POV: Emilia Conti
Going public wasn't dramatic.
That was the lie people told themselves—that exposure came with speeches, cameras, carefully chosen words. In reality, it started in a room that smelled like disinfectant and metal, with a phone in my hand and two men watching me decide how much damage I was willing to survive.
"You don't get to rewrite this once it's out," Dante said.
"I know," I replied.
Alessio leaned against the table, pale but upright, jaw set hard. "You're not obligated to do this."
"Yes," I said. "I am."
"Because they're forcing you," he said.
"No," I corrected. "Because they already did."
The clock on the wall ticked loudly enough to be irritating. Midnight crept closer in increments that felt personal.
"What exactly does 'public' mean?" Alessio asked.
"It means I stop letting them define the narrative," I said. "And I start using systems they've avoided."
Dante watched me carefully. "If you do this wrong, you don't just draw attention."
