had struck such a structured deal. Over the next few days, the gears moved quickly. Phone calls were made, emails exchanged, and portfolio references pulled together through her uncle's professional network. By Thursday afternoon, the call finally came through: she had been scheduled for an official interview at one of the city's premier design and architecture firms. The following Monday morning, the cab pulled up to the curb in front of the firm's headquarters. Anne stepped out onto the pavement, taking a long look up at the building, and her breath caught in her throat. The structure was a breathtaking masterpiece of modern design—sleek glass panels catch the morning sun, framed by warm, sweeping wooden accents and sharp, geometric angles that seemed to defy gravity. It didn't look like a cold, sterile corporate office; it felt alive, intentional, and undeniably majestic. An architect definitely built this, Anne thought to herself, a quiet sense of wonder washing over her despite her nerves. Someone who actually cared about space and form. "It's impressive, isn't it?" her mother, Elena, said softly, stepping up beside her in a crisp blazer, looking as polished as ever. Her uncle walked alongside them, adjusting his lapel with a confident smile. "They don't hire just anyone here, Anne. The standards are high, but the work they produce is world-class. Keep your chin up." Together, the three of them walked through the heavy glass entrance doors, their footsteps echoing softly against the pristine marble floors of the grand lobby. The air inside smelled faintly of polished wood, fresh espresso, and expensive perfume. As they approached the main reception desk, a tall figure stepped out from the private elevator corridor, holding a leather-bound blueprint folder in one hand. Anne’s eyes drifted toward him, and everything else in the busy lobby seemed to fade into the background. He moved with an effortless, striking presence—wearing a tailored dark suit, his hair neatly styled, and sharp, calculating eyes that swept across the room with cool authority. There was an unmistakable air of perfection around him, quiet yet utterly commanding. It was Mattia Prosektikós.

The price of passion