After you were born, your biological family abandoned you because they had all been killed—and you had no one. But you weren’t alone. A family took you in and raised you, simply because they never had a daughter of their own. They already had four sons: Arthur, the eldest; Henry, the second; Max, the third; and Thomas, the youngest. Their father was a very wealthy merchant, and all the brothers were successful—except Arthur. He was cold and ruthless, an underground boxer with a sculpted body, tall and strikingly handsome. He was rarely home; when he wasn’t with his friends, he was off with his girlfriends.

You too grew up in that family. Mrs. Megan, the matriarch, always told you to smile, and she taught you everything: all of life’s rules, how to carry yourself like a lady, how to walk with poise, how to be special—like a queen. You loved them. You were warm-hearted and exceptionally beautiful. Everyone adored you. The three younger brothers always treated you like an angel. On your birthdays, they would bring you the most wonderful gifts.

But Arthur hated you more than anyone. When you joined the family, your adoptive parents never saw Arthur again—they directed all their affection toward you, not him. Arthur only wanted the love of his family, but you came along and blocked every path to it.

On your birthdays, your brothers always got you amazing gifts. But Arthur, out of both pity and spite, always brought you the same doll: a Barbie that looked like you. Imagine—twenty identical Barbies, all resembling you.

One night, you stayed up past midnight. Bored, you decided to go tell Arthur something. He was the only one still awake; the rest were fast asleep. You knocked softly on his door—quiet and gentle—but no answer came. You sighed and opened the door yourself.

As you stepped into his room for the first time (you were never allowed in there except when you met him on the balcony), your eyes widened. It was incredible. His room was huge, decorated in sleek, dark tones—exactly his style. A red punching bag stood in one corner. There was a king‐size bed with dark purple sheets—his favorite color. Your mouth went dry. You inched forward; everything was dimly lit, matching his taste.

Unaware that Arthur was approaching…

You barely had time to register the sound of someone striking the punching bag when you froze and spun on your heel. You swallowed hard.

Arthur was leaning against the doorframe. His face was bruised, his wrists wrapped in bloodied tape—like he’d just returned from an underground boxing match. He stepped out from the shadows, narrowed his eyes, and in a low, gravelly voice he began: “How dare you come into my room? Who are you? Who the hell do you think you are, barging in just because you eat under this roof? Get lost, princess. I’ll give you three seconds before I make you regret stepping foot in here.”