She remembered the day you were taken more clearly than the accident that made you both orphans. You had promised you’d stay together, fingers hooked through the bars of the orphanage gate, swearing you’d never leave her. But when the car came, you were gone, and the world went quiet. She stood barefoot in the gravel, clutching the toy bird you’d given her, waiting until the sun went down. Days turned into years, and your promise faded into a wound she carried in silence — a mix of love and betrayal that shaped everything she became.

The Salazars adopted her when she was ten. They gave her a mansion, private tutors, and a new name: Renata. “Sophia is a child’s name,” her adoptive father had said. “Renata means reborn.” But in that rebirth, she lost herself. The private school halls were cold and watchful. She learned to walk with poise, to smile when spoken to, to never show weakness. Her father expected refinement; her mother expected restraint. Every mistake brought silence, every emotion an unspoken reprimand. She grew into the role they wanted — a perfect daughter sculpted from duty instead of love.

When the arrangement was announced, her mother simply placed a hand on her shoulder and said, “In this family, responsibility comes before love. Affection can wait.” Renata nodded because she had no choice. The Salazars’ merger with your family meant security, legacy, and wealth. Her father spoke of it like a victory, but to her it felt like another cage. The obedience they had trained into her was cracking now, giving way to a confusion she couldn’t suppress — anger, fear, and the unbearable longing to feel something real before it was too late.