That was the plan （His pov ）
Chapter 21
LORENZO
For a moment, I am genuinely surprised she came.
Considering the stupid messages Ben and Alex sent her, I had given it maybe forty percent odds. She doesn't strike me as someone who panics easily. Honestly, she doesn't strike me as someone who does anything easily.
But here she is.
Oversized pajama top. A washed out jacket that looks like it was handmade by her late grandmother.
Plastic flip-flops. Her fist hangs at her side, not quite closed, but trembling with a quiet, hidden fury.
Then, something subtle shifts in her face.
The anger doesn't leave, it's still pulsing right there beneath her skin but her eyes move.
Just slightly.
Just enough to track the raw cut on my lip, the dark bruise on my cheek.
Her anger doesn't disappear.
It just ...pauses.
Her eyes snap back to mine. The look in them changes, shaping into something softer, more complicated, and considerably less convenient. When she speaks, her voice is so quiet it's almost swallowed by the bass of the music
"Why?"
Why?
Because after tonight, you'll finally stop showing up in places you don't belong.
The answer is right there, clean and razor-sharp.
It's the same cold truth I've carried since the exact second she walked into my school and started existing in my peripheral vision, disrupting my world in a way I couldn't account for.
Because Weststarr will do what Weststarr always does, and you'll finally understand that you don't belong here.
But I don't say a single word. I'm still trying to figure out why the words won't come when a sharp laugh cuts through the air.
Vivienne arrives.The sound of her voice slices through the heavy music like a small explosion. She leans in, pressing a flawless, calculated kiss against my cheek with the ease of someone who has done it a thousand times and intends to do it a thousand more.
I don't look at Vivienne. My eyes don't move from Sophia for a single, fraction of a second. The rest of the deck, the lights, the music everything blurs into white noise.
There is only her.
"The party just got so much better," Vivienne announces, her voice dripping with mock sweetness as she raises her phone, aiming the camera like a weapon.
Sophia's hand snaps up instantly. She forms a solid wall between her face and the lens. She doesn't flinch. She doesn't take a single step back. She just holds her ground with the stubborn, quiet pride refusing to break down .
"I didn't know you ordered a party clown, Lorenzo," Vivienne says.
She raises her voice, pitching the performance to the growing crowd around us.
Vivienne's cruelty always expands to fill the room, drawing eyes, feeding on the shallow amusement of the people around her.
She has spent years making sure this crowd barks whenever she pulls the leash.
A few people turn and snicker. Then more. A suffocating circle forms around Sophia. Whispers break out, sharp and mocking, targeting her clothes, her shoes, her presence.
That was the plan, I remind myself. My throat feels incredibly dry.
This is Weststarr. This is exactly what you wanted.
I know that. I am fully aware of that.
And yet, watching her stand there completely outnumbered in her oversized pajama top and cheap flip-flops, trapped on a billionaire's yacht she only boarded because she thought a friend needed her something in my chest twists violently.
A suffocating pressure builds behind my ribs, a feeling I desperately do not want to examine right now.
She is searching for something in my eyes. A lifeline. A sign. While a part of me desperately hopes she finally gets the point and runs.
But Sophia doesn't run. She just straightens her spine.
She fixes Vivienne with a look so flat, so utterly leveled and cold, that for a split second, Vivienne's practiced smile falters at the edges.
Then, without a word, she turns. And shoulders her way through the whispering, laughing crowd and disappears into the dark.
The noise rushes back over me. The heavy bass.
The cruel laughter. Vivienne says something sharp to the girl beside her, and they both giggle.
The humiliation of the girl in the pajamas folds right back into the party as if it never happened.
Weststarr has a very efficient, golden system for burying the evidence of its own wreckage.
I stare at the empty space where she used to be. The glass is cold against my hand.
The plan worked perfectly. By tomorrow, she will think twice about whether Weststarr is worth the pain. By next week, she will leave. The whole inconvenient problem will resolve itself quietly, cleanly, and I will finally stop scanning every room for her face.
That is how this ends.
It's the only logical conclusion to the trap I set tonight.
I force myself to look away, scanning the deck.
Past the flashing lights, the expensive bottles, the money changing hands, and the confetti drifting down like falling ash.
I find Matteo. He is standing exactly where I knew he would be, slightly removed from the brainless crowd, watching me with that specific expression he reserves for my worst mistakes.
He raises a single, slow, devastating eyebrow.
Are you happy now? it asks.
I hold his gaze, the guilt burning like acid in my stomach. Then I look down at my drink. Then I look right back to the dark corner of the crowd where she vanished.
I slam my drink down on the nearest table.
I turn back to the VIP section and focus back in the party.
That was the plan.