From Beatrice Medici's Perspective
Beatrice wanted to set off fireworks.
Not the discreet or symbolic kind — but real ones, lighting up the gilded ceiling of that dull alumni hall as if it were New Year's Eve in Venice.
Inside, she was radiant.
Outwardly, of course, she only smiled with composure — the sort of smile any observer would describe as polite, restrained, perfectly befitting a Medici.
But in her mind, an entire orchestra played, and every note screamed something very simple:
"Bianca broke up with him."
It was wrong to be happy about it.
She knew that.
But the truth was that Beatrice rarely had the luxury of feeling something wrong.
Everyone thought being a Medici was wonderful — and Beatrice understood that perspective.
She wasn't hypocritical.
Life had granted her comforts and privileges most people could only dream of.
But nothing in the world came free.
Not even a powerful name.
Being a Medici meant living under an eternal mirror — every gesture reflected, every word weighed, every mistake magnified.
She was expected to be exemplary, elegant, intelligent, poised.
She was expected to be the living reflection of the family's reputation.
And perhaps most importantly, she was expected never to enjoy herself too much.
No parties.
No scandals.
No… humanity.
Being a Medici meant being a model — and being a model meant renouncing.
Boyfriends during university?
Unthinkable.
That rule came straight from her father — and it didn't need to be repeated.
For a long time, that didn't bother her.
Beatrice had always had control over herself, and she even found it comfortable to keep others at a safe distance.
None of them truly interested her anyway.
She could tell immediately when someone admired her and when they merely desired what her surname represented.
And suitors, of course, were never scarce.
But after the first dinner, the first lingering look, the charm always faded.
The moment a man discovered she was a Medici, something in his gaze shifted.
Genuine curiosity turned to caution.
Interest became calculation.
Their tone changed, their laughter grew forced, and their words became carefully measured.
It was always the same cycle.
First came the rehearsed compliments — "too intelligent," "too sophisticated," "too perfect."
Then came the fear.
Fear of offending, of seeming foolish, of being remembered as "the one who dared contradict her."
And finally, inevitably, came the boredom.
At first, Beatrice found it amusing.
It was a kind of silent game — watching how men dissolved into deference, stumbling over their own words in an effort to impress her.
But the fun vanished quickly.
What remained was a parade of predictable faces and hollow phrases.
They all seemed cut from the same mold: too polite, too cautious, utterly devoid of genuine boldness.
No one challenged her.
No one made her think, or laugh, or feel.
And it was through those lukewarm conversations and practiced smiles that Beatrice realized — with a mix of clarity and melancholy — that she was bored to her very bones.
Until she met him.
It happened during an interclass debate.
She hated those events — a complete waste of time, little more than a formality.
Her opponents usually surrendered the moment they heard her surname, or got so distracted trying to impress her that they tripped over their own arguments.
The result was always predictable.
If it weren't for the extra academic points, she wouldn't have bothered to attend.
But that debate was different.
She remembered it perfectly — the stifling auditorium, the murmur of students, the smell of paper and coffee.
And then, the moment he stepped onto the podium.
Alessio Leone.
She noticed him before he even spoke — because of the way he moved.
Unhurried, unbothered, entirely free of the nervousness that infected most students.
When his eyes met hers, there was no awe, no admiration, not even curiosity.
Just a direct, brief, and indifferent look.
Then he began to speak — and destroyed her.
Beatrice had never been defeated so completely.
He dismantled her arguments with surgical precision — without raising his voice, without agitation, without even seeming to try.
It was like debating a machine — one that knew everything, calculated everything, and yet remained perfectly calm.
She had left the auditorium furious.
But not with him — with herself.
How dare she lose?
How dare someone ignore her?
For days afterward, she swore vengeance.
And like any good strategist, she began her investigation.
She observed him discreetly — or so she thought.
She discovered he had the highest grades, that he never attended parties, that he barely spoke to anyone.
There were no scandals, no suspicious friendships, no slips.
Nothing.
He was… too perfect.
She wanted to find something. Anything.
But she didn't.
And then she realized: she wasn't watching him out of vengeance anymore.
Her anger had quietly dissolved into admiration.
And from that admiration bloomed a restless curiosity — the desire to understand what lay behind that calm face, that impenetrable mind.
And by the time she recognized what she felt, it was already too late.
Beatrice Medici had fallen in love with a machine.
But rules were rules.
And hers were made of iron.
No relationships before graduation.
Nothing that could stain the family name.
She convinced herself she could wait.
That there would be time.
And then Bianca appeared — and, like a thief, stole what Beatrice had never dared to claim.
Seeing them together had been almost physical.
A small stab.
Not of love, but of pride.
Her little robot — as she called him in silence — now belonged to someone else.
And Beatrice, being who she was, only smiled, congratulated Bianca, and carried on as if nothing had happened.
But now…
Now, sitting across from him, hearing him say "we broke up," something inside her exploded in invisible fireworks.
Inside, she danced.
Outwardly, she took a deep breath, kept her face serene, her voice calm and perfectly controlled.
"I understand… I'm sorry," she said, with the flawless poise of an actress who knows her role by heart.
And for one brief second, seeing the quiet look in Alessio's eyes, Beatrice knew:
it wasn't time to strike.
Not yet.
But that time would come.
Soon.
And when it did…
she wouldn't let her second chance slip away.