CHAPTER 6 : AURORA’S POV

The morning hit bright and loud, engines humming outside the Falconeri gates like an orchestra of money. Black sedans, gleaming convertibles, students heading to the same place I was. My first day at Sicilian Heights University.

The driver opened my door. “Signorina Aurora, good luck.”

“Thanks,” I murmured, gripping my bag like armor.

The campus looked like something out of a movie: glass façades catching the sun, fountains sparkling in front of marble pillars. Expensive shoes clicked on stone. Perfume mixed with the smell of roasted espresso. Every person here looked polished, confident, untouchable.

I felt like an intruder.

Inside the main hall, banners hung in deep crimson and gold. A crowd of students gathered near a schedule board. That’s where I heard the first whisper.

“Falconeri’s new stepsister.”

“Did you see her? She’s pretty.”

“Poor girl—wrong family to be in.”

I kept my eyes forward and scanned for my class number.

“Lost?”

A voice, sharp and playful. I turned. A girl with auburn curls, sunglasses pushed up on her head, a lanyard of student IDs tangled around her wrist.

“Kind of,” I admitted.

“I’m Chiara De Luca.” She grinned. “If you’re new, you stick with me. Rule one.”

Before I could answer, she looped her arm through mine. “What’s your name?”

“Aurora.”

“Perfect. You look like you actually study. We need that energy around here.”

I laughed despite myself.

We found her friend sitting on the edge of a fountain sketching. Long dark braid, soft gray eyes, fingers stained with charcoal.

“Elena Greco,” Chiara said. “Our resident artist slash therapist.”

Elena looked up and smiled. “Ignore Chiara. She pretends to be loud so people don’t notice she’s nice.”

Chiara rolled her eyes. “Don’t ruin my image.”

We compared schedules miraculously, we shared two classes. Chiara immediately decided it meant destiny.

By mid-morning, I’d forgotten my nerves. The professors were strict, the classrooms gleamed with screens instead of chalkboards, and everyone dressed like they’d stepped out of a designer catalog. Even so, with Chiara whispering jokes and Elena quietly passing notes, it almost felt normal.

Until lunch.

The cafeteria wasn’t really a cafeteria—it was a rooftop terrace with a skyline view and waiters in uniform. We grabbed a table near the railing. Chiara started pointing people out like a tour guide.

“See the guy with the watch that could buy a house? That’s Dario Romano. His family owns half the shipping ports. Charming, dangerous, will flirt with a stop sign if it looks at him right.”

Dario caught her pointing and waved. He had the kind of smile that knew exactly how good it looked.

“Be careful,” Elena warned softly. “He collects people.”

“Like art,” Chiara added.

Then her voice dropped, almost gleeful. “And here comes the royalty.”

I followed her gaze.

The basketball court stretched below the terrace. A group of players warmed up under the noon sun, but one figure commanded the space like it existed for him. Black Falconeri-branded jersey, ink crawling down one arm, movements precise, ruthless.

Ricardo.

I gripped my cup tighter.

He barked an order, and everyone obeyed. Even from up here, you could feel the authority in his voice—cold, certain, absolute. Matteo Bianchi, his best friend, called something out, and Ricardo answered with a half-smile that made the crowd near the court erupt in cheers.

Chiara’s tone turned wary. “You know who that is, right?”

“I’ve heard,” I said quietly.

“Everyone here has. The Falconeri heir. No one crosses him. No one even makes eye contact unless he lets them.”

Elena leaned closer. “You look like you already know him.”

I forced a small laugh. “My mom married his father. We’re… family now.”

That earned twin looks of disbelief.

“Wait—you’re that Aurora?” Chiara hissed.

Before I could answer, a shadow fell over our table.

“Well, well.”

Valentina Russo. Perfect makeup, perfect posture, wearing a crimson skirt that screamed money. She looked me over slowly, smile sharp as glass.

“So you’re the new Falconeri girl.”

Chiara bristled. “Do you mind?”

Valentina ignored her. “Ricardo didn’t mention you existed.”

“Maybe he had better things to talk about,” I said before thinking.

Her smile tightened. “Careful, sweetheart. Words travel fast here.” She glanced toward the court where Ricardo now stood at the free-throw line. “He likes loyal people.”

Then she turned and walked off, hips swinging, a pair of girls trailing behind like guards.

Chiara exhaled. “That was Valentina. She thinks she owns the air Ricardo breathes.”

Elena frowned. “And you just challenged her.”

“Great,” I muttered. “Day one, I’ve made an enemy.”

Chiara grinned. “Welcome to Sicilian Heights.”

Afternoon classes blurred into sunlight and chatter. Matteo caught us in the corridor, tall, easy smile, gym bag slung over one shoulder.

“You’re Aurora, right? Ricardo’s… family.”

The pause didn’t go unnoticed.

“Yeah,” I said. “You’re Matteo.”

“Guilty. I heard you survived Valentina. Not bad.”

Chiara’s eyes widened. “News travels fast here.”

Matteo chuckled. “Everything does.” Then, to me: “Don’t let her get to you. She bites everyone.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

He shrugged. “For what it’s worth, you don’t look scared.”

“I am,” I admitted.

“Good. Fear keeps you smart.” He winked and disappeared down the hall.

Elena murmured, “I like him.”

Chiara laughed. “Everyone does.”

By sunset, the courtyard glowed gold. I sat on a low wall, watching the last game wrap up. Ricardo moved like the court answered to him, no wasted motion, no mercy. When he scored the final point, the crowd cheered his name.

Then he looked up. Directly at me.

It was one heartbeat, maybe two, but everything inside me twisted. He said something to Matteo, grabbed his jacket, and left the court without breaking eye contact.

Chiara nudged me. “You sure there’s nothing between you two?”

“Positive,” I lied.

That night the mansion felt colder. My mother and Marcelo were out—some gala. The staff kept to the east wing.

I found myself in the library, pretending to read. The silence stretched until I heard footsteps. Heavy. Familiar.

He appeared in the doorway, hair damp from a shower, shirt half-buttoned. The air shifted.

“You skipped dinner,” he said.

“I wasn’t hungry.”

He leaned against the doorframe. “You looked fine at school.”

I closed the book. “You saw me.”

His mouth curved faintly. “You were hard to miss.”

I stood, pulse quickening. “You shouldn’t watch me.”

“Then stop being where I can see you.”

We stared at each other across the distance—two people pretending last night hadn’t happened.

He moved first, slow, deliberate, until he stood a few steps away. “You’re adjusting fast.”

“I’m trying.”

His gaze held mine. “This place will eat you alive if you let it.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t let it.”

Something flickered in his eyes, amusement or warning, I couldn’t tell. “You think I control everything here?”

“Don’t you?”

He smiled, sharp and tired at once. “Not you.”

For a moment, the air felt electric again, charged with everything we weren’t saying.

Then he stepped back, the mask slipping over his face once more. “Get some sleep, Aurora. Early classes tomorrow.”

He turned to leave.

“Ricardo.”

He paused at the door.

I swallowed. “About last night—”

“Forget it,” he said quietly. “It didn’t happen.”

But his voice didn’t match the words.

When he was gone, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. The silence of the mansion wrapped around me, thick and suffocating.

I told myself I would listen to him.

That I’d forget.

But as I climbed the stairs, I already knew I wouldn’t.