I step out of the mall, my arms laden with shopping bags, a mix of designer labels and high-end boutique purchases. The sun is setting, casting a warm glow over the parking lot as I make my way to my car. It's been weeks since our return from Sicily. I had hoped that my father would finally recognize my potential and give me more responsibilities at the office, especially since I didn't cause any trouble for Santiago during our time there. However, much to my dismay, nothing has changed. It is as if my efforts and achievements have gone unnoticed, leaving me feeling invisible and undervalued.

In an attempt to distract myself from the gnawing sense of disappointment, I decided to spend the day indulging in a shopping spree, using my father's money. I know that the amount I spend won't even make a dent in his vast fortune, but a part of me hopes that the constant pings of the transactions will serve as a reminder of my existence. It is a petty move, driven by a desire to be acknowledged and to inflict a small measure of pain on my father for his lack of recognition.

It isn't as if I am clamoring to be inducted into the shadowy folds of our family's mafia dealings. No, my aspirations are somewhat more mundane, yet no less significant. I long to be a part of the legitimate facade we present to the world, the construction company that serves as the cornerstone of our empire. This company, our alibi to the government's prying eyes, is more than just a front. We are creators and builders of dreams in the form of houses, hotels, and anything else one could imagine. Our craftsmanship dots the landscape across the United States, from the humble abode to the grandeur of luxury hotels. Among our latest ventures is the renovation of the Costanzo Hotel, a project that symbolizes the breadth of our influence and the depth of our ambition.

This construction empire is a legacy I yearn to be a part of—not for the power it wields but for the opportunity to build something tangible, something real. Yet, as the city lights blur past my window on the ride home, I can't help but feel like an outsider looking in, yearning for a place within my own family, within my own legacy.

I glide the car into its familiar spot in the garage, the engine's purr dying down as I cut the ignition. The garage of our mansion is expansive, with space for multiple vehicles and rows of gleaming luxury cars. Tools are neatly organized on the pegboard walls, and shelves are lined with paint cans and gardening supplies. Stepping out into the quiet, I make my way into the house, the air of the familiar space wrapping around me like a well-worn cloak. The grand foyer greets me with its marble floors and sweeping staircase, adorned with ornate railings and intricate carvings. Chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting a warm glow over the opulent surroundings. I ascend the stairs to my room, the carpet beneath my feet plush and comforting. Upon entering, I shed my clothes, a heap of fabric forming on the floor, and head to the bathroom to shower.

The shower's embrace is a cascade of warmth, the steam filling the room as I let the water run. The tiles are cool against my skin as I step in, and the sound of the running water echoes softly against the marble walls. I close my eyes, letting the heat seep into my muscles, washing away the veneer of retail therapy and the lingering frustration that clings to my skin. I let the water run, hoping it might also rinse away the disappointment that seems to have taken up permanent residence in my chest.

Refreshed and dressed but not quite rejuvenated, I tread lightly down the stairs to the dining room, where the familiar tableau of family dinner awaits.

Mom's voice, ever gentle, cuts through the tension I carry. "Hello, Honey, how was your day?"

I lean in for a brief, affectionate peck on her cheek before taking my seat. "Good," I reply, the word a half-truth.

Santiago playfully raises an eyebrow and asks, " What did you do all day, shopping??" I respond with an eye roll, knowing he's fully aware of my shopping escapade from seeing me laden with bags. Glancing toward Dad, I observe his lack of reprimand or even a hint of disapproval regarding my day of indulgence at the mall. He remains absorbed in his meal, meticulously cutting into his steak as if my existence is as insignificant as the peas on his plate.

A knot of familiar resentment tightens in my stomach, his usual indifference a bitter pill that never gets easier to swallow. I steel myself, determined not to let it show, not to let it ruin my mood. I fill my plate with the food before me and try to eat, but each bite is a struggle to ground myself in the present moment, not let the undercurrent of my father's silent dismissal wash me away.

"Did you find anything you like?" Mom's voice, gentle and interested, asks.

"Yeah, a few professional outfits for when I start work," I reply, my voice laced with a hint of hope as my eyes flick toward Dad. Yet, he remains in his world, his gaze never meeting mine.

"That's nice, dear," Mom responds, giving me a little smile. At that moment, the realization hit me like a wave—if I ever want to work, to truly be a part of the family business, I need to voice my desires. My lip part, ready to breach the subject, but I'm cut off before a word can escape.

"How was your day at the office, Santiago?" Dad's baritone voice, authoritative and commanding, fills the room, directed at my brother. My heart sinks, the familiar churn of dismissal in my stomach intensifying.

Santiago straightens, clearing his throat. "It was fine, sir."

"Were you able to get everything done today?" Dad inquires, his interest in Santiago's day starkly contrasting with his neglect of mine.

"Not all, but most. Hopefully, I should be done tomorrow." Santiago responds. At this moment, I come to the bitter realization that Dad won't acknowledge me. I dive into my food, the weight of his dismissal heavy on my shoulders, making the meal before me seem unappetizing. I pout, aimlessly pushing the mashed potatoes around my plate.

"That's good," Dad continues, then unexpectedly, "Andrea, I need you to do something for me." My head snaps up, confusion and surprise mingling in my mind. He said my name, Andrea. That's me. Santiago's nudge brings me fully back to the moment, his gesture a silent encouragement to respond.

"You need me to do something?" My voice is tinged with disbelief.

"I just said that" Dad replies, his face stern and indifferent. I swallow hard, the lump in my throat making it difficult to speak. I sit up straighter, dropping my fork onto the table with a clatter, all signs of my previous disheartenment momentarily forgotten.

"How can I be of help, Dad?" My voice is steadier than I feel, a mix of nervousness and eagerness to seize whatever opportunity this might be to prove my worth.

"The company is renovating the Costanzo Hotel in California. I need you to go down there tomorrow and see how everything is going," Dad states, his voice carrying the weight of an order rather than a request.

"You want me to go?" I ask, my eyes widening in surprise. He slams his palm against the table in response, and I can't help but flinch at the sudden action.

"Andrea, do I need to repeat everything I say?" His tone is laced with annoyance, and I quickly shake my head.

"No, Dad, you don't," I reply, shaking my head.

"The jet will be ready by 9 a.m. Don't fucking miss your flight," he warns before he returns to his meal.

I exhale slowly, a mixture of relief and anticipation settling over me as I relax back into my seat. My gaze drifts to Santiago, who offers a supportive thumbs-up before leaning in to whisper, "Don't mess it up."

"I won't," I whisper back, a silent promise to myself more than to him.

Dad's voice cuts through the quiet again, and I tense, ready to absorb his next directive. "Lorenzo's boy is going to be in town, so once you arrive in California, pay a visit to him and ask if he has any complaints or additions he wants to make to the building."

"I will," I respond, my mind racing, wondering which of Mr. Costanzo's sons it could be? I find myself hoping it's Thomas, with whom I've always got along with. Yet, a small part of me hopes it might be Stefano, wishing to see him again.

We finish dinner, and I retreat to my room my mind is abuzz with the newfound responsibility and the prospect of proving myself to Dad. I begin packing, meticulously selecting outfits that strike a balance between professionalism and personal style. Halfway through, I decide a glass of wine might help ease my nerves and aid in the packing process.

I head downstairs, and as I approach the kitchen door, I freeze. The sound of Mom and Santiago's hushed yet clear voices reaches my ears. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I find myself lingering, the door slightly ajar.

"Phew! I was so worried your sister would question why he suddenly decided to involve her in the family business," Mom expresses her concern.

Santiago's response hits me like a punch to the gut. "I know; I can't imagine how hurt she will be if she finds out he just asked her to head over to California because it was demanded, not because he finally sees her worth," Santiago remarks. His words strike a chord in my heart. Here I was in my room, hoping my father had finally recognized that I could offer more than just a way to spend his money, but could actually assist him in making more.

I take a deep breath, trying to compose myself before confronting Mom and Santiago. I barge into the kitchen, my voice trembling slightly as I ask, "Really?"

Mom's eyes widen, guilt flashing across her face. "Andrea," she exclaims, caught off guard by my sudden appearance.

I turn to Santiago, my gaze demanding. "Answer me."

He hesitates. "Andrea, it..."

I cut him off, my voice rising with each word. "Why is Dad letting me go to California? Were you supposed to go?"

"Andrea..." Santiago starts, but I'm not having it.

"Answer my fucking question!" I yell, tears welling up in my eyes, blurring my vision.

Santiago exhales heavily, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "Yes," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

I nod, the confirmation hitting me like a physical blow. The tears spill over, streaking down my cheeks as my chest tightens painfully. I swallow hard, trying to find my voice. "Thank you for telling me," I manage, my words strained.

I spin around and walk out of the kitchen, no longer able to hold back the sobs that wrack my body. I hear Santiago's footsteps behind me, and I turn to face him, my face a mess of tears and raw emotion.

"Please, I want to be alone right now," I tell him, my voice cracking. He stops, respecting my wishes, and I'm grateful for the space.

I make my way back to my room, each step heavy with the weight of this revelation. I burst into my room, slamming the door behind me as I throw myself onto the bed. The ache in my heart is overwhelming, a crushing weight that threatens to suffocate me. How could I have been so foolish, so naive to think that my father had finally seen my worth? The realization that he only asked me to handle the California project because it was demanded, not because he believed in me, cuts deeper than any knife ever could.

Tears stream down my face as I curl into myself, the pain of years of seeking his approval washing over me in relentless waves. It's a familiar feeling, this desperate longing for a father's love and respect, a validation that seems forever out of reach. No matter how hard I try, how much I achieve, it's never enough. I'm never enough.

The scar on my hand throbs, a physical reminder of the lengths I've gone to in the past to gain his attention. The memory is forced away. Instead of the concern and love I craved, I was met with a loss of respect, a coldness that cut me to the core. It was as if I had ceased to exist in his eyes, a ghost haunting the halls of our home.

I feel like young again, constantly striving for a glimmer of acknowledgment, a scrap of affection. The weight of his disapproval is suffocating, a burden I've carried for as long as I can remember. No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, it seems I'll never be worthy in his eyes.

The tears continue to fall, soaking my pillow as I let the pain consume me. I know I shouldn't care so much, that I should be able to brush off his indifference and forge my own path. But he's my father, the man who should love me unconditionally, the one whose approval I've always craved. It's a primal need, a yearning that I can't seem to shake.

As I lie there, my heart shattered and my spirit broken, I can't help but wonder what it will take to finally earn his respect. Will there ever come a day when he looks at me with pride? The thought seems like a distant dream, a fantasy that I can't quite bring myself to believe in.

For now, all I can dois let the tears fall, to allow myself this moment of vulnerability anddespair. Tomorrow, I'll pick myself up, put on a brave face, and face the worldagain. But tonight, in the solitude of my room, I'll mourn the love I've neverhad, the approval I've always sought, and the scars, both visible andinvisible, that I'll carry with me always.