Chapter Four Campus Belle

Two months having passed since I landed in Italy, I am still unable to fathom how much has changed. Vibrant streets of Florence have become a part of me, merging with my every breath as I stroll past stunning architecture, the aroma of fresh bread wafting through the air, and the echoes of laughter spilling from cafes. I have tried to fit in by pouring my heart out, but it is not only about fitting into the landscape; it is about remolding my identity. Now, Campus Belle is what they have begun to call me, and I feel like some sort of Grimm fairytale.

I've learned how to navigate the halls of this school like a dancer, each step calculated to draw attention yet cloaked in a shroud of innocence. My hair is soft, falling in waves down my face and across my skin, setting off my pale skin to perfection, while pastel dresses seem to twirl around me, like candy floss, adding a sweetness that catches the attention of everyone. I have giggled in front of the mirror until my laughter is light and airy, a soft song floating above the everyday noises. My friends just love teasing me, telling me that I am the live caricature of romance novels, and I just can't help but smile at such a notion. Still, deep inside, I am aggressively determined to conquer Niccolò's heart.

I have watched him closely, watched how he interacts with others. He's magnetic and charming, with a smirk that causes hearts to flutter and eyes that could nail steel to a wall. Every glance he shoots my way fires something deep in me. We'd been spending enough time together; he laughs at my jokes, debates with me in class discussions, and for the first time, I catch glimpses of warmth in his emerald eyes. It felt like progress. Or so I thought.

It was like the speed at which he actually started to open up to me became the speed that the warmth just seemed to go. It felt like a fog rolled in and chilled the air between them. He started treating me like the plague, avoiding me. I could feel it shift, day to day, like a balloon losing the air, floating further and further away from me. Each time I approached him, I was met with a polite nod or cool dismissal; his eyes darted away, avoiding my gaze, as if I was some unsightly stain on his world.

Desperation bubbled beneath the surface. How could he turn cold like this? I would lie in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, tossing and turning, replaying our conversations in my mind, searching for that one misstep that might have made him turn away from me. The more I thought about it, the more determined I became to prove that I wasn't just a pretty face. Something that would make him see me for more than campus belle, a capable, intelligent, ambitious me.

So I turned my attention inwards and came up with a plan-a plan that would shape my future and, God willing, bring Niccolò back into orbit around me. I had come across mention of some toy company in the original book, literally starting from scratch and then just exploding within six months of its beginning. The business wasn't on the stock market yet, and I knew right away this was my opportunity. I tracked down its founder, a pretty savvy businessman with this vision for whimsical toys where the joy in children's eyes would always be the spark. I did not think twice and bought 40% of the firm.

I had been poring over the market trends and designs of toys for hours, literally soaking myself in all that would help me make the most of this investment. The opportunity should not slip through my fingers. My fingers danced on the keyboard as I researched, looked for advice, and finally secured my stake in the company. This was a new frontier, and the thrill of the unknown coursed through my veins.

I sat in class, barely listening to the drone of the teacher's voice. My heart was racing with anticipation for the results of the monthly test. It seemed that, as soon as the scores were announced, my dreams had unfolded before my eyes: first place. I had to immediately contain the rising urge inside me-a triumph that had now ceased to be mere academic achievement but turned into validation that at least in this world, I was carving some space.

I turned around, beaming, looking for Niccolò. He sat a few rows back in the crowded room, his brow furrowed in concentration as he scribbled away, taking down notes. I walked over to him, still on the high of my success. "Hey Niccolò! I really wanted to congratulate you on second place! That's impressive!" I purred on, my voice light, bouncing over with the joy bubbling out.

Instead, I was greeted by a flat dismissive look. "Thanks," he said coolly. My heart began to sink. Had I misread it?

"Niccolò, what's going on?" I pressed, desperation creeping into my voice. "We were getting on well. I say something wrong?

His stare turned cold and sent a creeping chill down my spine. "I hate women who put on airs," he said bluntly, his voice sharp, cutting clear in the air between us.

His words hung heavy in the air, while I stood speechless. My mind grappled to piece together something meaningful out of the warmth shared with this sudden frost. My heart contracted into a tight little ball with the realization that all my efforts were, perhaps, for naught. I thought I was making progress; I was becoming the person that he wanted to be around with. He, however, just saw another one of those "preten- tious" girls. The sting of rejection was almost unbearable, and it took all not to crumble right there.

Pretentious?" I echoed, a surge of hurt and confusion overwhelming me. "I'm just trying to be friendly. I thought we were building something-"

"I don't do shallow connections," he cut me off, the finality of his tone allowing no argument.

And with that, he turned his back to me, leaving me standing amidst the chaos of my emotions, battling a truth I never wanted to embrace. I fought so hard to gain his attention-to be worthy-but I was no more than a character in some story he thought he knew so well.

But I wasn't about to back down. I wasn't Elizabeth Brown from the book; I was an altogether new person, and I would prove it to him. Not for him, but for myself. I had invested in a future, and I would build that future, where he would see me for what I truly was beyond the name and the title.

A firecourse ran through my veins as I took a deep breath. This would be but the beginning. If there was one thing I had learned from my past life, it was that nothing worth having came easy. And if Niccolò wanted to see me as "pretentious," then I would show him what true ambition looked like. I would turn this into motivation and rise above it all. But not his heart alone, for something bigger. Niccolò pov:

Standing at the edge of my emotions, I found myself fighting the battle that had been buried deep inside.

Elizabeth had brought out something in me in which I wasn't ready to invest. I was attracted to her like a fly to the fire, and yet, the fire was slowly starting to burn me. The air around me seemed to vibrate with unspoken tension, and I knew I had to understand her-to peel back the layers of this enchanting facade. But as the truth began to unravel before my eyes, the bitter memories were always there, ready to engulf me. **Flashback: A Child's Heartbreak**

I was only five years old, an age when my world should have been ruled by innocence.

Yet, that afternoon, the sun brightly shining through our mansion's windows seemed more to highlight the darkness that was my reality, rather than be a part of it. I was playing with my action figures on the soft, intricately patterned carpet in the sitting room, none the wiser to the storm building just beyond the threshold. My father's laughter resonated in the hall, a voice that conveyed warmth and security. This was, however, surpassed by the muffled sound of disputes. "Leonard, I swear you don't understand me!" my mother's voice pierced through the walls-sharp and cutting. I had never heard such a tone, and it sent chills down my spine.

I laid down my toys and crept up to the door, peering through the crack. Before my very eyes was a nightmare unraveling in real time. And there she stood, my mother, hands at her hips, her face contorted in an expression of disgust. "You think this is enough? You're such a fool!" her lips curled as she spat.

I watched my father's face crumble, his eyes welling with confusion and hurt. "What are you talking about? I work hard for this family. I've always provided for you!" His voice shook, a tremor of desperation seeping in as he searched her eyes for any flicker of affection.

"Provided? Provided?!" she mocked, throwing her head back in laughter. "You're so naïve! You don't even see how pathetic you are. Look at this house-it's a prison! I deserve better than this miserable life!" The words were daggers-deep and cutting into the man I adored. I felt surges of anger welling up within me-small fists clenched at my sides.

And then, I saw it-the dancing flame of betrayal in my mother's eyes, the way she looked away from my father and onto the door, where she was already planning her escape in her head. It was a moment to be seared into my memory forever.

Days turned into weeks, and at an alarming pace, the veneer of happy family unraveled.

My mother wore the mask of pretended affection, as if taking care of my father while planning behind his back. It seemed she was a star in some warped theatre play, practicing lines that would lead to her dramatic exit. I would often find her on the phone, speaking softly and murmuring endearing words to some other person-to someone other than my father. "I will be gone at the end of this month," I heard her say one night. "He doesn't know what's coming."

It stung as if a thousand bees were stinging me all at once, and I was totally helpless. On the day she finally did leave, she packed up her designer bags with careless haste and threw out the memories we had built like unwanted trinkets. My father stood in the doorway, a hollow shell of my once so strong man, pleading with her to stay, to reconsider.

Please, not this," he begged, his voice breaking as he fought to hold back tears. "We can repair this; we can make this work!"

But she only shrugged, an ice-cold smile playing on her lips. "This isn't working for me, Leonard. I need more-more excitement, more luxury, more… everything." With those words, she walked out of the door, leaving behind the pieces of our shattered lives.

Getting into the car, I felt my heart shatter like broken glass as it moved farther away, taking my mother-and everything I thought I knew-along with it. I was still standing there as a child drowning in confusion and sorrow. I would never forget the way she looked back at us one last time, her expression an uncanny mix of notes of triumph and disdain.

The following months were a blur of despair and loss. My father fell into a deep depression, trying to keep our lives above the water. We lost everything: our home, stability, and even our sense of security. The walls that sheltered us became a prison of memories, a home haunted by the specter of my mother's betrayal.

I swore then and there that no other woman would ever have that much control over me. I vowed to keep at arm's length pretentiousness in its every form; that vow would fashion my relationships for many years into the future. In my chest, resentment flowered, a bitter fruit of my upbringing.

**Present Day: Torn Emotions

As I sat in the class, my mind again turned to Elizabeth, and that all-too-familiar cinching of my chest began, when jealousy, again, wrapped its tight, relentless grip. She had taken first place on the monthly test, a position that I had held for as long as I could remember. The instant her name was called, a torrent of feelings raged through me, firing up that atavistic compulsion-to reclaim what rightly belonged to me.

It was time I confronted her. I stormed over, my blood boiling in my veins. "How did you do that?" I screamed, words echoing off the room's walls. "You're just acting a part, playing a person that doesn't exist!

The flash of hurt across her face sliced through me, but I was too far gone. I had to push her away; I couldn't let her see how deeply she affected me. I hated that she had taken something from me-my rank, my pride-but most of all, I hated how she made me feel.

"I hate pretentious women!" I spat, the words escaping my lips as if laced with poison. They hung thick between us, heaving.

Her confusion reflected the turmoil within me. "Pretentious? I'm just trying to be friendly," she pleaded, obviously hurt.

But I was the casualty of the storm that I had created. The ghost of my mother loomed over me, and I needed to push away anyone who even vaguely resembled her. At the same time, I wanted, unconsciously, to embrace her, to be immersed in the depths of her character.

In that moment, it dawned upon me that I was fighting not only her but also myself: a writer, a creator, damned amidst an unfolding plot with a poor script and less control. My heart danced with the battle of two opposing feelings. How was I to align my attraction for Elizabeth with the demons of my past?

Jealousy clawed at me, loss wrapping around my throat like a vice.

She was winning, and I was terrified of that fact. As I turned away from her, I knew it was time to face my feelings head-on. I needed to untangle the web of jealousy and resentment before it consumed me entirely. For the time being, though, I was stuck in a mess of my own thoughts: my heart wrestling with itself, trying not to let my past define my future.

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