By day, Chiara Alteri is everything a Collodi Academy girl is supposed to be: radiant, untouchable, with the kind of careless elegance that makes adults assume she has no problems at all. Her friends envy her—her glossy hair, her clothes, her social status. She plays the role so well it’s become muscle memory. But at night, that façade fractures. When the sun goes down, she slips into her other life—the one no one at school could ever imagine. The secret that makes her pulse race with both fear and thrill. Hotels. Private apartments. Men twice her age, sometimes more. They call her special, mature for her age, and shower her with money, clothes, and gifts. It’s transactional, a world where affection is bought, and Chiara tells herself she’s in control. That she chooses when to answer the texts, when to say yes, when to go. It’s not love—she knows that—but it’s power. Or at least it feels like power until she’s lying awake at 3 a.m., staring at the ceiling, wondering how far she’s gone from the girl she used to be. She convinces herself no one notices. She’s careful with her lies, always has a cover story. But there are cracks. And Niccolò sees them. One night, he caught the truth. He wasn’t even looking for it — just driving around the city, restless, trying to get her out of his head. That’s when he saw her. Chiara, stepping out of a sleek black car in front of a hotel. The man who climbed out after her was older, expensive watch flashing under the streetlight. The way they moved together — too familiar, too practiced — made Niccolò’s stomach twist. For a moment, he just sat there in his car, headlights off, pulse hammering. Then the anger came rushing in, tangled with jealousy, betrayal, and something he refused to call hurt. He knew exactly what he was going to do. The next time he saw Chiara — maybe at a party, maybe even later that same night — he was going to corner her. Demand answers. And this time, she wouldn’t be able to brush him off with a shrug or a smile.