The Principessa's Ruined Canvas

I was once Don Marcus Griffin's most beloved daughter. But now, I am a puppet, stripped of all will.

When my father’s men dragged me back to the family estate from the slums of Chicago’s Under-District, my adopted sister, Ava Gallo, was the first to greet me with a sneer.

"I'd hoped you'd have rotted in some filthy gutter by now. To think you came back in one piece. Such a shame. You should have just died out there."

My gaze was vacant as I nodded silently. Then, I snatched the brass letter opener from the table and, without hesitation, plunged it into my own palm.

My father and the family members present blanched, scrambling to stop me.

But my brother, Quincy Griffin, remained indifferent.

"Always the drama queen, aren't you? Do you really think you're still worthy of being my sister? You’d be better off dead."

That night, I found a bottle of painkillers and swallowed every last one.

Quincy found me and frantically rushed me to the family's private hospital. The doctor told him two more minutes and I would have been dead. The color drained from Quincy’s face.

Not long after, when Ava "tripped" and fell down the stairs while trying to snatch the gold locket my mother left me, her fiancé, Lorenzo Bianchi, pointed a finger at my face. "It's just a locket! If anything happens to Ava, you'll pay with your life!"

Pay with my life. Right.

Without a moment's hesitation, I ripped the decorative rapier from the wall and drew it across my own throat.

My father witnessed the entire scene and let out a horrified, guttural scream.

"Get a doctor! Now!"

Quincy scrambled to clamp his trembling hands over my wound, utterly stunned.

What no one knew was that in the Under-District, for five long years, they had a name for me: whore. Even if I could live a hundred lifetimes, they wouldn't be worth a single strand of Ava's hair.

Even if I offered up my own life, it would never be enough—because to them, my life had been worthless from the start.

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1

I was wheeled into the family's private operating room, where a team of doctors worked frantically to stop the bleeding and suture the wound. It wasn't until dawn that I was pulled back from the brink.

My father, Don Marcus Griffin, had kept vigil outside all night, only breathing a sigh of relief when he saw me wheeled out.

The moment Ava saw me, wrapped in bandages, she burst into tears. "I never knew Trinity could be so cruel! Trinity’s the one who pushed me! Everything hurts… When I opened my eyes, she was cutting her own throat. I swear I didn't do anything!"

My brother Quincy immediately stepped in front of Ava. "This isn't her fault. Trinity is just doing this for attention! I've seen her pull these stunts before. If she really wanted to die, she wouldn't have left a scratch. She'd be dead."

I was groggy from blood loss, the anesthesia still clinging to me like a shroud, but I could hear their muffled voices piercing the fog.

Be obedient. Pay with your life. You don't deserve to live.

Suddenly, a surge of unnatural strength flooded my body. My eyes snapped open. Then, with all my might, I viciously tore open the freshly stitched wound on my neck.

I shrieked hysterically, "I'm sorry! It's all my fault! I'm sorry! I'll die right now!"

Everyone, including Quincy, blanched in terror as blood gushed from the wound.

Several doctors lunged to hold me down, one of them brandishing a syringe with a sedative. The moment their hands touched me, I thrashed wildly, clawing at the sheets. "No, let me die! I'm begging you, let me die!"

Less than five minutes after being wheeled out, I was rushed back into the operating room.

Through the closed doors, they could hear my broken, desperate wails.

My father, his face ashen, collapsed into a chair, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

He flew into a rage and slapped Quincy hard across the face, roaring, "Look what you've done to Trinity! I swear, if anything happens to her, I'll make you regret the day you were born!"

Ava, terrified, burst into loud sobs. Quincy gently pulled her into his arms, wiping her tears.

Under my father's wrath, Quincy stifled his rage, but his resentment toward me—the cause of his humiliation—only deepened.

After the doctors once again managed to drag me back from death's door, I was transferred to a hospital room that evening.

Quincy was my first visitor. It wasn't a friendly visit, but a settling of scores.

He saw me on the bed, barely clinging to life, and sneered, "Quite the performance. You haven't been back a day and you've already made Ava cry. Using suicide to bully her? You’re a vicious, two-faced bitch, Trinity."

His face was a mask of cold resentment.

Whenever I saw that look, I knew something terrible was about to happen.

The fear that had become my constant companion swelled inside me. I whispered, trembling, "I… I'm sorry. I'm so sorry… I'll pay Ava back with my life…"

Then, I grabbed a small white vial from the bedside table and downed the potent painkillers inside.

My father walked in at that exact moment. He froze, stunned by the scene before him.

Before he could react, white foam began to trickle from the corner of my mouth.

"Trinity!" my father screamed, rushing to my side.

My father roared for the doctors. Soon, a dozen figures in white coats burst into the room, scrambling to save me.

Quincy stood frozen, his face a mask of shock. Ava was no better, petrified into a statue.

I paid them no mind, praying desperately to any god who might be listening: Please, just let me die. Please take me away. Don't let them save me again.

I would do as Quincy wished. I would offer my life to Ava.

My consciousness began to fade, my organs twisting in a fiery agony.

Finally, my eyes drifted shut.