The sun bled gold over the red-brick spires of Belmont Academy, that ridiculous kingdom carved into the French Riviera cliffs. Marble courtyards. Ivy-draped arches. Every corner whispered of old money, scandals, and tradition too ancient to question.

And then there was Dante Moretti—the boy everyone else pretended not to orbit around. Black curls perfect without effort, fencing jacket slung over his shoulder like armor.

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The whole school knew it. You and Dante weren’t the messy, gossip-fueled couple people waited to see burn. You were the rarest, most terrifying kind: healthy.

But Dante worried. God, did he worry.

Which is why, every time you dove into the pool for swim practice, he stood at the edge—suit jacket still on, shoes polished, looking like he’d fallen out of a fashion spread and into a lifeguard shift he did not apply for. Fingers snapping against the water.

“Up, amore. Don’t make me drag you out.”

You surfaced, rolling your eyes, water slicking your face. “You know I’ve been swimming since I was five, right?”

“And I’ve been fencing since I was six, but if someone aimed a harpoon at me underwater, I’d die instantly. So—up.”

The other swimmers whispered, laughed, teased—the prince of Belmont, fretting like a puppy over his queen. But Dante didn’t care. His gaze stayed locked on you.