ELENA'S POINT OF VIEW

I swear Milan has a way of pretending everything is perfect.

The city lights were fake stars. The clinking glasses were like warning bells. Everyone smiled too wide. The laughter was excessively loud. My heels clicked against the marble floor of the Rosetti Gala like I still had something to prove.

But inside, I knew.

Something was wrong.

My dress was too tight. My chest is too heavy. And I couldn’t stop tugging at the bracelet Stefano gave me last month—the one that suddenly felt like handcuffs. I’d been walking around like a ghost all evening, giving fake air kisses, forcing my face to stay calm, even when people whispered just loud enough for me to hear.

“That's the De Luca girl. Her family’s done for.”

“She still has the nerve to show her face?”

“The scandal’s not even a week old...”

I smiled through all of it. Bit my cheek to stop the shaking. That kind of cruelty from strangers was nothing new to me. But what I wasn’t used to… was him.

“Stefano”, I called, grabbing his arm as he tried to drift toward the bar. “Can we talk? Please. You’ve been ignoring me all night.”

He didn’t even look at me.

“I’m networking.”

“We’re supposed to be a team,” I whispered. “You said we’d show them we’re stronger together.”

He shrugged my hand off. “And you were supposed to keep your family from collapsing in public.”

His words hit harder than the news headlines. The way he looked at me—like I was a stain on his perfect suit—was worse than anything I read online. My stomach twisted. I blinked. Twice. No tears. Not here. Not in front of these people.

I turned away before I screamed.

Across the ballroom, I spotted someone staring.

Tall. Dark. Like he didn’t belong but owned the room anyway.

Alarico Moretti.

Even the name made my skin prickle.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t wave. Just stared with that same smug, unreadable expression he always had when we were kids—like he knew something I didn’t.

Like he was waiting.

The music cut suddenly.

The room dimmed.

Then came the flashing lights. The whispers turning to gasps.

A screen behind the orchestra came to life.

Paparazzi footage. Blurry. Shaky.

But it was enough.

Stefano.

His hands. His mouth. On her.

Vittoria.

My ex-best friend. She was the person I confided in and trusted the most. The one I trusted more than anyone after my adoptive parents.

They kissed like they’d done it a thousand times.

I stood still. Frozen.

Laughter echoed around me.

No one even tried to pretend they weren’t watching.

“Oh god.”

“Is that from last night?”

“She looks like such a fool.”

I couldn’t breathe. My head was hot. My vision swam.

Then he appeared—Stefano—on the staircase, tugging at his tie, trying to act confused.

“Don’t believe everything you see,” he said into a mic someone stupidly gave him. “This is just a distraction. I and Elena—things haven’t been stable in a while.”

I couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped me.

It was ugly.

Sharp. Loud.

“I gave you three years!” I shouted before I could stop myself. “I protected you, defended you, stood by you—while you threw me to the wolves!”

“Because you let me,” he said. Calm. Cruel. “You needed a man to make you relevant.”

There it was.

The whole room sucked in a breath.

And I died. I passed away in that precise moment. But not quietly.

I turned and ran—through people who didn’t move, through laughter that pierced my chest, through doors that didn’t open fast enough.

The rooftop air slapped my face like a punishment.

I leaned over the edge, breathing in too much.

Too fast.

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to jump.

No one would miss me.

No one would care.

I slid down to the cold stone, arms wrapped around my knees, too numb to cry.

Then I heard it.

Shoes.

A slow, deliberate walk.

I didn’t look up. I didn’t need to.

“I thought you’d last longer,” the voice said.

Alarico.

He was standing just behind me, watching like he had every right to see me like this. Like he’d been waiting for the fall.

“You enjoying the show?” I asked, my voice hollow.

“I don’t enjoy messes,” he replied. “But I do appreciate irony.”

I laughed bitterly. “Then you must be thrilled.”

He walked closer, crouched beside me, that scent—clean, expensive, dangerous—filling my lungs.

“Your fiancé’s a coward,” he said plainly.

“I know.”

“And your family... was never clean to begin with.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

He studied me for a moment. His eyes—too pale, too sharp—burnt through my mask.

“You want help?”

I blinked. “What?”

“You want out of this mess, Elena?”

He stood, hands in his pockets.

“I can fix it.”

“You can’t fix this.”

“I can. But not for free.”

My heart sank.

“Why?” I whispered.

He didn’t answer. Not at first.

Then—

“Because I want to see how far you’re willing to fall.”

Silence stretched between us.

Rain began to fall in light drizzles. It kissed my cheeks like a cruel apology.

“What do you want from me?”

He stepped closer.

“Everything.”

The rooftop was spinning now, but I didn’t look away.

“I’ll never be yours.”

He smirked. “Not yet.”

Then he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a keycard.

“Your apartment is gone. Your account's frozen. I booked you a suite. Vespera Tower. Twenty-third floor.”

I swallowed.

“How did you....”

“I always keep tabs on my investments.”

I stood shakily. My knees are weak. My voice is weaker.

“And if I don’t go?”

He shrugged. “Then you’ll sleep in the rain.”

He turned and walked away without another word.

I stood there, shivering, the keycard in my hand.

And I realised....

This wasn’t the bottom.

This was just the start of the fall.

Would I survive it?

Or would Alarico be the one to finish what Stefano started?

I didn't know.

But I wasn’t ready to die yet.

Not without a fight.

So I took the keycard.

And stepped into the storm.