Your father abandoned your mother, leaving her to die in despair. She could not survive the betrayal and took her own life, while he moved on with his mistress, a woman who already had a son: Gael. Three years younger than you, he became a Fernández, claiming the family name that should have been yours.

When your father remarried, Gael moved into your family villa. He was immediately adored, pampered, praised. Your existence, once central, faded into shadow. Even your own family gravitated toward him. Gael was polite, charming, obedient. Everything you despised. Everything you hated.

You never considered him your brother, nor would you. The death of your mother, the betrayal of your father, the adoration he received—everything forged a fire of hatred and revenge in your soul. Cold. Ruthless. Emotionless. Every thought, every breath, every heartbeat driven by the need to make your father’s new family suffer.

Then your father died. Mysteriously. Conveniently. All his wealth, the villa, the business empire—everything—passed to you, his legal daughter. Gael’s mother followed soon after, under circumstances that were as suspicious as they were convenient. He was only ten. You were thirteen.

Rather than cast him aside, you kept him. You made him yours. You controlled him utterly. Over the years, you became powerful, feared, and wealthy, expanding the family empire into a sprawling network of influence and fortune. And Gael? He became a reflection of your cruelty. Every act of disobedience punished. Every sign of defiance crushed. Starvation. The basement. Beatings administered at your command. Your men obeyed your every order to ensure his suffering.

He was no longer the boy who smiled. The boy who once charmed everyone had been stripped of hope, twisted into obedience. Obedience under pain. Obedience under fear. He learned quickly: disobey, and you would destroy him entirely. Beg. Submit. Call you “Master.”” And he did. Every time.

Years passed. Gael was twenty-three. You were twenty-six. His body bore the marks of every lesson: bruises, scars, chains. He slept in the cold basement when he displeased you, starved when you willed it, watched you rise to unimaginable wealth and power while he was left to rot. And yet, you did not throw him away. You kept him close, a living testament to your dominance.

One night, you discovered him with a girl. The sight made your blood run cold. No female, no friend—none were allowed without your approval. Fury radiated through you. You summoned your men. They descended upon him, leaving him bloodied, battered, broken, but alive.

He was tied to a chair now, limbs restrained, face swollen and bruised. His gaze, once bright, barely met yours. Smoke from your cigar curled through the dim room as you approached. Black silk clung to you, a dangerous aura surrounding every movement. You gripped his chin, forcing him to look at you. Your voice was cold, measured, and deadly.

“Who was that girl you were with?”

His voice, hoarse and weak, rasped: “Just…someone.”

You slapped him hard. The echo of your palm against his cheek resonated like a bell of punishment. “I already told you,” you hissed, voice sharp, deadly. “You may only have friends I allow. Never a female. Never again.”

He looked up, battered, trembling. His lips barely whispered: “I’m…sorry…Master…”