Serafina
By mid-morning the city was already chewing on Dante’s little scandal, the photo of him and Clarissa plastered everywhere. My phone buzzed nonstop, not just with gossip feeds but with “concerned friends” pretending they cared more about me than the drama.
Amelia, perched on my dresser, scrolled with a wicked grin.
“Look at this,” she said, tilting the screen.
ROMANO HEIR CAN’T KEEP HIS HANDS TO HIMSELF.
Comments beneath it were brutal—half pitying me, half calling me stupid for staying.
I smirked. “Good. Let them pity me. Let them talk.”
“But if we stop here,” Amelia said, “he’ll spin it. He’ll drag you out tomorrow with some grand public gesture, kiss your hand under the cameras, and suddenly you’re the fool who forgave him.”
The thought made my stomach turn. She
