From Alessio Leone's Perspective
Unfortunately, Alessio's entrance was not as smooth as he had planned.
He had intended to keep things discreet — arrive, greet a few familiar faces, stay long enough to be seen, and leave before the evening turned dull.
But the moment he climbed the marble steps of the Event Center, he realized destiny had other plans.
The reception area was crowded with former classmates gathered around a digital check-in table.
A holographic panel floated above, projecting the names of confirmed guests, while two assistants typed rapidly, trying to finalize the list before the ceremony began.
It was there — amid polite smiles and forced small talk — that Pablo Ricci, the class vice president, intercepted Alessio.
Pablo looked exactly as Alessio remembered: arrogant posture, rehearsed smile, a suit too expensive for his own taste, and that perpetual glint of superiority he never managed to hide.
He approached with a glass of wine in hand, his tone light and falsely cordial — the kind of voice that pretended civility but hid the edge of a challenge.
"Well, well… Alessio," he said, dragging out the name on purpose. "I don't see your name on the list."
Alessio stopped, his expression calm, almost impassive.
"I don't?" he asked evenly. "I'm certain I confirmed with Beatrice."
Pablo pursed his lips in a mock gesture of sympathy, tilting his head slightly.
"Are you sure?" he pressed, a skeptical smile forming at the corner of his mouth. "Because, you know… mistakes happen."
The nearby guests began to exchange curious glances.
Some chuckled quietly; others just looked at each other, amused.
It was the kind of awkwardness that, in an academic crowd, quickly turned into entertainment.
Alessio, however, remained composed.
If he didn't know Beatrice, he might have believed it was a clerical error.
But he did know her.
And he knew her very well.
Beatrice Medici was the most meticulous, organized person he had ever met — the kind who checked every name, every email, every line of data twice, sometimes three times, before an event.
She would never leave a name off the list, especially not his — not after personally confirming that morning.
No.
Alessio knew exactly what this was.
He saw it in Pablo's eyes — that flicker of satisfaction behind the polite façade.
It was a tiny, almost imperceptible spark, but Alessio had seen it countless times before — the look of someone who had finally found a chance to cut down the person who outshone them.
Because that's what he had always represented to them.
The top student — highest grades, fastest mind, unshakably composed.
The one who needed no one.
And for that very reason, he had become a quiet target of resentment.
The kind of person the academic system officially admired… but whom peers privately despised.
"A nail that sticks out is always hammered down."
The phrase echoed in his memory — something his father had told him years ago.
And for a brief moment, Alessio almost smiled at the irony.
Yes, he was the nail.
And Pablo, with his smug grin, was the hammer.
"I'm sorry, Alessio," Pablo went on, feigning sympathy. "But without a digital registration, you can't come in. Rules are rules, you understand?"
The paternal tone drew a few quiet laughs from those nearby.
Alessio didn't reply.
He simply looked at him — steady, unblinking — as though observing a child pretending to be an adult.
He knew this had nothing to do with rules.
It was about status.
About control.
About Pablo's small, desperate need to assert superiority — to finally feel like he held some kind of power.
Inside, Alessio felt the stir of impatience.
But outwardly, he didn't move.
Didn't protest.
He knew that any reaction would only feed the other man's satisfaction.
So he folded his arms and waited.
And that was when something unexpected happened.
A new voice cut through the murmurs of the crowd — sharp, feminine, and laced with irritation.
"Pablo, please tell me you're not doing this again."
The sound sliced the air like a blade, and every head turned toward the staircase.
The tone of authority was unmistakable — and to Alessio, so was the voice.
Beatrice Medici.
She appeared at the top of the grand staircase, dressed in a pristine white suit and holding a matching tablet in one hand.
Her gaze was cold, direct, and calculated — the kind of look that required no explanation.
And in that instant, Alessio knew:
his savior had arrived.
The sight of her was enough to quiet the entire hall for a moment.
It was as if the very air shifted — denser, heavier, more attentive.
Even among the glittering dresses, polished shoes, and competing perfumes, she seemed to exist on an entirely different level.
To Alessio, Beatrice had always been the goddess of their class — the kind of woman who could silence a room without raising her voice.
Not merely because of her beauty, but because of that effortless authority she carried.
She had the kind of presence that made people think twice before speaking, that made men instinctively lower their voices when she passed.
Her hair — long, golden-blonde with soft waves — caught the light like strands of silk beneath the chandeliers.
Her skin was pale, almost luminous, flawless in a way that spoke of discipline and composure.
And her eyes — a striking greenish-blue — scanned the room with cool precision, the gaze of someone who saw everything and judged quietly.
There was no warmth there, only intelligence — sharp, strategic, and unyielding.
Her face was symmetrically perfect, with delicate, expressive features.
Her lips — naturally pink, curved in a faint, ambiguous smile — carried both elegance and danger.
Her hair, pinned back in a simple yet immaculate style, left her neck and shoulders exposed, accentuating a posture so straight it almost radiated command.
The white suit, tailored with flawless precision, stood in perfect contrast to her skin.
A thin pearl necklace glimmered faintly at her throat, completing the image.
She looked less like a former student and more like a judge descending to pronounce a verdict — untouchable, immaculate, inevitable.
Beatrice Medici.
The class president.
The most admired — and feared — woman in the entire university.
Because her last name wasn't just a name.
It was a dynasty.
The Medici family wasn't a faded legend from Palermo's history books — not yet.
Even in modern times, the Medicis still carried influence.
A dynasty that had traded thrones for banks, crowns for boardrooms, and cathedrals for ministries.
And Beatrice, the youngest heir, embodied that legacy to perfection.
She didn't need to assert authority — she was authority.
And now, descending the staircase with her tablet in hand and her gaze fixed on Pablo, she played her role flawlessly:
the embodiment of order restoring balance to chaos.
Alessio watched her silently.
The chandeliers' golden light shimmered across her hair, and for a brief instant, he wondered if he had ever seen anyone so perfectly composed.
It was as if time itself paused just to let her walk through the room — and perhaps, he thought, that's exactly how everyone else felt too.
Yes.
Beatrice Medici was the kind of woman before whom even pride learned to bow.
And Pablo Ricci, the vice president, was about to remember that the hard way —
as her shadow fell across him like a quiet reminder of who truly ruled that place.