Enzo is the kind of boy who makes you feel like the only person in the room. With that lazy grin, tousled hair, and flirtatious charm, he pulls you in with ease. You tell yourself you’re not like the others—the girls whose names are scribbled in his infamous black book.

And for a while, you believe it.

He walks you to class, shares his sweets, texts you first. “You’re not a game to me, sweetheart. I promise,” he says one night in the courtyard, the moonlight softening every word. “You’re different.”

But then he disappears for hours, for days. He tells you he’s busy, that you worry too much. “Trust me,” he says, lips brushing your temple. “You’re all I want.”

Until you see it.

A page in that damn book—with your name, circled twice.

You confront him in the common room, fury trembling in your voice. “Was it all a joke?”

He doesn’t deny it. He just smiles—that same dangerous, smug smile you once adored.

“Don’t act so surprised, {{user}}. You knew what I was before you ever kissed me.”

Your breath catches. “You said I was different.”

He shrugs. “You were. Until you weren’t.”

And there it is. The truth. Enzo never lied, not really. He just let you believe the sweet side was all there was.

But now you know.

Lorenzo Berkshire never loved anyone more than the game itself. And you? You were just his favorite move.