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.

"Everyone saw what happened. You were the one who snatched Trinity's locket," my father said sternly, tossing the gold locket at Ava's feet.

Ava cried out, crumpling to the floor. "No! No, I didn't! I swear, I was just scared."

She looked up with wide, innocent eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I was scared Trinity hadn't changed, scared I would be bullied again. I just wanted to test her."

Her hands trembling, she stripped off her jewelry, throwing it on the floor. "I've always thought of you as my own father, but I know I can never be your real daughter."

"Now that Trinity's back, you don't need a substitute anymore. I hope you'll take care of yourself. I'm leaving."

Quincy immediately blocked her path and met my father’s gaze. "Father, you know how much Ava has suffered, how hard her life has been."

As he spoke, his gaze shot toward me, filled with a disgust so palpable it was almost a physical force.

"Trinity always used her status as your daughter to bully Ava. I threw her into the Under-District to teach her what a hard life looks like, to make her appreciate what she had. Besides, I sent two guards to protect her. She should have been fine."

"I never thought she'd get even worse! Now, not only has she not repented, but she's using self-harm to drive Ava away! What sane person carries that many painkillers? And the timing was too perfect, with you walking in just as she swallowed them."

"She planned it all! She’s just trying to make you feel guilty and force Ava out."

"Are you listening to yourself?!" my father roared, slamming a fist on the table in fury. But a seed of doubt had been planted in his mind.

Sensing their resolve falter, Ava grew bolder.

Once, she commented that my hair was messy and offered to style it. As I sat obediently, she brought out a preheated curling iron and, with a feigned slip, pressed the scorching-hot metal against my arm.

The pain was excruciating, but I didn't dare make a sound. I felt my skin sizzle, smelled burning flesh, yet I didn't let out a single whimper. I knew any reaction would only bring Quincy's wrath down on me.

So, I bit my lip until it bled, stifling any sound.

My lack of reaction only infuriated Ava further. During one meal, she mixed shards from a shattered glass into my risotto.

Then, she shoved my face toward the bowl.

"Such a great actress, aren't you? Let's see how long this lasts! Eat it, if you have the guts!"

An older maid couldn't bear it and tried to intervene. However, my father stopped her, pushing her back down with a meaningful look. She could only watch me with horrified eyes.

Quincy said nothing, just stared at me coldly, as if waiting for me to throw a tantrum like I used to, to smash the plate and cause a scene.

Everyone was waiting.

With deadened eyes, I picked up my fork, scooped up the risotto glittering with glass shards, and swallowed it whole.

Ava, not expecting this, began to panic.

I felt the glass scrape my throat. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth, choking me.

The maid turned deathly pale. She screamed for a doctor, holding me and wailing, "Miss Trinity, what's wrong with you?"

But I couldn't hear her. I just numbly continued shoving the glass-laced food into my mouth, not stopping even as it cut the inside of my mouth.

My father erupted, flipping the table. He grabbed a wine bottle and hurled it at Quincy, roaring, "This is on you! If she dies, you all die with her!"

I couldn't speak, my mouth and nose flooding with blood. Sometime between my father's furious roars and the doctor's horrified screams, I lost consciousness.

In a daze, I fell into a dream of the past.

Back then, I was still the apple of my father's eye, a talented painter. As Don Griffin's daughter, the Principessa, I lived a charmed and carefree life.

Everything changed after my father brought Ava home.

Ava was the daughter of my father's former right-hand man. More specifically, he was the Capo responsible for protecting my father. He died in a firefight, leaving his daughter an orphan. My father took pity on her and brought her into our home.

I felt sorry for her, sharing everything I had—my art supplies, my dresses. I hoped we could be sisters.

The next day, she was found in the estate’s swimming pool. They saved her in time, but from that day on, my father began to look at me with new suspicion.

Soon after, an important family deal fell through.

When my father investigated, Ava played the innocent. She would whisper through her tears, "I don't know what happened. I just remember Trinity showing me the painting she made for the deal. Then something went wrong with the painting… and everything fell apart."

The moment my father heard her testimony, his face darkened, and nothing I said could change his mind.

When the rest of the family learned of this, they cursed me for being vicious, for betraying them. Ava's father had died for the family, yet I was abusing his daughter and damaging our interests.

No one believed me. Everywhere I went, I was met with contempt. Eventually, the family elders proposed my exile.

My father's hands were tied, and his profound disappointment in me didn't help. He cast me out, throwing me into the chaos of the Under-District.

"It seems I spoiled you into a vicious woman. You deserve to see what life is like without the family's protection."

My exile lasted five years.

I woke from the nightmare to the cold, sterile reality of medical equipment.

My head throbbed as memories of the Under-District flooded back. Those sickening faces, their lecherous eyes…

I clutched my head, muttering, "I'm sorry. I'll be good. I swear I'll be good. You can do whatever you want to me. Just please… please, I want to live."

Just then, a nurse came to change my dressings. Seeing my distress, she approached with pity in her eyes and gently took me in her arms. "You've suffered so much. Please, don't hurt yourself anymore."

Her words were a drop of sunlight, the kindest I had heard in five years. The sudden, complex emotion, layered over the pain, overwhelmed me. "But if I'm not good, I'll be punished. It hurts. Why does it always hurt so much? I don't want to die. I really don't want to die!"

The arm around me tightened. She murmured into my hair, "Don't worry. No one can hurt you. You're the Don's daughter. The Don loves you very much."

I no longer knew what love was.

"My father threw me into the Under-District because he loves me. Ava burned me with a curling iron and forced me to eat glass because she loves me. Quincy hurls insults and hits me because he loves me, too."

But their love hurt too much. I couldn't take it anymore.

To my horror, the nurse started to cry. I was terrified of seeing others cry, especially because of me.

I thought I had said something wrong and quickly tried to fix it. "It's okay. I'm used to the pain. Even if they want to kill me, I know what to do. I just have to stab myself a few times, and they'll get scared and stop. It's fine. I can't feel the pain anymore."

That only made her cry harder.

She later reported our conversation to my father, strongly recommending a psychiatric evaluation and warning that I had severe post-traumatic stress disorder.

My mother was long gone, and my father, consumed by the cold affairs of the family, just frowned, completely at a loss.

Quincy remained unconvinced. "She's faking it to get your attention. Father, you can't be fooled by her!"