My Princessa

The familiar sting of her father's hand across her cheek was nothing new, but the raw disgust in Ronan Rossi's eyes when she dared to call him 'father' was a fresh wound. "I am not your father, bastard," he'd spat, leaving her to collapse onto the cold kitchen floor.

Thirteen years. Thirteen years of insults, beatings, and being told she was nothing but a disgraceful mistake. Tears, not from the physical pain, but from the searing humiliation, streamed down her face. She was a ghost in her own home, a personal maid and punching bag for the family who claimed her.

From the doorway, her older sisters, Valerie and Valencia, emerged, their smiles predatory. "My, my, aren't you supposed to be making dad his coffee?" Valerie taunted, enjoying the spectacle. "Tsk tsk tsk, I wonder what dad will do if we tell him you're still sitting here, all relaxed." Their laughter echoed in the small apartment, a cruel symphony she knew all too well.

She dried her tears, a familiar routine, and rose. In her heart, a single, unwavering resolve solidified. If they were truly moving back to Italy, to the very city where she was born, then she would find him. Her real father. The one who might finally see her as enough.