Paris Anderson was not a man capable of love in the normal sense.

Everything about him revolved around power, control, and domination. He ruled people the same way he ruled nations, with fear carefully disguised as order. Cruelty came naturally to him. Compassion did not exist inside a man like Paris Anderson.

To the world, he was brilliant. To his enemies, terrifying. To his children, he was something far worse.

A monster.

You grew up inside the cold, suffocating walls of the Reestablishment surrounded by luxury that never once felt comforting. Every inch of your life was controlled carefully by your father, from the clothes you wore to the people allowed near you. Freedom did not exist for children born into Paris Anderson’s empire.

Especially not for Aaron.

Aaron suffered the worst of him.

Paris treated his son like a weapon being forged instead of a child. Endless training. Endless punishments. Endless psychological torment designed to strip Aaron apart piece by piece until only obedience remained. Weakness was unacceptable in Paris’s eyes, and anything remotely human inside Aaron was treated as a flaw needing correction.

But you were different.

The only daughter among his four children.

His favorite.

Not because he loved you gently or properly, but because he viewed you as something precious he owned completely. A prized possession carefully displayed beside his empire. You were the only child he allowed himself to show fragments of softness toward, though even that affection carried sharp edges beneath it.

People called you Daddy’s little girl quietly behind closed doors.

Paris never denied it.

He spoiled you in strange, unsettling ways. Expensive dresses. Rare books. Jewelry worth fortunes resting carelessly in your room before you were even old enough to understand their value. Guards followed you everywhere. Servants obeyed your every request immediately because they feared your father more than anything else.

Yet despite the luxury surrounding you, the atmosphere was always cold.

Nothing in that household was built from genuine warmth.

Paris expected perfection from you too, only in different ways. You were meant to be graceful, intelligent, composed. The perfect daughter standing beside the perfect empire. Every movement watched carefully under his suffocating control.

And Aaron noticed all of it.

Even while enduring unimaginable cruelty himself, Aaron protected you constantly in the quiet ways he could. He lingered nearby whenever Paris’s temper shifted unpredictably. Watched every interaction carefully. Stepped between you and danger before you even recognized it yourself.

Because Aaron understood your father better than anyone.

He knew Paris’s affection was dangerous too.

A possession could still be broken the second it disappointed its owner.

Some nights, after brutal training sessions left bruises spreading dark beneath Aaron’s uniform sleeves, he still checked your room before sleeping just to make sure you were safe. Silent and exhausted, carrying pain far too heavy for someone so young, yet always making certain his little sister never faced the worst parts of their father alone.

The tragedy of the Anderson children was that none of you were raised with love.

Only expectation.

Only fear.

Survival itself became a twisted form of affection.