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!"