Beatrice Medici's Perspective
If anyone ever asked Beatrice what her childhood had been like, she wouldn't hesitate to answer.She would say, without a shadow of doubt, that it had been happy.Joyful, lively, filled with sunny days and laughter echoing through the gardens of the family estate.
And it would be true.
The Medici family had always treated her as a precious jewel of their lineage.She grew up surrounded by luxury, comfort, and affection.She had everything a child could ever want — and, more often than not, more than she needed.
Her parents spoiled her with a devotion that bordered on excess.Fine dresses, imported toys, summer trips to the family's coastal mansions — nothing was ever denied to her.And amid so much privilege, Beatrice learned early on that love, in a house like the Medici's, came wrapped in solemnity.
Even so, during those first few years, no one truly demanded much from her.There were no etiquette lessons, no political training, no pressure to uphold the family legacy.Before she started school, the name Medici was, to her, just a beautiful sound — something that felt important, but carried no weight.
It was only as she grew older that she began to understand the symbolic value behind that surname.Her parents loved the name Medici — and everything it represented.They spoke of it with reverence, almost as though it were a living entity.And, watching that devotion, Beatrice made a silent vow of her own: she, too, would protect it.
She wanted to be worthy of that name.Not out of duty — but out of pride.
Over time, her responsibilities grew.Expectations began to pile up, and the boundaries of childhood narrowed until they vanished completely.Even then, Beatrice never resented any of it.She loved her family — every part of it — and when she looked back, she still believed she'd had a good childhood.
But, like every story, even the happiest fairy tales have their villains.
And in her case, the villain was standing right before her eyes.
The man who had just stepped out of the car — the same man now walking toward her with that cold, impeccable gaze — was none other than Lorenzo di Rossi, heir to another of the old Italian noble houses.
His name alone carried enough weight to make even seasoned aristocrats straighten their posture.But to Beatrice, that name had always sounded like poison.
Lorenzo was the opposite of everything she valued.Meticulous. Ambitious. Cruel.From the very beginning, he had been the shadow trailing her steps — the boy who always wanted to compete, always wanted to be better, the one who smiled only to hide how much he enjoyed watching others fail.
And now, years later, there he was again.The same elegant expression.The same flawless suit.The same look — that perfect mix of superiority and contempt.
The same enemy as always.
And worst of all, he could still smile.That subtle, polite, perfectly social — and absolutely infuriating — smile.The smile of Lorenzo di Rossi.
When they were children, that same boy had been the source of all her earliest frustrations.Even back then, when everything around her had been sweetness and sunlight, he was the exception — the shadow among smiles.He had a twisted talent for turning any game into a small disaster.
Beatrice still remembered his hands tearing the wings off her favorite doll, or the way he laughed after breaking her most delicate toys "by accident."There had never been remorse — only that insolent, well-mannered grin, as if it were all part of some secret game only he understood.
To the adults, they had seemed adorable together."How lovely — the Medici and Rossi children growing up side by side," they'd say.No one saw what happened when the doors closed.Lorenzo always hid behind courteous gestures, well-chosen words, and a false charm that fooled everyone.
And he had never left her alone.
In school, his presence remained a constant — unwanted, persistent.Always nearby. Always smiling. Always finding a way to stand out.He used the supposed friendship between their families like a golden chain — an excuse to stay close even when she made it clear she wanted nothing to do with him.
Beatrice endured those school years the way one endures a long, relentless winter — counting the days until it ended.
But the real hell began when they became adults.
Lorenzo, now the official heir of the Rossi house, had kept that same predatory gaze, now paired with a refined elegance that made his presence even more dangerous.And then came the unforgivable act — something she would never forget or forgive.He had dared to propose marriage.
Not to her.But to her father.
As if she were a transaction.A family asset.A political bridge between two powerful names.
Beatrice remembered that moment vividly.The cold anger that rose like a contained fire, the trembling of the crystal glass in her hand, the confusion in her father's eyes as he realized she wasn't giving a speech — she was making a declaration.
She had been clear.Clearer than she had ever been in her life.
She told him she would rather die than marry Lorenzo di Rossi.
The words struck the dining room like a whip crack.And for the first time, she saw fear in her father's eyes — not from anger, but from understanding that his daughter meant every word.
From that day on, the subject was buried.Silence became the wall separating her will from her father's ambitions.And for a while, Beatrice believed she was free.
But now…
There he was again.
Lorenzo di Rossi.Walking toward her with the same aristocratic stride, the same calculated air of superiority.His polished shoes caught the afternoon light, and the wind made his black suit cling perfectly to his frame as he approached, step by measured step.
Beatrice felt her jaw tighten.The blood rose to her face — not from embarrassment, but from restrained fury.
She didn't need to hear his voice to know its tone.Didn't need to see his smile to recognize its venom.
Lorenzo di Rossi was back in her life — and, as always, at the worst possible moment.