Perspective: Bianca Bellini
Bianca didn't want to stay home.
In recent months, college had been draining her strength in ways that felt almost cruel.
Classes seemed longer, professors harsher, and the final year — which everyone had warned would be "brutal" — was turning out to be a marathon of deadlines, exams, and sleepless nights.
She saw it in the mirror: the dark circles, the tired expression, and that constant, gnawing feeling of always owing something to someone — to a professor, to her own future, or to herself.
So when a friend invited her out for dinner, Bianca didn't think twice.
She said yes immediately.
Maybe, she thought, spending time with someone who didn't talk about reports, theses, or schedules was exactly what she needed — a breath of air.
A reminder that life still existed outside the university walls.
And, to some extent, that's exactly what it was.
They chose a cozy Italian restaurant, with dark wooden tables and candles flickering in small brass holders.
The scent of fresh pasta and wine filled the air, and for the first time in weeks, Bianca managed to relax.
The conversation was light — about clothes, movies, small trivialities.
They laughed, shared dessert, toasted to the end of another week.
For a brief moment, everything was exactly how she wanted: simple.
But peace never lasted long in Bianca Bellini's life.
"Bianca, you have to see this…" said her friend, already holding her phone.
Bianca laughed, distracted.
She assumed it was a meme or a fashion clip — the kind of thing that usually appeared during dinners like that.
But her friend's tone wasn't playful.
It was curious. And slightly uneasy.
"What is it now?" Bianca asked, raising an eyebrow.
Her friend turned the phone toward her.
On the screen was the familiar logo of the university's official page.
For a second, Bianca felt only relief.
Probably some announcement, an institutional post — nothing serious.
But the relief evaporated the moment the image finished loading.
The photo was simple.
A group of alumni, entrepreneurs, and professors gathered in an elegant hall — the university's annual gala, the same event she had skipped without regret.
A perfectly ordinary picture.
But in the center of it stood him.
Alessio Leone.
For an instant, Bianca thought her mind was playing tricks on her.
But no — it was him.
And worse: he looked even better than she remembered.
The tuxedo fit him with irritating precision, as if it had been tailored to his breath.
The straight posture, the composed expression, that quiet air of certainty he always wore when he wanted to look untouchable — everything about him seemed calculated to bother her.
And it worked.
Bianca's breathing shortened.
Her stomach tightened, that familiar mixture of anger and something she refused to name.
But the real blow came seconds later, when she saw who was standing beside him.
Beatrice Medici.
The name alone brought a bitter taste.
Beatrice was the kind of woman who turned any room into a stage — cold, perfect, unreachable.
And now, there she was, in the same photo as Alessio.
Side by side.
The wine lost its flavor.
Bianca blinked several times, as if that would change what she was seeing.
But the image didn't shift.
They were together.
And to make matters worse, her friend added quietly:
"Wait, there's more."
Bianca's heart tightened even before the next swipe.
Another photo appeared.
Then another.
And another.
And more.
The post had fifteen photos.
And Alessio appeared in twelve of them.
Twelve.
For someone so private, so opposed to public exposure, it was absurd.
But it wasn't the number of photos that unsettled her.
It was the pattern.
In every image, Alessio was with Beatrice.
Each one showed them in a different scene — talking, walking, pouring wine, exchanging words with businessmen — even in one candid photo where she smiled faintly and he seemed to answer her with his eyes.
In all twelve, they were together.
It wasn't coincidence.
Anyone with an ounce of intuition would see it.
They had spent the entire evening side by side.
Bianca felt her chest tighten.
The laughter around her faded.
The restaurant music, the clinking of glasses, the scent of wine — all dissolved into a dull hum.
She stared at the screen like someone watching a fire spread in slow motion — the kind of disaster you don't want to see, yet can't look away from.
For a moment, she tried to believe it was just a coincidence — a misinterpreted photo, an illusion of perspective.
But instinct, cruel and precise, whispered the truth.
That restrained smile on Beatrice's face.
That quiet composure in Alessio's eyes.
The natural proximity between them.
Nothing about it was casual.
As her friend kept scrolling, Bianca realized that something inside her — something she thought she'd buried long ago — had just woken up again.
Because, though she had never said it aloud, Bianca had always known one thing.
A certainty that had rested quietly inside her for years.
She had never confessed it — not even in drunken confessions to her closest friends.
But she knew.
It was instinct.
Something she couldn't prove, but felt.
And every time her path crossed Beatrice Medici's, that feeling returned — persistent, uncomfortable, unshakable.
Especially when Alessio was around.
There was something in the way Beatrice looked at him — discreet, controlled, yet more than polite interest.
That woman, with all her cold elegance and inherited composure, liked him.
Maybe she had never admitted it.
Maybe not even to herself.
But Bianca, who knew how to recognize affection hiding behind silence, could see it.
She had always seen it.
The glances that lingered a second too long.
The forced calm in group conversations.
That almost imperceptible way Beatrice positioned herself — never too far, never too close.
It was choreography, and only someone who loved truly could notice.
And Bianca noticed.
From the very beginning.
When she still dated Alessio, she tried to ignore that certainty.
After all, it was ridiculous.
Beatrice Medici wasn't just a student — she was a dynasty.
The kind of woman who lived in another stratum of existence, surrounded by titles, invitations, and a timeless kind of grace.
Why would someone like her be interested in someone like Alessio?
Why cross her own world to step into his?
But Bianca knew that impossibilities often chose the most improbable paths.
And now, staring at that stream of images, her old suspicion solidified into something heavy and sharp.
Beatrice was smiling.
A small, discreet, almost professional smile — but one that, to Bianca, screamed what had always been there.
She was enchanted.
That soft gaze, the relaxed posture, the way her body seemed naturally turned toward Alessio in every picture — all of it betrayed a quiet intimacy.
And Alessio, even without touching her, seemed to respond unconsciously.
The kind of harmony that happens only when two people understand each other without speaking.
Bianca set the phone down, unable to keep looking.
Her heartbeat was faster — not from sadness, but from a quiet, simmering irritation.
Her friend said something — maybe a comment about Beatrice's dress or Alessio's suit — but the words never registered.
Her mind was elsewhere.
Now it all made sense.
Beatrice had waited.
Waited for the right time, the right moment.
And with Bianca out of the picture, the way was clear.
Clear for her.
Because deep down, Bianca knew it wasn't coincidence at all.
Beatrice Medici had waited.
And now, finally, she was making her move.