Camilla’s POV
When I returned to Milan, I thought I would find relief, the familiar streets, familiar faces, the comfort of my parents’ home—surely it would quiet the storm inside me.
I was wrong. I was totally wrong.
The scandal didn’t stay in London. It crossed oceans, leapt through headlines, and clung to me like a second skin. Every corner I turned, every shop window I passed, whispered the same thing: There she is. The maid’s daughter. The billionaire’s bride. The woman torn between two brothers.
By the second week, I stopped going outside.
At first, I told myself it was just curiosity, a few photographers lingering outside the estate gates. A journalist or two loitering at the corner café. But soon, it grew worse—crowds forming every morning, cameras flashing through the windows
