Danna:
I was sitting by my father's side on the grand couch of the opulent mansion, the kind of place where the marble floors reflected the crystal chandeliers above and the heavy curtains draped like royal robes over tall windows, and he was holding me so tightly, almost desperately, as if I were the last fragile thing left in his world, his hand curled protectively around mine, his other arm pressing me close as though letting go for even a second would risk losing me again, his voice quiet but trembling when he asked, "Where is my Milly?" and I lifted my gaze to him, seeing in his eyes the same questions and fears I had carried for years, before answering softly that we had been adopted by Chinese parents, kind and gentle people who had treated us as their own flesh and blood, and that Milly was still with them, safe, cherished, loved, which made him nod slowly, a sadness settling in his features even through the relief, his lips parting as though to say something else—"Your mo—" —but before the word could fully leave his mouth, the heavy doors of the sitting room opened and a tall man stepped inside, dressed in a finely cut greyish suit that hung perfectly on his frame, the faint silver in his dark hair and the thin, polished spectacles perched on his nose making him look every inch the dignified gentleman in his mid-forties, and the moment my eyes met his, my breath hitched painfully in my throat because recognition slammed into me so hard it was almost dizzying, my heart pounding against my ribs as the name tore out of me in a half-breath, half-gasp—"Uncle!"—and I shot to my feet, unable to keep still, my voice trembling with disbelief, and behind him, almost like an unwanted shadow, came Alessia, her steps sharp, her expression already painted in that familiar look of irritation, her brows arched high as she studied me with thinly veiled disdain while my uncle adjusted his spectacles, his brow furrowing in mild confusion as he asked, "Who?"—clearly not yet placing me, not yet believing what he was seeing—and then my father rose with a smile that carried both pride and emotion, saying simply, "This is our Danna," and for a moment the room felt suspended in stillness as my uncle's eyes widened, his entire body seeming to go rigid, his lips forming my name like it was something sacred, something almost forgotten—"Da… Danna? Like my niece?"—and before I could answer, he was moving toward me, each step slow but certain, his gaze fixed on me as if afraid I would vanish, his hand reaching for mine and gently turning my wrist to trace the smallest scar there, the one he must have remembered from years ago, his touch so familiar it made my throat tighten, and I swallowed hard before whispering, "Uncle, you remember?" and something inside me cracked when he pulled me into a fierce, almost desperate embrace, his voice breaking as he said my name again, the weight of years laced in those two syllables, and I felt his breath tremble against my hair as he admitted he had thought I was gone forever, his eyes glistening as he pulled back just enough to ask where I had been, and I told him softly, "Many places… how about you, Uncle?" but before he could answer, Alessia's voice cut sharply through the moment, loud and irritated, "What's happening here?" and in a few quick strides she was at my father's side, her perfectly manicured hand slipping into his arm as she looked at him with a pout, her tone dripping with wounded pride as she announced, "Daddy, she's the one who took my man," and I blinked at her, confused by the sudden accusation, my lips parting before I could stop myself as I said quietly, "I didn't… and he's not your man," my words calm, soft, but carrying enough truth to make her eyes flash with anger.
Alessia rolled her eyes with the kind of practiced disdain that came from years of getting away with it, her arms crossing tightly over her chest like a queen preparing for battle, and her lips curled into a smirk as she said, "Look at her attitude—he married Dante for money," the words slow and deliberate, meant to sting, but before I could stop myself, before the voice of reason in my head could tell me to let it go, the words slipped past my lips like a blade drawn too fast from its sheath, "At least for money he took me," and the moment they landed, I saw her eyes widen, that perfect veneer of composure cracking to reveal the rage simmering underneath, her breath catching in a sharp inhale before she hissed, "You…!" as though she were about to lunge at me right there in my father's sitting room, but my father's voice cut clean through the tension, deep and firm, "Why are you two fighting?" and he stepped between us like a wall, his gaze sweeping over our faces with a mix of confusion and disappointment, though before I could answer, a sudden burst of low, amused laughter broke the moment apart, and both of our heads snapped toward the source—my uncle, Edward, leaning back slightly with a crooked smile tugging at his lips, clearly enjoying the spectacle.
"Edward?" my father asked, his brows knitting in mild irritation, "What's so funny?" and my uncle's smile only deepened as he said, "Two grown women fighting over a man—what exactly do you expect to solve here?" his tone light but his eyes sharp, and Alessia, never one to let a moment pass without theatrics, straightened and said sweetly, "Mr. Edward Wilson," with a touch of forced politeness before turning her glare back to me, "Why do we even need to solve it? I've known Dante for four straight years. And she—" her voice cut off like she didn't even need to finish, as if the word she alone carried every insult she wanted to imply, but something inside me had already snapped, and though fighting had never been my choice, never something I sought, I found my voice calm and steady as I said, "I've known him since childhood," the truth falling between us like a stone dropped into still water, making her smirk falter for just a second before she tilted her chin and said, "Oh, really? Then what's his favorite color?" the question tossed out like a trap, her tone dripping with the certainty that I wouldn't know, but I didn't even have to think, because his voice, deep and warm, echoed in my memory—Yellow, because my sister likes it—and the answer slipped from my mouth with quiet certainty, "Yellow," and I saw her jaw clench so tightly her teeth might crack.
Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't give up, leaning in slightly as if preparing the final blow, "What's his father's name?" and for a moment I frowned, my mind catching on the strange choice of question, before I answered without hesitation, "He doesn't have a father—he was an orphan… we were together," my voice soft but absolute, and then the room seemed to stop breathing. The weight of silence pressed down on all of us until my father finally spoke, his voice low, almost incredulous, "He what?" and his gaze shifted sharply between me and my uncle as though trying to decide if this was some cruel joke, "Dante doesn't have a dad? That must be a misunderstanding—Dante works for his real father."