Dante's POV
The air inside the gallery is filled with the scent of fresh paint and expensive perfume. The kind of place where people pretend to care about art when all they really care about is how much it costs. The lights are dim, golden, casting dramatic shadows over the canvases and sculptures. A pretentious pianist plays something soft in the background, barely noticeable over the sound of clinking champagne glasses and murmured conversations.
But I don't care about any of that.
Because she's here. Alessia. Or Leona, as she's calling herself these days.
She stands near a large abstract painting, something with sharp, chaotic strokes of black and red, like a storm trapped in color. Fitting. She looks out of place yet effortless, wearing a black dress that hugs her figure in all the right ways. Her hair is styled in loose waves, falling just past her shoulders. Elegant. Unbothered.
Fake!
