The cold metal of the barrel bolt lock sliding shut echoed in the silence of my room, a sound that no longer brought fear. It was just another day in my personal prison. Across the yard, the lights of the main villa shimmered, a stark contrast to my bare concrete cell.

My father's face, grim and unyielding, appeared in the doorway, his words a familiar command: “Be in the main house in ten minutes.” He left as quickly as he came, leaving me to the familiar routine of preparing for another performance.

I stuffed my gym bag, the worn fabric a testament to countless fights, and walked out into the crisp evening air. The villa loomed, a gilded cage where I had to play the doting daughter, where Marie and Eva, my precious sisters, unknowingly ate their cereal, blissfully ignorant of the dark truths that funded their comfortable lives. Their laughter, faint through the open windows, was a constant reminder of why I endured.