She was born into a house where nothing was lacking. Marble floors cool beneath bare feet. Curtains so heavy they softened the daylight into something muted and gentle. People said she was lucky. That her cradle was made of gold. But wealth does not protect against jealousy. Her father was the pride of his family. The son who made the business grow, who made decisions without hesitation, who was trusted by his own father. Too much trust, his brothers thought. Love is rare. Jealousy is not. One night, while the city slept, the house was shaken awake by voices that did not belong to a dream. Metal clicking. Shadows sliding across the walls. She lay between her parents when everything tilted. The air grew thick with fear. She understood only the sounds. Her mother’s screaming. The warm, wet sensation as her mother pulled her close to shield her. Her mother was hit. The house was destroyed. And something invisible broke forever. They survived. But safety was left behind that night, lying on the floor among shards of glass and silence. And the girl learned, without words: that love could be dangerous.