The Little Princess of the Marchesi Clan

Emilia stirred from her sleep, the soft morning light filtering through the sheer curtains of her room. She rubbed her eyes and glanced around, taking in the lavish furnishings—a bed larger than any she had ever seen, draped in fine linens that smelled faintly of lavender. For a moment, she thought she might still be dreaming. Slowly, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and touched the cool floor with her bare feet.

Her steps were tentative as she limped toward the window. Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving the world washed and glistening in the morning sun. Emilia pressed her hand against the cold glass, feeling a strange mixture of awe and uncertainty. She had never known a place so beautiful, so far removed from the dingy confines of her adoptive parents' house.

Limping slightly, she made her way to the door and pulled it open. The hallway stretched endlessly, its polished floors reflecting the light of an ornate chandelier above. Everything seemed far too grand for someone like her, and yet, here she was. Emilia wandered aimlessly, her heart racing with every creak of the floorboards. She soon found herself at the top of a grand staircase, its banister carved with intricate patterns.

She hesitated before descending, the murmur of voices reaching her ears. The voices grew louder as she approached the dining area, and when she reached the bottom of the stairs, she saw them—the family she had met the night before, seated around a long dining table laden with food.

Emilia froze for a moment, unsure of what to do. She mustered her courage and bowed slightly, her voice barely above a whisper as she greeted them. "Good morning."

Isabella Marchesi, her warm and elegant demeanor evident even at this early hour, immediately stood and approached her. "Buongiorno, cara. Come ti senti?" she asked gently before switching to English for Emilia's sake. "Good morning, dear. How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," Emilia replied softly. Isabella smiled, her dark eyes filled with concern. Without hesitation, she scooped Emilia into her arms and carried her to the dining table. But as soon as Isabella set her down, Emilia jumped off the chair, panic flashing in her wide eyes.

"I can eat on the floor," Emilia blurted, her voice trembling. She stepped back as though the chair itself was too much for her.

Isabella's smile faltered, but she said nothing. Her heart ached for the girl's evident fear, but she didn't push. Instead, she gently asked, "Do you remember how long you were outside before we found you?"

Emilia shook her head. "I don't know. But when you found me, you put me in a car." She paused, looking down at her feet. "I was unconscious. I only woke up last night."

Isabella nodded and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Yes, you were unconscious for a day. We were worried."

Before Isabella could say more, Alessandro Marchesi, seated at the head of the table, spoke up. His voice was calm but carried authority. "What is your family's name, bambina?"

Emilia hesitated, her gaze darting to the floor. "I don't know," she admitted softly. "But my name is Emilia Russo. My adoptive parents said they got me from an orphanage."

Alessandro leaned back in his chair, his sharp features contemplative. "I see," he said simply. "Thank you for telling us."

He gestured to the table. "Now, please sit and eat."

Emilia shook her head quickly, fear flashing in her eyes. "I'm fine on the floor," she whispered.

Luca Marchesi, who had been watching the exchange with an unreadable expression, slammed his palm on the table, startling everyone. "Sit down," he barked, his voice cold and commanding.

Emilia flinched, tears welling in her eyes as she scrambled onto the chair. She stared at her hands, trembling as Luca's voice echoed in her mind. For a moment, she was back in her adoptive parents' house, back under the harsh gaze of her abusers. Luca's tone had struck the same chord of fear.

Isabella glared at her brother but said nothing. She turned to Emilia, her voice gentle again. "Please, call me Isa. There's no need to be formal."

Emilia nodded, her eyes fixed on the table. "Yes, ma'am," she said softly, the habit of submission too deeply ingrained.

Isabella sighed but didn't correct her this time. Instead, she placed a plate of food in front of Emilia. The aroma of freshly baked bread, eggs, and roasted vegetables filled the air, but Emilia didn't touch it. Her hands remained in her lap as she glanced nervously at Luca.

"I'm used to eating on the floor," Emilia admitted quietly. "And… I use the dirty plates." Her voice broke as she finished, and she quickly added, "I'm sorry."

Alessandro's face softened, and he leaned forward slightly. "How old are you, Emilia?"

"Eight," she replied, her voice barely audible.

Luca scoffed, his sharp blue eyes narrowing. "She looks smaller. Weightless."

Emilia lowered her head further, her cheeks burning with shame. "I'm sorry," she whispered again.

The room fell silent for a moment, tension thick in the air. Alessandro broke it with a heavy sigh. "After breakfast, you'll be going back to your parents."

"No!" Emilia cried, her small voice rising in desperation. Tears streamed down her face as she fell to her knees. "Please, don't send me back. I'll do anything. I'll work. I can clean! I can cook! I can wash the floors, the walls, the windows. I'll take care of the animals if you have any. I'll stay out of the way. Just please don't send me back!"

Her sobs echoed in the grand room, and for a moment, no one spoke. Isabella knelt beside her, wrapping her arms around the trembling girl.

"You don't have to prove yourself, cara," Isabella whispered. "No one is sending you anywhere."

Emilia clung to Isabella's robe, her tears soaking the fabric. Luca watched her silently, his expression hard to read, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—perhaps regret or guilt. Alessandro remained seated, his gaze heavy with thought.

For a girl who had known nothing but cruelty, the Marchesi family represented an entirely new world. Yet, even here, she couldn't help but feel like an outsider, a fragile thread in a web of power and danger she didn't yet understand.