Ever since I learned to read and write, a trio of ironclad decrees shaped every breath I took within these walls—rules etched deep by my parents’ ruthless hands. They were laws without room for defiance; to break them was to invite pain, punishments I knew all too intimately.
Rule one: keep your mouth sealed, your gaze cast down, for that was where your worth was measured.
Rule two: never eclipse Anastasia's light—she must remain untarnished, untouched by distraction.
Rule three: never, under any circumstances, leave the mansion without explicit command.
These rules had bound me since the moment I took my first steps, weaving chains so tight they almost felt like second skin. Over time, I learned to accept the suffocating order, convincing myself that obedience was survival.
Simple enough: obey, and the punishments would cease. A fragile promise I clung to.
I exhaled slowly, eyes drifting to the window as if the world beyond might offer an escape from my restless mind. Today, they ordered me to present myself as invisible—no makeup, plain clothes—so Anastasia’s impending suitor wouldn’t be distracted from his true choice. At least, that's what she insisted last night, her voice laced with venom.
But how could anyone ever divert attention from her? Anastasia was the epitome of perfection—flawless in beauty, mind, and grace. Anyone who dared to think differently was blinded by folly.
She spoke several languages, mastered instruments with effortless poise, excelled in every subject, and carried herself with regal elegance. She was the cherished daughter, the golden child bathed in warmth and privilege.
And I was the shadow—worn down by harsh words, bruises, and a void where love should have been.
All of this pain began after Nikolai, my eldest brother, died saving me from a vicious Spanish mafia ambush when I was barely four. His birthday became my nightmare—a day marked by darkness and punishment, a brutal reminder of my family's grief and blame.
Each year, Father’s wrath grew fiercer; his fists harder, the punishments longer. This year, the bruises lingered longer than ever, a tapestry of my suffering.
A sudden, sharp knock shattered my spiraling thoughts. My heart leapt as I rose to open the door. Mama stood there, her face twisted in cold fury.
Head bowed, I waited silently as she stepped inside. Her eyes, fiery with disdain, locked onto mine.
What fresh torment awaited?
"Connor Agosti," she announced, voice clipped and unforgiving, "the heir to the Italian mafia throne, will arrive in a few hours to select his bride for our alliance. Though we all know who he will choose, you will make yourself as invisible as a ghost."
I nodded numbly, avoiding her gaze. Speaking brought only more anger; I was told it was a shame I even had a mouth.
Then, with a sudden, violent grip on my collar, she yanked my head up to meet her scorching eyes, saturated with hatred no mother should bear toward her child.
"And you, little slut," she hissed, "keep your mouth shut when he arrives. Cross me, and I'll see you locked in a dungeon." She released me abruptly, shoving me to the floor.
I braced myself with shaking hands, stifling a gasp as the door slammed shut behind her.
Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, threatening to spill despite my desperate restraint. I pushed myself up, heart pounding, dreading the arrival of the man who would seal my fate alongside Anastasia.
---
Later, I stood beside Anastasia as she meticulously adjusted her blonde locks, her every movement radiating confidence and entitlement. She was draped in a stunning lavender gown that clung perfectly to her slender frame, paired with white heels that accentuated her grace.
Father had decreed that I scrub my appearance to a dull, average state; jeans, a plain white shirt, my dark hair left unstyled and loose. Any hint of attention drawn to me might jeopardize the delicate balance we were forced to maintain.
"Mama, do I look perfect?" Anastasia asked anxiously, holding still as Mama appraised her like a prized jewel.
She was breathtaking. If the Italian don was to choose a bride, surely his own vanity must be at stake.
“Of course, my darling,” Mama cooed, cradling Anastasia’s face gently. “Soon you will be the princess of the Italian Mafia.”
Meanwhile, Papa’s impatience grew obvious, fingers tapping his watch as he awaited the arrival of Connor Agosti beyond the door.
When the bell finally rang, Papa hurried to answer. Standing there was a striking man, towering nearly six foot seven, dark hair tousled with an effortless edge, and eyes as cold as winter’s depths. His black shirt was unbuttoned casually at the collar, revealing a tattoo of a cross just behind his ear.
Beside him stood an older man, likely his father.
His gaze briefly met mine—a piercing, unsettling connection—and I quickly averted my eyes, heart pounding fiercely.
“Ah, Mr. Agosti, good to see you again. Your son has grown into quite the man,” Papa boomed with forced warmth.
“And you, Mr. Novikov. Your daughters have blossomed into beautiful young women,” the elder man replied, smiling broadly at Anastasia as they all settled around the grand dining table.
Anastasia took the seat next to Connor; I was positioned directly across, beside Mama.
“Anastasia is the perfect age—twenty-three soon—and a flawless match for your son,” Mama said proudly, eyes gleaming as she admired her preferred daughter.
I shifted uncomfortably, feeling the weight of dark eyes fixed on me. I dared not meet them, instead quietly cutting my steak, wishing this ordeal to end swiftly.
“I’ve heard tales of Anastasia’s virtues,” the elder man remarked. “Surely she’s the ideal bride, yes, Connor?”
Connor said nothing.
Then, in a voice low and steady, he asked, “What’s your name?”
A freeze gripped me; Anastasia’s eyes darted between us, wide with shock. Papa’s face hardened, fury simmering beneath his skin.
Why would he inquire about me?
“Her name? That’s absurd. Why would that matter—” Mama began, but Connor cut her off, his tone sharp.
“Let’s not prolong this charade.”
His gaze locked on me, emotionless yet commanding.
“S-Sofia,” I whispered, voice trembling as I avoided his penetrating stare.
My heart clenched, knowing any wrong word could unleash a storm of consequences from Papa. But before I could brace myself, Connor declared, “She is the one I will marry.”
A stunned silence fell. The maids gasped behind their hands, and the room buzzed with disbelief.
“She’s useless, too young!” Papa bellowed, slamming his fist on the table. “Anastasia excels at everything! There’s no reason to pick her over—”
“My son has spoken,” Connor interrupted coldly. “Accept the alliance or refuse it.”
I looked at Anastasia, tears streaking down her face, Mama trying futilely to soothe her. My mind reeled; the world became a blur of murmurs and shadows.
Why had he chosen me? Against all odds, I was to bear the weight of that cruel decision, knowing punishments would follow.
---
Once the Agostis departed, Anastasia stormed from her seat, her hand striking my cheek with a sharp sting that burned through the numbness.
“What the hell did you do, you filthy slut? Did you already sleep with him?!” she screamed, tears still streaming.
I clutched my burning cheek, eyes cast down, shaking my head vehemently.
“Papa, she must’ve done something!” Anastasia screeched. “Why else would he pick her over me?!”
Mama’s voice was a sneer as she tried to subdue Anastasia’s rage. “Don’t fret, Ana. We’ll find someone better. That Italian bastard can keep this worthless girl.”
I remained silent, shrinking further into myself, the weight of their scorn crushing.
“We have no choice,” Papa slurred, raising a near-empty glass. “Without that deal, our empire crumbles. The Russian mafia already plots against us.”
“That bastard picked you because you’ll take whatever he throws at you while he chases other women,” Papa growled, yanking a fistful of my hair and forcing me down.
His boot struck my side as I gasped in pain. “Now get out of my sight!”
I crumpled to the floor, tears flowing freely at last, the room spinning with the cruel certainty of the path ahead.