"Is this before or after you send me in with a knife under my dress?" she asked, voice cool as steel.
That was the moment he snapped.
"What do you mean by that?!" he bellowed, slamming his hand on the desk.
The force echoed through the study, but she didn't flinch.
"I am done with this—this little girl treating me like I'm nothing!" he shouted, rising from his chair, face flushed with rage.
"You think you're untouchable now? Because you've killed a few rats? Burned a few warehouses?"
"I made you! I made your brothers! Everything you have, every power you think you hold—it came from me!
And all you do now is sit there and look at me with scorn."
Her brothers didn't move.
One of them cracked his knuckles, eyes still glued to the floor, jaw twitching.
She rose slowly from her chair, calm in the face of his fury.
"You made us?" she repeated softly.
"No, father. You broke us.
We made ourselves."
The silence that followed was lethal.
She stepped forward, closing the distance.
"You don't get to crawl out of your cave once a year and pretend to play puppet master. You want to sell me off to the Romanos? Fine."
"But don't insult me by pretending it's for peace. We both know this is about power. About saving your name."
His eyes darkened, but she held his gaze.
"So go ahead," she said. "Put the knife in my hand. I'll wear the dress. I'll smile in the photos.
But the moment they underestimate me…"
"I'll remind them whose daughter I am."
She didn't wait for permission.
With her jaw clenched and her fists tightening at her sides, she stomped out of the study—heels sharp, each step echoing her rage down the marble hallway.
Her father's voice called out behind her, but she didn't look back.
She was done listening to ghosts in gold thrones.
A few beats later, she heard it—the quiet footsteps trailing her.
Of course.
He was the only one who ever followed.
Her direct elder brother. The only one who truly understood.
He didn't say anything at first. Just walked beside her. Like always.
She didn't stop until she reached the far end of the east corridor—where the house was quieter, where no one dared interrupt.
Only then did she exhale sharply and press her hand against the wall.
"He's throwing me away like I'm just another damn pawn," she muttered, voice cracking despite her effort to sound steady.
"Not even a pawn… more like a package. A bargaining chip wrapped in silk."
He didn't speak.
She turned to him, eyes gleaming but dry.
"Do you ever wonder who I'd be… if I wasn't born into this cursed family?"
"Maybe I'd be an artist. Or a librarian. Maybe I'd have soft hands. Sleep peacefully at night."
He studied her for a long moment. Then finally, his voice—low, quiet, honest:
"You'd still be dangerous."
"But you'd smile more."
She almost laughed. Almost.
Instead, she looked away.
"What if I mess this up?" she whispered. "What if I go there and forget who I am?"
He stepped closer, placing a hand on her shoulder.
"Then I'll remind you. Every damn time. You're not alone in this. Not as long as I'm breathing."
She nodded, blinking fast, her walls starting to rebuild themselves.
"You're the only one who sees me," she said softly.
"Everyone else… they see a weapon."
He gave her a half-smile.
"Then let them. But I know better. I see my sister."