My parents died in separate accidents shortly after I was born. I grew up at my grandfather's side—he was all the family I had. But fate is cruel. When I was eight, he passed away too, leaving me utterly alone. It was Julian who honored that old debt of gratitude. Despite resistance from his own family, he brought me into the Simmons home and raised me like his own granddaughter—cherished and protected.
I still remember those first days. I was timid, afraid to speak, afraid to meet anyone's eyes, always shrinking into corners. It was Ramona who sought me out, took my hand, and grinned at me: "Marina, this is your home now. I'm your little sister. Anyone gives you trouble, I'll make them pay!" And it was Julian who brought me treats every day, sat with me while I did homework, patted my head and said gently, "Don't be afraid, child. Grandpa's here."
Only Max hated me from the start. He called me "charity case" in front of everyone, threw my belongings out of the house, tormented me at every turn, insisted I didn't belong. But Julian always scolded him sharply, and Ramona always defended me. Eventually, Max learned to keep his cruelty quieter—though his contempt never faded.