Contemporary Milan, Italy.
In the dazzling world of Vincitore Academy, Margherita, a half-Korean firebrand from humble beginnings, ignites a clash of wills with the P2, the city's elite quartet of dazzling and infuriatingly entitled boys.
Yet, privi...
The pool was luxurious: heated to the perfect temperature and surrounded by lounge chairs. An olympic swimming area was adjacent to a round shallow pool with built in seats and floats. An entire wall was made of mirror glass, so that swimmers could enjoy the courtyard but no obtrusive glances would distract the athletes—had there been any. Much to Margherita's delight, her name had been the only entry on the sign-in sheet.
Her first week at the academy was coming to a close. It was mid-March, and she had her sights on next spring's qualifiers for individual races, determined to swim at least one hour every day to make it happen. It wasn't easy, given that she already helped with her parents' business and worked two shifts at a pizzeria, but she was happy.
Margherita jumped out of the water, her muscles sore from the first few days of training. She gasped when, on the other side of the glass, Vincitore strutted by in a leather jacket that would have paid her family's rent for a couple months (at least according to her assessment. In fact, the jacket would have paid for a lot more). The rest of the P2 were one step behind, as usual. She had observed that the quieter, angel-faced one, Lorenzo Tristante, was the only P2 who demonstrated any redeemable quality.
Re came to an abrupt stop in front of a girl with long chestnut hair cascading in elegant waves over her shoulders. Stunning, she was as tall as Margherita but feminine and graceful, with huge blue eyes and glossy lips. A flower dress hinted at curves Margherita could only dream of.
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Margherita recognized her from her class; her name was Laura, Laura Beltagna. Invisible, Margherita enjoyed the standstill; she was the unseen, drab vertex of this otherwise fancy triangle.
From behind the mirror glass, she could get a good look up close at the infamous P2. Re was obnoxiously glorious in an indigo t-shirt with a spray of yellow paint in the front. Tristante, seemingly distracted, had his blue eyes on the moody sky. The other two, whom Marghe had pinned down as the player and the body guard, were talking to each other about some models they'd met the previous night at a club.
Unceremoniously, Re said, "Scram."
His voice was level but cold. His comment ceased his friends' chatter. So far, Margherita had observed that Re did not speak often, but when he did everyone else quieted.
Flustered, the girl avoided eye contact, staring at an indistinct spot in the middle of Re's ample chest. "You—I..." He motioned to walk around her. "Please, wait!" Re looked at her for the first time, nonplussed.
Every word cost her as, wringing her hands, she blurted, "I really, really like you! I've liked you for a long time! Since I was a kid I—"
"Get a life," he replied, gelid, his face expressionless as he walked around her.
What a heartless psychopath! Mauro hadn't lied. Margherita wished she could give the guy a lesson in etiquette—weren't young scions supposed to have princely manners? However, her survival came first; she'd better keep invisible. The girl remained where Re had left her, tears rolling down her beautiful face. Margherita shrugged; heartache is inevitable if you fall for an asshole.
