From the moment I was brought into this Family, I was standing in the wrong place. Silvia never had to fight for anything. As long as she appeared, someone would clear the path for her. And I, labeled as the younger sister, was always nothing more than a backdrop—a shadow cast by a brighter flame.
Many people no longer remember the details of that year. After the bloodbath that nearly dismantled the Ashford name, Don Ettore and his wife Margaret lost their only daughter, and the entire Family fell into a brief yet fatal period of instability. Rivals circled like wolves scenting weakness. It was during that time that Silvia and I were brought into their sight. Origins did not matter. Blood did not matter. What mattered was that she looked almost exactly like the girl who had died—the same dark hair, the same delicate bone structure, the same ghost of a smile.
So the positions were assigned from the very beginning.