Perspective: Pablo Ricci
Honestly, Pablo still couldn't quite understand what had gone wrong.
He had planned everything carefully — every gesture, every phrase, every point of inflection in the debate.
It should have been a flawless performance, a subtle demonstration of control, something to reaffirm his place at the top of the social hierarchy.
But in the end, it was a tragedy.
Not one of those quiet, elegant tragedies that disguise themselves under a veneer of civility.
No.
It was the kind of public disaster that stains a man's name — and pride — for weeks, perhaps months.
Pablo could still hear it in his head — the sound of those damned applause that had followed the end of the "debate."
Applause that should have been his.
But weren't.
Worse still, it was the way they'd been given: not in celebration, but in acknowledgment — the sort of applause that carries the misery of conceding victory, leaving no room for excuses.
The memory made his teeth clench.
And yet, he kept smiling.
That same perfect smile he'd practiced in front of mirrors for years — a smile that projected confidence, charm, and self-sufficiency.
The kind of expression that concealed any trace of weakness.
Pablo Ricci continued to greet everyone.
With every handshake, every polite nod, every automatic pleasantry, his mind screamed in silence.
And the more courteous he became, the more he wanted to burn that entire hall to the ground.
If he could, he would have set fire to the place — along with every laugh that now sounded to him like disguised mockery.
Everyone was being polite, of course.
But he could tell the difference.
He could always tell the difference.
Between courtesy and pity.
Pity was the poison being poured into those crystal glasses.
Inside, he was boiling.
Outside, he was a portrait of composure.
He took another glass of champagne from a passing tray and swirled the golden liquid slowly, watching the bubbles rise as if trying to escape — a perfect metaphor for what he himself felt.
But when he lifted his gaze, something finally cracked his façade.
They were gone.
Alessio Leone and Beatrice Medici.
Simply vanished.
Neither of them was in the hall anymore.
Not among the conversation circles, not near the bar, not in the garden.
Nowhere.
Pablo scanned the room again, eyes searching for any sign, any trace of them.
Nothing.
The pair who had ruined his night had disappeared as if they had never been there at all.
The smile on his face faltered for a moment.
And for the first time that evening, his perfect control gave way to something human — anger.
It came subtly, but grew fast, twisting his expression before he could stop it.
His jaw tightened; his lips curved into a bitter line.
He tried to disguise it, but it was too late.
He noticed the glances of nearby guests.
Small reactions: nervous smiles, averted eyes, muffled whispers.
They had seen it.
And he knew they had.
But honestly, he no longer cared.
The varnish had cracked, and nothing he did now would erase what had happened.
The damage was done.
Pablo Ricci had lost — and everyone knew it.
But if they all thought it ended there, just because he had made that theatrical retreat, they were sorely mistaken.
He replayed the scene in his mind again and again — the forced smile, the courteous step back, the gesture that turned looming defeat into a display of noble concession.
It was a stage trick; and like any good trick, it had served its purpose: to calm the fools watching.
But beneath that calm, embers still burned — and he knew exactly how to fan them.
Humiliation? He wouldn't accept it.
That weight he'd felt hearing applause meant for someone else — that sting of recognition — would not go unpaid.
Alessio would pay.
Not through some theatrical outburst or public scene, but in a far more lethal way: through loss of footing, through calculated dismantling, through the slow isolation that comes when prestige is quietly cut from the roots.
And Beatrice. Ah, Beatrice.
Who had dared to wield that surname like a shield — believing ancestral prestige would keep everything intact.
Pablo smiled at the thought.
A thin, deliberate smile.
She thought herself untouchable, above humiliation.
He would prove her wrong — slowly, precisely, publicly — stripping from her the very thing that defined her most: the image.
The images came to him clearly — fragments of an embryonic plan.
It was too soon to lay out the full strategy — patience was required.
He would gather information, probe for allies, study weak points.
But the pathways were already there.
Contacts he could awaken: envious colleagues, gossip journalists hungry for a rumor, business partners who valued leverage over loyalty — pieces ready to be moved with a single, subtle push.
Pablo felt the cold pleasure of anticipation.
Not the frenzy of impulsive revenge, but the refined delight of a man who knows that, with carefully measured steps, he can turn one humiliating night into a slow, devastating downfall.
He imagined unanswered invitations, doors closing where once they opened, discreet notes leaked at just the right time, whispered comments over coffee — small cracks that, together, would shatter a wall.
His smile widened without shame.
He thought of every face that had witnessed his expression falter; now he knew he wasn't the only one nursing resentment that night.
Among them were potential allies — professors, ex-colleagues, people who valued personal advantage far above loyalty.
Those were the ones he'd work with.
"They'll pay," he murmured softly. "Not tonight. That would be crude. But they'll pay."
And as he spoke the words, his anger refined itself into strategy.
The party continued around him, oblivious to the cold mechanism beginning to assemble in the shadows of his mind.
He resumed his rounds, smile once more in place, moving through the hall with practiced grace.
Outwardly, the perfect gentleman who knew how to lose with dignity.
Inwardly, a man who had just lit the fuse of a plan — one that would consume far more than the vanity of those who had dared to underestimate him.