Contemporary Milan, Italy.
In the dazzling world of Vincitore Academy, Margherita, a half-Korean firebrand from humble beginnings, ignites a clash of wills with the P2, the city's elite quartet of dazzling and entitled boys.
Yet, privilege holds no...
Love had not been in the cards for Margherita Pescatore when, one year earlier, she'd transferred into the prestigious Vincitore Academy in downtown Milan. Serendipitously saving a student's life had won her a scholarship, but Margherita had not belonged among the wealthy, and yet...
Fast forward one year.
The same student she'd saved, Mauro Arcani, waited for her by the imposing academy gates, wrought iron bent with the care and patience of centuries past. Ivy covered the thick brick wall that encircled the grounds.
Rất tiếc! Hình ảnh này không tuân theo hướng dẫn nội dung. Để tiếp tục đăng tải, vui lòng xóa hoặc tải lên một hình ảnh khác.
Around the school, architecture from different ages mixed, as typical in the old city. Beside a middle-age church, incongruous neoclassical residences with pastel facades, overflowing with geranium up high and tagged with black spray paint below, belonged to the famous and the ungodly rich. Margherita's suburb was almost an hour of subway away.
Mauro bit his lip, awkwardly, which was so unlike him. "Marghe, hi..."
Mixed feelings. He was excited to see Margherita, as always, but he'd done things during Easter break that he was not eager to share.
Margherita nodded in recognition. Her athletic figure stooped forward as she purposefully walked toward Mauro, her dark eyes evasive, long smooth hair gathered behind her. Needless to say, she was the only half-Korean student at the academy. Strangely, she did not smile.
Rất tiếc! Hình ảnh này không tuân theo hướng dẫn nội dung. Để tiếp tục đăng tải, vui lòng xóa hoặc tải lên một hình ảnh khác.
What the hell had she done over break with the P2? Those P2 fuckers had taken her to Sharm El Sheik, in Egypt. Mauro hated them with a passion.
The P2, short for Posh Posse, as the press had dubbed them, were the city's elite quartet of entitled and influential boys, whom Margherita had despised—before being sucked into their drama.
The dark circles under her eyes stood stark against her pale skin. Margherita did not tan well, and she mostly did not use makeup.
"Mauro, hi..."
The awkwardness between them thickened the fresh air of March. How much could Margherita tell Mauro without hurting his feelings? Was he over her?
Students walked by them with spiteful glances. Margherita had been grateful that Italians didn't use school uniforms, until she'd joined an academy where she and Mauro, in knock-off jeans and baggy no-name hoodies, stood out like beggars at Fashion Week.
