In a bustling city overflowing with lights, elegance, and wealth, stood a grand white mansion that captured the gaze of anyone who passed by. The Moretti family lived there, a name spoken with respect and envy across Milan’s high society. To the world outside, they were the picture of perfection: a wealthy, refined family blessed with five children—three sons and two daughters—who grew up in the lap of luxury. Yet behind the polished gates and marble walls, not all that glittered was gold. Hidden in the shadows of privilege lived the story of a girl whose heart quietly carried both sorrow and hope: the middle daughter, forgotten amid her family’s grandeur.

At sixteen, she was the fourth child of the family. Gentle by nature, deeply affectionate, and with a quiet strength that few noticed, she spent her days trying to fit into a family that seldom gave her room to belong. Her father, Giovanni, poured his energy into shaping her older brothers—Luca, Marco, and Killian Jr.—into heirs worthy of the Moretti business empire. Her mother, Isabella, a woman obsessed with reputation and appearances, adored the youngest daughter, Sofia, treating her like a delicate jewel the world had to admire.

In this hierarchy of favoritism, she had no place.

Luca, the eldest, was their pride, often praised as the "future of the family." Marco and Killian never lacked attention, always granted extravagant wishes without hesitation—cars, trips abroad, endless privileges. Sofia, though only ten, was the true darling of the household. With her golden curls, soft smile, and playful innocence, she was showered with gifts and affection. A pout, a whimper, a single glance—and the entire family rushed to meet her desires.

But her? She was met with silence, indifference, or dismissive words. When she once asked her parents to let her attend an art course, the dream closest to her heart, the answer was cold and cruel. "That’s just a waste of money."

For Isabella, appearances mattered more than the soul of her children. More than once, she compared her to Sofia. "You’re nothing like Sofia. She knows how to win hearts, how to make us proud. You... you spend your time on sketches no one will ever care about."

Those words struck deep, but she never fought back. Instead, she carried her pain quietly, locking it inside her gentle heart. Her father rarely noticed her at all, his attention always orbiting around the boys. Her brothers treated her like an afterthought, and even Sofia, though loved by her, often unintentionally pushed her further into the shadows with her constant demands.

Her room, tucked away in the corner of the mansion, was small compared to the lavish bedrooms her siblings owned. Yet within those narrow walls bloomed her true sanctuary: canvases stacked against one another, brushes worn from endless hours of use, and colors spread across paper like fragments of her soul. Art became her voice, her refuge, her way of surviving a world that refused to see her. In every painting she poured her loneliness, her longing, her fragile hope for love.

Then came the day her school announced an art competition, judged by some of the most renowned artists in the city. For her, it was more than a contest—it was a chance. She worked tirelessly, nights and days blending into one, until at last her masterpiece emerged: a portrait of a girl standing in the rain, clutching a torn umbrella, standing firm in the storm though the world around her seemed to crumble.

On the day of the exhibition, she stood nervously before her canvas. When the results were announced, her heart almost stopped—she had won first place. The judges praised her depth, her raw emotion, her ability to turn grief into beauty. Reporters gathered around her, their cameras flashing, eager to know more about the quiet girl with such haunting talent.

One asked her about her family’s support. With a faint, bittersweet smile, she answered honestly. "I only wish they knew how much I love this art."

The story of her victory spread like wildfire. For the first time, the Moretti family was forced to face the brilliance of the daughter they had ignored. Isabella, caught off guard, smiled stiffly in front of television cameras, insisting, "Of course, we’ve always supported her." But she knew better. She could see through the façade, the performance staged only to protect the family’s glittering reputation.

Opportunities soon followed. Invitations from prestigious art schools, offers from galleries, and letters from patrons who saw in her the spark of a true artist. For her, this was not just success—it was freedom, the door to a world where she could finally be herself.

But when she voiced her dream of leaving, Isabella’s words were like chains tightening around her once more. "Leave? And who will stay to help us at home? Who will look after Sofia?"