CHAPTER 94: FANTASY OVER REALITY

CHAPTER 94: FANTASY OVER REALITY
LUCA

The rush of rebellion is sweeter behind a mask.

I haven’t felt it in a while, so when it runs through me the second I take Kristian’s hand, I almost feel dizzy with the thrill, the anticipation, the excitement, the fear.

His grip is firm around mine as he pulls me towards the door. It opens up to a corridor lined with marble busts.

The hem of Kristian’s long, dark coat brushes against mine as we move. My heart beats in my throat.

Behind us, laughter echoes through the ballroom, muffled by the thick velvet curtains we slipped behind.

“Left or right?” he whispers, eyes darting between a pair of ancient oak doors.

I cock my brows. “I thought you said you looked at the blueprints?”

“Well, it’s not like I expected to sneak out of the party. I just wanted to know where the nearest exit was in case of… Well, this.”

I raise a brow. “So what makes you think I know the right way?”

“Because you knew exactly where to come when you needed solitude.”

I shrug. “It could have been a coincidence.”

“Sure.” He rolls his eyes. He looks so cute right now that I want to pull him into my arms and kiss him. A few weeks ago, I’d have done just that. But I hold back. 

All of a sudden, I’m big on consequences. 

Right after sneaking out of here, of course. 

“Left. But walk like you belong,” I say, trying to steady my voice.

We step briskly down a narrow hallway with vaulted ceilings and gold-gilded sconces. The walls are decorated with faded frescoes of Roman gods and scenes of Bacchanalian joy—figures dancing, drinking, collapsing in fields of roses.

At the end of the hall, two servers appear carrying a tray of aperitifs. My gut tightens.

“Keep walking,” I mutter under my breath, and hook my arm around Kristian’s. I smile at the servers like I’m just escorting a very drunk guest back to their suite. They nod politely and pass us by.

Once we turn the next corner, we start laughing—giddily, breathlessly, like we did that first night we met. The memory is almost painful.

“God,” Kristian murmurs, catching his breath. “That was close.”

We reach a side stairwell—the kind the staff use—and slip through the door. The stairs creak faintly under our weight. Somewhere above us, a door clicks shut.

“Do you remember,” he whispers, “when we tried to hide from your bodyguards, which you claimed were bouncers at the club.”

I snort. “I can’t believe you bought that.”

“You could have told me the sky was purple that night and I’d have believed you.”

I laugh, almost against my will. It feels good.

We step out through a quiet side exit, the heavy door groaning behind us. The street hits us like a cold splash of wine—alive, loud, beautiful.

Italian night air smells like citrus and car exhaust. The distant sound of music mingles with the clinking of plates.

A Vespa zips past. A couple in their sixties share gelato by the steps of a glowing trattoria. Lights strung between balconies sway softly. Somewhere nearby, someone sings Volare out of tune.

Kristian tugs at his mask. “Can I keep this?”

“You’re Swedish royalty. You could probably buy the whole costume department.”

He smirks and shoves his hands into his pockets.

We wander through cobbled alleys. A boy sells roses out of a basket. A group of art students sketches caricatures outside a wine bar. The windows glow with gold, and every few steps, I catch the scent of basil, of smoked cheese, of old stone warmed by years of sun.

Kristian stops at a street performer spinning fire. “This city… It’s chaos. And it makes sense to you.”

“Rome’s never hidden her mess,” I murmur. “She lets it bleed into her beauty.”

He turns to me. “So do you.”

I try to look away, but his eyes linger, holding my gaze with something heavy and heated. But I can’t bear to explore that look.

Not after everything I’ve learned this past week.

We keep walking, past murals and peeling doors and balconies hung with laundry. A man yells something in Romanesco about someone stealing his seat in a card game.

Finally, we find a hilltop square. It’s quiet. A few teenagers sit on the steps, whispering and passing around a cigarette. We walk past them and settle on a low wall overlooking the rooftops of the city.

Above us, stars struggle to outshine the glow of the streetlamps. I feel the night pressing in. Beautiful. Simmering. Honest.

“Let’s go back,” I say after a while. “Everyone will be worried.”

Kristian stretches his legs out in front of him and tilts his head toward the sky. “Do you really want to leave all this and go back to the Palazzo?”

“Yeah. I kind of do.”

He scoffs. “Liar.”

I say nothing.

“Play a game with me,” he declares, and my brow arches. He turns to me, nudging my knee. “Five minutes. After that, we can go back.”

I stare at him for a heartbeat, wondering when the roles changed. When did he become the reckless one, and I the careful one?

With a sigh, I nod.

For a while, there’s nothing between us except the breeze.

“What kind of game is this exactly?”

“Truth or Dare. But without the truth part.”

“Isn’t that just…dare?”

He grins. “Exactly. We each get one turn, and we must both promise to do whatever the other person asks. I promise to do mine. Do you?”

I nod slowly. “Yes. I do. You first.”

“Fine,” he says. “I dare you to… tell me something real.”

I frown and purse my lips at how confusing this game is, wondering what he hopes to achieve by it. “That sounds an awful lot like truth.”

He winks. “It’s disguised as a dare.”

I think for a moment, then say, “I’m scared that if I keep doing what makes me happy, I’ll spiral out of control and lose everything.”

Like my father.

Kristian is quiet for a while. Then: “Your turn.”

I smirk. “I dare you to…”

He waits.

I have the urge to dare us to go back to the palazzo. I really meant it when I said I wanted my bed, and as fun as this is, it’s not doing much to clear the fog in my head. 

As I think about my dare, I slowly realize the point of this game. 

Kristian is giving me the power to choose because he hopes that I’ll pick him. That I’ll decide to stay here in this moment with him and enjoy the night away from our real lives and responsibilities. 

He’s asking me to choose this fantasy over reality. I need to prove to him that it’s dangerous to live in a fantasy for too long. 

“I dare you to get a tattoo.”

Kristian’s face goes slack. “What?"