CINDY’S POV
The second my foot settled on that stage, the past eight years cracked open like an old vault, and everything I had buried came rushing out in one blinding wave.
And for the first time in forever, I remembered exactly who the hell I was.
I remembered it all.
The weight of a thousand camera flashes when I was sixteen, clinging to my father’s arm at the Monaco Yacht Show, the way the photographers screamed, “Ms. Verilli! Over here!”
The way the air used to taste: champagne and power.
I remembered the hush that fell over rooms when Leonardo Verilli’s daughter walked in, the way grown men straightened their ties and women touched their diamonds just to feel less small.
I had spent years convincing myself I didn’t miss it. I had told myself that living a normal life was bette
