"Right," she says. "You and your strategies."
But something in her voice says she doesn't quite believe me.
We pull through the gates of my estate, and reality settles back in. Tomorrow is Giulio's party. Tomorrow we have to convince everyone that this is real.
I catch her arm before she can walk away. "Bianca? Tomorrow, when we're at that party, when my family is watching—we need to sell this. Completely."
"I know."
"That means touching. Kissing. Pretending we can't keep our hands off each other."
"I understand the assignment, Dante."
"Do you?" I pull her closer. "Because if you freeze up or pull away or look at me like you hate me, this whole thing falls apart. And if it falls apart?—"
"My mother loses her treatment. I know." She yanks her arm free. "Trust me, I'm very aware of what's at stake."
She storms upstairs, and I'm left standing in the foyer, wondering when exactly I started caring more about her feelings than the plan.
When protecting her from my world became more important than using her to navigate it.
Matteo was right.
I'm compromised.
And I have no idea how to fix it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Bianca
"You need to be home by two," Dante says over breakfast, not looking up from his phone. "Hair and makeup arrive at three. We leave at six-thirty sharp."
"I have school until three-thirty."
"Then you leave early."
"I can't just leave early. I have students?—"
"Bianca." He sets down his phone, giving me his full attention. "This party is critical. You need to look perfect, act perfect, be perfect. That requires preparation time. So yes, you're leaving early."
"What if I have something important?—"
"Nothing is more important than this." His voice hardens. "Two o’clock. Home. No excuses."
I want to argue. Want to tell him he can't just dictate my schedule like I'm one of his employees. But the look on his face tells me this isn't a negotiation.
"Fine," I bite out. "Two."
"Good." He stands, straightens his jacket. "I'll have Tony pick you up. Don't make him wait."
He leaves before I can respond.
At school, the morning flies by. Reading groups, math lessons, a minor crisis when someone spills paint on the new carpet. By lunch, I've almost forgotten about Dante's ultimatum.
Until Alex approaches my desk, his face pale and drawn.
"Miss Mancini?" His voice wavers. "I don't feel good."
