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Did you pass the bar or just hang out in one?

The stack of flashcards on Shea's desk looked like a fortress - color-coded, dog-eared, and quietly mocking her. She hadn't slept more than four hours in days. The bar exam was weeks away, but the pressure felt like it was already sitting on her chest, heavy and unmoving.

She stared at the same paragraph on tort reform for the fifth time, the words blurring into meaningless syllables. She knew she should take a break, eat something, maybe even step outside, but the guilt of wasted minutes kept her frozen in place.

Her phone buzzed with a text from her dad: Proud of you, kid. You've got this.

She swallowed hard. She didn't feel like she had it. Not today.
Maybe not ever.

Everyone expected her to just breeze through - after all, she was Jensen's daughter. Troy's granddaughter. She was an Urban. Top of her class, polished and composed, already working part-time in PR at SCR Publishing. She had the name, the connections, the reputation.

But reputation didn't help when your brain short circuited at the sight of a multiple choice question. Reputation didn't save you when your hands shook so badly during practice essays you had to retype the whole thing.

She reached for her water bottle and knocked over a stack of notes. Papers fluttered to the ground like a soft, embarrassing meltdown.

She sat there for a moment, still and silent.

Then she laughed. Just once. Sharp and tired.

Maybe she'd cry next.

Either way, she bent down, picked up the pages, and whispered under her breath, "One hour at a time."

Because that's what it took. Not genius. Not legacy. Just stubborn, tired hours.

And she still had plenty of those left.