The truth didn’t leak from a publicist. It didn’t tumble out through a headline, or slip into the world via a “source close to the couple.” It drifted—softly, almost shyly—through a chain of whispers. First a rumor murmured over an espresso bar in Florence, then a passing comment from a driver who claimed to have seen unfamiliar faces in familiar luxury cars, and finally a hushed certainty shared by someone who had been told by someone who had heard something from someone else. By the time it reached the wider world, it no longer resembled news. It felt more like a secret the universe had let escape by accident.
