I've spent the entire day following Alessandro around campus like some kind of designer-clad shadow. And let me tell you: higher education has never felt quite this humiliating.
He doesn't actually need me for anything. He just wants me there—trailing three steps behind while he goes to lectures, while he talks to his friends, while he exists in his ridiculously expensive orbit.
People stare. Of course they stare. Some throw dirty looks, others whisper behind their hands, and I hear variations of "is that his maid?" approximately forty-seven times. I'm not counting.
Okay, I'm absolutely counting.
When Alessandro finally heads off to fencing practice, I go for a break to the cafeteria not waiting for him.
I grab food and claim a table in the back corner where I can hopefully eat in peace and pretend I'm a normal university student for five blessed minutes. Before I manage to eat at least half of the bowl, I hear the distinctive sound of designer heels on parquet.
Chiara enters the cafeteria like she's walking a runway. Her group of friends flanking her like a fashion-forward Greek chorus. And naturally, naturally, her gaze zeroes in on me.
Like a heat-seeking missile programmed to destroy everyone beneath her.
"Well, well." She glides over, and I can practically hear the Jaws theme playing. "If it isn't the help. Taking a break from scrubbing my brother's underwear?"
I keep my head down, focusing very intently on my bowl.
Maybe if I don't make eye contact, she'll get bored and leave. It works on bears, right?
Unfortunately, Chiara De Luca is not a bear. She’s just a fucking bitch.
"I'm talking to you, scholarship trash." Chiara leans against my table, her perfectly manicured nails drumming on the surface. "Do you know how pathetic it is that you have to literally clean up after people to afford tuition? God, you even smell like bleach and shit."
Her friends giggle while I grip my phone tighter, trying to finish my text to Alessandro and let him know where I am.
"Seriously, how humiliating must it be?" Chiara continues, warming to her theme. "Being my brother's personal maid. Following him around campus like a sad little stray you are. Does he make you carry his books? Polish his shoes? Lick it? Maybe suck his dick in the mornings?"
Don't react. Don't react. Don't react. Don't react.
You're Sofia Russo. Sofia Russo won’t break her nose. She needs this job. You need—
"Of course, I suppose beggars can't be choosers. Not when your dead parents left you drowning in debt." My head snaps up at that and Chiara smiles, sweet as poison. "Oops. Did I strike a nerve?"
"At least," I say quietly, the words escaping before I can stop them, "I earn what I have. Instead of riding daddy's money or some guy's reputation like some kind of designer parasite."
The cafeteria goes quiet. Not movie-quiet, but that awful hushed silence where everyone's pretending not to listen while absolutely listening.
Chiara's face goes red, then white, then an interesting shade of purple. "What did you just say to me, bitch?"
My phone buzzes with a new message.
Alessandro: Where are you? Why are you not where I left you?
I reach to respond to it, but Chiara's faster. She grabs my soup bowl—still half-full of lukewarm liquid—and dumps it directly over my head.
The soup is hot enough to make me gasp, soaking through my hair, my clothes, dripping down my face. Some of it splashes on my phone, and I watch in horror as the cheap screen flickers once, twice, then goes dark with a sad little spark.
Chiara laughs, high and delighted. "Oops. My hand slipped."
I sit there dripping, my ruined phone clutched in one hand, and every person in this cafeteria is staring at me. Some look horrified. Most look entertained.
This is going to be all over campus in approximately thirty seconds.
"Having fun, Chiara?" Dante's voice cuts through the silence.
I look up and there he is, my brother, standing near another table with his usual group of friends. His face is carefully blank, but for just a fraction of a second—less than a heartbeat—his eyes meet mine.
I see something flicker there. Pain, maybe. Or guilt.
Then it's gone.
"Dante!" Chiara turns to him, her smile bright and terrible. "Want to help put the scholarship trash in her place? Could be fun."
Dante glances at me, soup dripping from my hair, and his expression doesn't change. "I don't waste my time on nobodies, Chiara."
He turns away, dismissive, and Chiara practically preens at the attention. Never mind that he basically brushed her off too—she's so thrilled he acknowledged her existence, even better, addressed her first!—that she misses the original insult entirely.
“Oh, come on, you’re missing out on all the fun!” she pushes back. And grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking my head forward before I can react.
The side of my head throbs, and I hold onto the table to at least not fall. I see Dante’s eyes widening, see him reach out.
But I will not give that bitch the satisfaction to—
"Chiara."
The temperature in the cafeteria drops about twenty degrees.
I look up, and there he is, somehow already here, already grabbing Chiara’s wrist, and his expression could freeze hell. He takes in the scene with those gray-green eyes—me dripping with soup, Chiara smirking, my hair in her hand.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, dear brother?”
"Let go." His voice is soft. Dangerously soft. "Now."
Chiara laughs, but it sounds nervous. "Oh, come on, Alex. I was just having a little fun with—"
"I said stop."
The laugh dies. Chiara actually releases my hair and takes a step back.
Dante, seemingly recovered and back to his nonchalant persona, calls out, "Since when are you so charitable, De Luca?"
"I don't waste my time on nobodies.” Alessandro's gaze cuts to him, cold and sharp, repeating my brother’s words. How long has he been here? “So I won't entertain your question either, Caruso."
He takes my arm, his grip firm but not painful, and leads me toward the exit. The crowd watches us go, and I can already hear the whispers starting up again.
Outside, I'm shaking.
With humiliation. With rage. With the absolutely mortifying reality that I'm covered in cafeteria soup and my phone is dead and everyone just watched me get destroyed by a nineteen-year-old mean girl.
Alessandro doesn't say anything. Just guides me to his car, some extremely expensive sleek black thing, and opens the passenger door. I slide in, soup still dripping from my hair, and stare straight ahead as he starts the engine.
The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife. Or a very expensive letter opener.
Either works.
"Thank you, sir. But you shouldn't have," I say finally, my voice small. "I would've figured it out myself."
"Would you?" Alessandro doesn't look at me, his eyes on the road. "Because from where I was standing, you were about three seconds from either crying or committing murder. Maybe both."
"I'm fine."
"Oh shut up. You're the one covered in soup. Does your head hurt?"
Well, fair point. I shake my head.
We drive in silence for another minute before he speaks again, his voice flat. As if answering my silent and obvious question: why?
Why publicly protect some low class nobody? Why did he do that?
"Nobody ruins my possessions, Sofia,” he said as if answering my silent question written on my face. “If anyone's going to make you miserable, it's me. Not my spoiled sister. Nobody."
Possessions. The word sits heavy in my chest and makes something complicated to it.
But then something occurs to me, and before I can stop myself, I ask, "If you're so protective of what’s yours, why do you let Dante Caruso toy with Chiara?"
Alessandro's jaw tightens. "Chiara isn't my possession. She's my burden. And Dante can have her for all I care."
We pull up to the brownstone, and Alessandro kills the engine. He doesn't get out immediately, just sits there, his hands still on the steering wheel.
"Go upstairs. Shower. Change," he says finally. "Then we’ll talk about your behavior."