Scarlett thought university life in Bologna would be peaceful after the workshop. She wanted to focus on her designs, her dream, and forget the ache that still lingered whenever she thought of Nicolas Volkov.
But peace wasn't meant for her.
When she entered the class one morning, her eyes widened. Joanna.
The same Joanna who tried to trip her at the event — now sitting just a few seats away, smiling like they were old friends.
"Small world, huh?" Joanna said sweetly, twirling her pen. "I just transferred. Guess fate wants us together."
Scarlett's lips curved into a polite smile. "Guess so."
But deep inside, she knew fate wasn't that cruel. Someone had arranged this.
That night, far from the university dorms, Alisa Meng was sitting in her family villa, sipping wine. Her manicured fingers tapped against the glass table as she stared at Joanna's photo on her phone.
"Make her life unbearable," Alisa said coldly. "She embarrassed me in front of everyone. I don't care how you do it — just make her regret it."
Joanna's eyes sparkled with greed. "And in return?"
"You'll get into Veloce Morte's internship program. My father controls their recruitment list."
That was all Joanna needed to hear.
The next few days turned darker for Scarlett.
Whispers followed her wherever she went.
"She must've used connections to get here."
"I heard she flirts with professors to get grades."
"Look at her — pretending to be so perfect."
Scarlett pretended not to care, but inside, the words stung. She had worked her entire life for her achievements — late nights, endless designs, pure effort. And yet, lies spread faster than truth ever could.
One afternoon, when she went to the architecture lab, she found her project model shattered on the floor.
Her hands trembled as she picked up the broken pieces, her heart heavy.
Behind her, Joanna leaned on the doorway with a mocking smile.
"Oops," she said. "Guess someone knocked it over. You should be more careful."
Scarlett turned to her, her eyes cold and sharp. "You really don't know when to stop, do you?"
Joanna laughed lightly, her tone poisonous. "Don't act so innocent, Scarlett. You think you're better than everyone just because you have that face? That talent? That charm?"
Scarlett stood, brushing the dust from her hands. Her voice was calm, but her gaze could freeze fire.
"I don't think I'm better, Joanna. But I know I'm not like you — hiding behind someone else's orders."
Joanna's smirk faltered for a second. "Wh-what do you mean?"
Scarlett stepped closer, her tone low. "You think I don't know? Alisa Meng doesn't have the courage to face me, so she sent you instead. How pitiful."
For the first time, Joanna couldn't find words. Her hands clenched into fists as Scarlett walked away.
Later that evening, Joanna tried again. She had arranged a "class dinner" at a local café, where she planned to spill wine over Scarlett's white dress — pretending it was an accident, with everyone watching.
Everything went according to plan — until it didn't.
As Joanna moved to "trip," a strong hand caught her wrist midair.
The café went silent.
Scarlett looked up — and froze.
Nicolas Volkov stood behind Joanna, his tall figure wrapped in a dark coat, his expression unreadable. His sharp blue eyes held a dangerous calm that made Joanna's knees weaken.
"Watch your step," Nicolas said quietly, his voice low and commanding. "This floor can be… slippery."
He released her wrist and walked past her, his gaze briefly meeting Scarlett's.
For a heartbeat, she saw something flicker in his eyes — recognition? concern?
Then it was gone.
He walked out without saying another word.
Scarlett stood there, heart pounding. Everyone whispered, confused by what they had just seen.
Joanna's face turned pale as she realized who had stopped her.
Nicolas Volkov — the man Alisa Meng was desperate to marry.
That night, as Scarlett sat by her window in the dorm, she looked out into the quiet Italian streets. Her heart ached and yet… a strange warmth lingered.
He didn't say her name. He didn't stay.
But he saw her.
And that was enough to make her wonder—
Had he really forgotten her?