‘Not straight away. No.’ His gaze holds mine.
‘When, then?’
‘Not as quickly as you think,’ he says, matching my tone.
Silvia glances between us, clearly lost. ‘Yes, well … you’ll be pleased to know the masks are dry and ready for collection. I’ll drop them at the Institute before the masquerade ball on Wednesday evening.’ She turns to Veronica. ‘Some of the sponsors will be attending too.’
‘Wednesday? But that’s the day after tomorrow. I don’t know if Martino will be back in time.’ Veronica gestures towards her husband’s self-portrait with her glass, and we all follow it, as if the man himself might weigh in.
‘The funding was awarded to the school,’ Silvia says calmly. ‘It’s as much yours as it is his.’
I barely register the rest. Now that I know Leo isRebel, other things start clicking into place. Martino’s painting looked familiar because I’d seen a version of it before, on the hoarding outside the Institute on my very first day. Leo had painted a mural of his own dad. Same pose, same man, just reimagined.
But it also reminds me whose son he is, whose name he bears. Leonardo Ballarin. The golden boy with a palazzo and a family name that could probably get him exhibited in any gallery he chooses.
That’s the thing that hurts most. I thought Rebel was someone like me. Someone who knew what it was like to want something and not have it handed over on a silver platter. Not like Leo.
The masquerade ball is all anyone can talk about in class the next day. I’ve been so caught up in the whole Leo-is-Rebel, Rebel-is-Leo disaster that I have a mini meltdown when Nadia reminds me it’s tomorrow night and I need a dress.
She’s taken photos of her mum’s old gowns and we scroll through together. ‘I hate buying things I’ll only use once, so I’m going to wear one of these. You could borrow one.’
It sounds perfect until we realize anything full-length on her will just flap around my shins.
Still, the point sticks. Reuse. Make do. It reminds me of Jacopo.
I pull out my phone and type fast:do you know where I can get a second-hand ballgown?Then I shove it away and head for the workstation.
I’ve been orbiting Veronica and Nadia all morning; anyone to keep me from being alone with Leo, the way I dodged him after our kiss too. But like then, there’s no avoiding him in class.
He’s sketching on the canvases and looks up as I approach.
‘We need to talk.’
Yup. Definitely déjà vu. ‘There’s nothing to talk about.’
‘Don’t do that.’
‘Do what?’
‘Act like nothing’s changed.’
I let out a bitter laugh. ‘Everything’s changed.’
Our paintings are already bolted on to the boat panels, too heavy and awkward to move without making a scene, so we’re stuck side by side the whole day. Everyone else is loud and chatty, calling across the room for brushes and tools. We work in silence, talking only when Veronica steps in to offer pointers.
By late afternoon, the light filtering through the tall windows has softened to gold, catching dust motes in the air as people begin to pack up.
I steady the ruler against the gilded edge of the frame while Leo paints a line. He hands it back without looking, and I nearly smudge the detail I’ve just drawn. Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? He just knows. Like he knows what I have for breakfast. It happens in real life too. This unspoken understanding.
My shoulders slump as I let out a sigh. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
He drags a hand through his hair, like he’s been bracing for this.
‘You knew who I was,’ I continue. ‘And you said nothing. You let me spill every secret.’ Words tumble faster now. ‘Not only that. You let me think Rebel was someone else.’
‘Jacopo told me you thought it was him,’ he says. ‘Because of the mural. But I was trying to inspire you using the whole person-meets-myth you’re so good at.’
I shake my head. ‘It’s not just that. I thought Rebel came from my world. Not someone who already has every gallery door open to him.’
