Perspective: Beatrice Medici
There was no way Beatrice would let him slip away from her so easily — not this time.
The "little robot," as she liked to call him in her thoughts, was far too efficient to be left unsupervised.
His precision was what made him valuable — but also what made him dangerous.
Men like him didn't attach themselves to causes or people; they followed only their own calculations.
And if she let him simply walk away through the university streets toward his apartment, she knew there was a risk of losing him.
Not to distance.
But to distraction.
Beatrice knew well how capricious fate could be — or, as she preferred to think of it, the chaotic algorithms of real life.
One corner, one coincidence, one stray memory, and everything could unravel.
And the name that inevitably came to her mind was Bianca.
Bianca, with her irritating ability to appear exactly when she shouldn't.
Bianca, with her natural talent for turning meticulously crafted plans into tales of tragedy and ruin.
Yes, Beatrice could easily imagine what would happen if Alessio, alone, happened to cross her path.
And that simple possibility was enough to freeze any hesitation.
No — she would not let chance decide.
Not again.
So when he approached to thank her, with that polite, professional tone he used to end conversations, she already knew exactly what she would do.
Her ironic remark — "Don't tell me you're already running away" — came almost naturally.
A light provocation, just enough to dismantle his formality and pull the reins back into her hands.
His answer didn't surprise her.
Classic, direct, predictable:
"I've got a commitment later, I need to get home early."
Of course he did.
She knew the type.
Commitments always came before people, plans before feelings, efficiency before rest.
That was precisely what fascinated her about him — and also what made it impossible to relax around him.
But at the same time, the event had already exhausted its purpose.
Beatrice turned her gaze toward the hall — guests now dispersed into noisy clusters, the sound of loud laughter blending with the clinking of glasses.
The entire evening was losing its elegance as alcohol became the true host of the night.
Actually, that's good, she thought, letting the conclusion slip aloud.
There's nothing interesting left here.
And it was true.
That gathering, as meticulously planned as it had been, served a single purpose: to mark the end of a cycle.
A quiet farewell to an academic life she would not, in all honesty, miss.
All of it — the dinners, the lectures, the pretentious debates about ethics — was nothing but scenery.
A set she had helped build, only to have a proper place to say goodbye.
And now, looking at Alessio before her, it felt almost poetic that her "farewell" should end with him — the last piece worth carrying forward.
Beatrice crossed her legs and tilted her head slightly, observing him with that gaze that so often left others trapped somewhere between respect and discomfort.
Then she made her offer — simple, practical, inevitable:
"How about I give you a ride?"
Of course he tried to refuse.
Predictable as always.
But Beatrice never left room for a "no."
She never did.
"Don't be like that," she replied with a light smile that concealed the reasoning behind her words.
"I need an excuse to leave before everyone gets too drunk anyway."
And in that instant — the brief moment when his logic hit an emotional wall — she knew she'd won.
There, she thought. You're not escaping again.
As for the gathering, there was no reason to stay.
Not for appearances.
Not for politics.
Not even for the Medici name.
In truth, she was relieved to leave.
Her father would probably even be pleased to see her return early.
Men like him always preferred their daughters to stay away from crowds who drank more than they thought.
And with that, the decision was made.
Beatrice stood, leaving the glass on the table — the soft ring of crystal marking the definitive end of the night.
The event was over — and with it, the last shadow of her former role.
Now, only the new plan remained.
And, as always, Alessio Leone was part of it.
If Beatrice had any regret that night, it was simple — almost trivial — yet deeply irritating to her.
She regretted having come with the family driver.
Not that it was a logistical problem. It was practical, elegant, and expected of a Medici.
But for the first time, she wished she hadn't done what was expected.
Had she come in her own car, alone, she might have had a few minutes of privacy.
A quiet ride, maybe a conversation outside protocol.
A moment that was hers — and his.
Something that, strangely enough, they'd never really had.
Beatrice had always controlled the context of every meeting with Alessio.
Briefings, orientations, presentations, events — all carefully planned, always under lights, always with witnesses.
But never a moment truly alone.
And now that such an opportunity finally existed, she herself had erased it by arriving accompanied.
But in the end…
Perhaps it was better that way.
After all, she still didn't know what she'd do if she ever had a truly quiet moment with him — one where she couldn't hide behind her firm voice, her commitments, or her last name.
She could control rooms, negotiations, even the destinies of entire careers.
But she didn't trust herself enough to believe she could control a single moment with Alessio Leone.
And that, somehow, irritated her.
Beatrice walked beside him through the corridor leading to the parking lot.
The sound of her heels echoed rhythmically, contrasting with Alessio's firm but quieter steps.
The yellow lighting of the building reflected off mirrors and pillars, casting faint golden sparks that shifted as they walked.
When they reached the garage, the black family car was already waiting, perfectly aligned in the nearest space by the exit.
The driver — a discreet, punctual man in his fifties — straightened at once upon seeing them approach.
His look didn't go unnoticed.
A faint crease between his brows — subtle, yet telling — betrayed his surprise.
Beatrice rarely returned early. And never with company.
She noticed his hesitation before he could say a word.
So she cut him off preemptively, killing any curiosity before it took shape.
"We're taking him home," she said, her tone so natural and authoritative it turned the statement into an order.
The driver only nodded, expression slipping back into professional neutrality.
But Beatrice noticed, with her usual precision, the faint spark of curiosity he failed to hide before opening the rear door.
Alessio, as always, remained composed.
No unnecessary gestures, no excessive formality.
He simply gave the address clearly, without hesitation — as if every step of the evening had been carefully preplanned.
Which, of course, it had.
Beatrice entered first, the sound of the door closing muting the distant murmur of the city.
Moments later, he joined her, settling beside her.
For an instant, the world seemed to condense inside that silent, confined space — the cool leather seats, the faint lavender scent, the steady hum of the engine as it started.
Beatrice looked out the window as the car began to move, but her mind didn't follow the motion of the city lights.
She was still thinking about what she hadn't done — and how, strangely, that thought brought her relief.
Perhaps she wasn't ready for a moment like that.
But she knew, with uncomfortable clarity, that one day… she would be.