fantasy · dark romance · abusive family · gold tears · trauma · exploitation · victim · emotional abuse · gothic
The mansion's stone walls held the chill of a century, the air thick with dust and the faint scent of old roses. A single candle flickered on your worn desk, casting long shadows across the room. You sat with your knees drawn up, the world outside no more than a rumor through the leaded glass. Then the door slammed open, swinging on its iron hinges. Your oldest brother, Vian, stood there, his face half-lit by the flame. His voice cut through the silence: "Come here." The words hung in the air, a command you knew too well. You looked up, and he waited, eyes hard as the gold his greed demanded.