From Alessio Leone's Perspective
It was almost funny to watch Pablo's face freeze in front of Beatrice.
Not that Alessio was the kind of man who took pleasure in others' discomfort — but there was something poetically fair about that moment.
He didn't know all the details of their history, yet the look Beatrice gave him made it clear this wasn't the first time Pablo had overstepped.
And considering his petty stunt had been aimed directly at me, I felt not the slightest trace of sympathy.
The silence that fell between them was nearly comical.
For almost a full minute, Beatrice stared — motionless, her eyes cold, sharp, and unflinching — while Pablo, caught beneath that gaze, tried to stammer excuses that died before reaching his lips.
The entire hall seemed to pause just to watch.
Conversations dimmed, laughter faded, even the soft hum of the event's background noise seemed to disappear for an instant.
Then Beatrice sighed — a long, deliberate exhale. Not out of exhaustion, but of someone who had decided the argument wasn't worth her time.
"Forget it. It doesn't matter," she said curtly, turning toward me.
Her gaze met mine, and for a second, everything aligned.
"Come with me, Alessio."
I didn't need to be told twice.
I knew perfectly well that if Pablo tried to block my entrance again, the only way I'd get through that door would be at Beatrice's side.
So I simply followed.
And as the sound of our footsteps echoed against the marble floor, I could feel Pablo's glare burning into my back.
If we were inside the Black Tower, that look would have belonged to a dungeon boss on the verge of awakening — the kind that precedes revenge.
But, fortunately, we were in the real world.
And here, Pablo's power extended no further than forced smiles and cheap intrigues.
The main hall opened before me moments later — broad, elegant, and alive, a mosaic of light and voices.
It was the kind of place worthy of the University of Palermo's reputation: refined without arrogance, grand without pretension.
The high ceiling held rows of suspended crystal chandeliers, their golden-white light reflecting across hundreds of polished surfaces — glasses, cufflinks, watch faces, and attentive eyes — scattering tiny bursts of brilliance through the air.
The walls, lined with dark wood panels and portraits of past deans, gave the room a sense of gravitas, while the pale marble floor carried each step with soft resonance.
The space was full enough to feel vibrant, yet perfectly ordered — no jostling, no chaos.
It was a structured kind of noise, where every group formed its own little microcosm with distinct rules, laughter, and polite tones.
In every corner, small clusters of guests had formed — human archipelagos in a sea of refined conversation.
To the right, a group argued passionately over the new European penal code, waving glasses of red wine like courtroom gavels.
Farther ahead, others debated the recently appointed Minister of Justice, their voices taut with ambition and political restraint.
Near the wide windows, a younger circle of alumni laughed loudly, reminiscing about disastrous oral exams, eccentric professors, and long-forgotten campus romances that had once felt far more tragic than they really were.
And by the piano — where a gray-suited musician played a soft, almost wistful melody — a more select group spoke in low voices, holding champagne flutes and trading glances heavy with things not yet meant to be spoken aloud.
The air carried an intoxicating mix of expensive perfume, refined alcohol, and the faint sweetness of fresh flowers adorning the high tables.
Silver trays passed silently between the guests, borne by discreet waiters trained to be seen as little as possible.
Every now and then, the clinking of glasses mingled with the piano's gentle rhythm, creating an elegant cadence — the kind of sound that made time itself slow down.
And through it all, Beatrice moved.
Without hurry. Without hesitation.
The crowd seemed to part instinctively before her, as though some collective instinct told everyone that she was someone to be respected — or feared.
She didn't ask for space; it simply opened in her path, smooth and inevitable.
Following her, I couldn't help but notice the contrast between us.
As we advanced through the hall, curious glances began turning our way — faces trying to hide their interest, yet unable to fully conceal it.
Beatrice Medici rarely brought anyone by her side.
And that night, I was the reason for the discreet murmurs rippling through the room like a silent wave.
The piano swelled slightly, its melody filling the air between glances and conversations.
And as the evening spun elegantly around us, I felt a quiet certainty settle in my chest:
this night was going to last far longer than I had planned.
"I apologize for that, Alessio," she said without looking back, her voice calm and controlled. "Pablo seems to think that because his uncle became vice-dean, he can do whatever he wants."
Her tone was neutral, yet edged with genuine irritation — something her diplomatic mask couldn't quite conceal.
"It's alright," I replied, adjusting my jacket as I followed. "I'm here now. No harm done."
She stopped briefly, just long enough to cast a sideways glance my way — and a faint smile softened her features.
The tension left her face little by little, the authoritative air around her easing into something warmer — almost friendly.
"You've been gone since graduation…" she said, adopting a lighter tone, as though trying to reset the conversation. "Busy?"
"Yes. A lot of work," I answered simply, offering no details.
She seemed to expect more, but chose not to insist.
And that was for the best.
There was no way to explain that my "projects" included waking at dawn to train, spending afternoons studying combat theory, and diving every night into a virtual world that would soon swallow reality itself.
The truth would have sounded like madness.
"That's good," she said finally, nodding — approving, though clearly not understanding.
We stopped near a quieter corner of the hall — close to the bar, where the light was dimmer and few guests lingered.
The ambient chatter faded, and the chandeliers' warm glow cast soft reflections across her hair.
"Bianca graduates this year, right?" she asked casually. "Where's the celebration?"
The question caught me off guard.
For a moment, I said nothing, trying to align the present with the memories of my previous life.
In the old timeline, Bianca had graduated — and I hadn't even shown up to the ceremony.
But in this one…
"I'm not sure," I answered at last. "Bianca and I broke up."
The words came out more neutral than I expected.
To me, that relationship already felt like another lifetime.
Even though, in this world, the breakup had happened just four months ago, in my mind, years had passed — enough for the memory to stop hurting.
Beatrice looked at me for a moment, silent.
Her blue eyes softened, and for the first time that evening, she seemed genuinely human.
"I see…" she said quietly. "I'm sorry."
The words were calm, unembellished, but carried a sincere tone of respect.
There was no pity in her voice — only the acknowledgment that some losses, even inevitable ones, leave invisible marks.
I nodded once in thanks, wordlessly.
The distant murmur of the hall returned to fill the silence between us, and for a long, still moment, we just stood there —
two former classmates in the middle of the crowd,
each carrying stories the other would never fully understand.