Riccardo's gaze darted between them, his lips twisting into a smirk that sent a shiver down Alina's spine. That look like he knew exactly how to dig under her skin.
"Don't worry, Celeste," he said, smooth as always. "I'll buy it for you. Honestly, it suits you better anyway."
The words hit Alina like a slap. Something sharp and bitter coiled in her chest—anger, humiliation, that old familiar sting of being the girl who scraped by on stale pastries and spare change. Her fingers curled into empty fists as she caught her reflection in the mirror—tired eyes, messy hair, the ghost of someone who still didn't quite belong.
"Let's go, baby," Riccardo said, throwing her a glance, expecting her to cave, to chase after him like other women.
"Alright," Celeste chirped, looping her arm through his.
Alina watched them walk away, their heads bent together, whispering, laughing.
