Odette Moretti had learned early in life that her father's
love was not something freely given—it was earned,
bargained for, and often denied.
Leonardo Moretti had grown up in a small Italian
household where strength was measured not in wealth
but in sons. His own father, a stern man with a booming
voice, used to tell him: "A man without a son is like a
tree without roots. Useless. Doomed to fall." Those
words stuck like a curse in his mind. By the time
Leonardo was a young man, he had already decided what
mattered most: to carry the Moretti name forward
through his sons.
But life, it seemed, had other plans.
His first wife, Isabella, gave him not the strong heirs he
craved, but two daughters—Sophia and Odette. To
Leonardo, they were a disappointment wrapped in
swaddling cloths. He never looked at them with pride,
only with the gnawing shame of failure. He convinced
himself they were curses, proof that his bloodline was
weak.
And so, when Odette was barely two years old,
Leonardo took another wife. This time, fortune 6
"favoured" him. The second wife bore him a son, Luca
and died not long after childbirth. To Leonardo, it was
not tragedy but vindication: a son had been given to him,
no matter the cost. From then on, Luca became his
shining jewel, and the daughters were nothing more than
shadows.
Odette grew up watching this division take root in her
home.
She grew up in a house where fear lived in every corner.
Her father believed that daughters were a curse. He said
it often, sneering as though spitting poison: "Girls are
born to serve, nothing more. Boys carry the family's
blood. Boys are worth raising. Girls…" His gaze would
drift toward Odette and her sister, Sophia. "…are
burdens."
His pride was Luca, his only son. Luca was pampered
since birth, handed the things Odette and Sophia never
dared dream of. While they walked to the public school
in uniforms that were already faded and frayed, Luca
stayed at home with nannies who tended to his every
whim. He never lacked new toys, fine clothes, or tutors
who praised his smallest achievements.
The girls were never meant to see a classroom. Their
father had nearly forbidden it. He had snarled at their
mother, "Why waste money on them? What good will it
do? Books don't make wives better in the kitchen."
It was only their mother's relentless begging—days of
pleading, nights of crying—that won them the smallest
victory. Public school, and nothing more. No extra
lessons, no support, no care. Just the bare minimum,
allowed only because Leonardo feared the neighbours
would talk if he denied his daughters even that.
But school was only a sliver of light in a life otherwise
painted with shadows.
Leonardo's cruelty began with their mother, Isabella.
Odette would watch in silence as her mother endured his
anger. If dinner wasn't hot enough, he would slam his
fist onto the table and throw the plate to the ground,
shattering porcelain across the kitchen tiles. If Isabella
dared to speak back, his open hand would meet her face,
sharp and merciless, leaving her with swollen lips and
bruises hidden beneath scarves. Some nights, Odette
would wake to muffled sobs and the sound of blows
behind the bedroom door.
As they grew older, the cruelty spread to the daughters.
Sophia was the first to taste it. Bold and defiant as a
child, she once stood in front of her mother when
Leonardo raised his hand. For her courage, she was
struck down, slapped so hard she fell to the floor. After
that, her spirit dimmed. She spoke less, avoided eye
contact, and learned the dangerous art of silence.
Odette, however, could not always silence herself.
She remembered one evening vividly—Luca, only a year
younger than her, puffed his chest and mimicked his
father's disdain. He shoved her hard against the wall,
calling her "worthless, like all girls." Tired of being
treated as nothing, Odette struck back, slapping him
across the cheek.
For a brief moment, she felt a surge of pride.
But it did not last.
When Leonardo learned of it, his rage was like a storm.
He dragged Odette by the wrist into the living room,
shouting loud enough for the neighbours to hear, and
beat her with his belt until her back was raw with red
welts. His blows were not careless—they were
deliberate, each one meant to break her spirit.
But worse than the pain was what came after.
He shoved her into a small, windowless storage room at
the back of the house. Dust and cobwebs clung to the air,
the floor was cold stone, and the walls pressed in like a
coffin.
"No food. No water," he growled as he locked the door.
"You'll stay until you learn to kneel before your betters."
The darkness was endless. Hunger twisted her stomach
until she thought it would devour her from the inside.
Thirst burned her throat, every swallow sharp and dry.
Days bled into each other—how many, she never knew.
Sometimes she screamed, her fists pounding against the
door until they bled. Sometimes she whispered to
herself, her voice trembling in the silence.
When the door finally opened, she stumbled out—thin,
pale, trembling. Her lips cracked, her eyes hollow. But
inside, something had changed. Leonardo expected her
to crawl, to beg, to submit. Instead, the fire in her had
grown fiercer
He saw it too. That night, he leaned close to her ear, his
breath sharp with wine.
"You tell anyone," he hissed, "and I'll pull you out of
school. One word, and you'll never set foot in a
classroom again."
The threat carved itself into her heart. School was her
only escape, the only place where she could pretend—
even for a little while—that she was not trapped in his
house. To lose it would be worse than any beating.
But as she lay awake that night, staring at the cracks in
the ceiling, she made herself a promise. One day, she
would leave. She would never let him cage her again.
Every bruise, every scar, every punishment.
Leonardo thought he was breaking his daughter. But he
was only forging her into something stronger