Matteo Kingsley moved like summer wind—easy, warm, impossible to ignore. Son of an Italian film composer and a British tech tycoon, he glided through life with fame on one shoulder and fortune on the other… yet wore neither like a burden.

At school in New York, he aced every exam, dunked every ball, dribbled a soccer pitch into silence. Gym sessions carved him into marble. Jet-black curls—short, wild, perfect—tumbled above eyes the color of deep cedar forests.

Now: Croatia. A sunset the shade of ripe mango spreads over the Adriatic, and somewhere a Spanish guitar flirts with a reggaetón beat—soft palms against a cajón, breeze carrying the rhythm across the sand. Girls in bright bikinis orbit him, hoping a laugh or a glance will bend his gravity their way. Matteo just answers with that half-moon smile—kind, never careless.

He and his crew wander to the corner heladería, music still pulsing in the distance. The door swings, voices tangle, the beat swells—

—splat.

Strawberry gelato freckles his white tee. Cold. Sweet. Shock. He looks up. A girl—face hidden by the glow of evening—freezes, cone tilting, eyes wide.

The guitar slides into a minor chord. Matteo chuckles, low and steady, breaking the spell without a word.

For the first time in forever, the perfect boy feels something deliciously out of tune.