Handsome Dante!

Cassidy's POV

I smiled. “You brought me cocoa and read that fairytale about the girl who used cleverness instead of magic.”

She brushed hair from my forehead. “You were always clever, Cass. You always found a way through.”

A knock at the door—soft, polite. The housekeeper’s voice, gentle: “Mrs. Ashford, dinner will be ready shortly. Will you and Miss Cassidy join Mr. Ashford in the dining room?”

Mom glanced at me, her nerves fluttering again. “We’ll be down soon. Thank you.”

The housekeeper nodded, withdrawing soundlessly.

Mom stood, smoothing her new dress. “Let’s see if we can do this together, okay? I’ll wait outside for you.”

Alone now, I wandered the perimeter of my new room, trailing a finger over books and polish and velvet, memorizing every new detail. I opened the balcony door and drank in the sound of birds and the fragrance of roses. Below, gardeners trimmed the hedges, their shears flashing. Far away, a tennis court gleamed in the afternoon sun. The world felt too big—too open, too full of secrets.

I undressed slowly, swapping travel-weary jeans and hoodie for a pale blue dress Mom had tucked into my suitcase for “special dinners.” It didn’t feel like mine. I caught my reflection in the vanity: hair wild, eyes still holding stormclouds, face drawn and cautious. I dabbed mascara carefully, practicing a smile.

When I joined Mom, she hugged me again. Her nerves bristled, but her hope shone through. Together, we wandered through the halls, following paintings and echoes toward the formal dining room.

Inside, Richard waited at the head of a long mahogany table. White candles flickered, crystal glasses sparkled, and rows of silverware glinted. A footman poured water into my glass.

Richard smiled. “I’m glad you joined us. I hope you’re hungry.”

I stared at the feast laid out: roast chicken, glazed carrots, stacks of bread, salads bright with color. My stomach grumbled, but I hesitated, unfamiliar with which fork to use, how to sit without knocking over the glass.

Richard noticed, his voice kind. “Just be yourself, Cassidy. The rules here don’t matter as much as you think.”

I picked up a fork—any fork—and found it worked just fine.

As we ate, Mom and Richard talked softly about plans for the week—charity gala, garden party, tennis lessons, music tutors. My mother tried to involve me: “Cass is a wonderful pianist. She played all through middle school.”

Richard’s eyes brightened. “We have a baby grand in the music room. Maybe you’ll play sometime?”

I nodded noncommittally, unsure whether any music could carry in a house like this.

Dinner ended with pastries and laughter—real, gentle laughter between my mother and her new husband. For the first time, I saw a spark of peace in her eyes.

Afterwards, Richard led us to the solarium, where light spilled across sofas and palms grew in massive pots. He spoke of the house, the grounds, the staff. He described his business in broad strokes—fashion, real estate, entertainment. He offered to show me the stables, the art studio, the pool. My mother listened with rapt attention, fingers entwined with his.

Every time a servant entered, I stood straighter. Every time Richard mentioned trips to Paris, New York, Milan, I nodded and memorized details, unsure how to answer.

By the time we finished the tour, my head spun with new information, new names, new expectations.

The evening ended back in my room. Lights glowed warm, the balcony doors open to gentle night air. Mom slipped in, kissed my forehead. “You’re going to be all right here, Cass. I know it’s scary. But if anyone can do this, it’s you.”

Her faith was fragile, but I clung to it.

After she left, I curled on the bed, letting the hush settle around me. The new sheets felt cool, crisp—a world away from the patched quilts I’d left behind.

But as I lay there, the old scars whispered. The echoes of slammed doors lingered around the edges, reminding me that change is never easy. The walls glowed gold, painted with light instead of pain. But inside, old bruises took time to fade.

In the silence, I wondered what tomorrow would bring. Would this new world be worth the cost? Would I find my place among chandeliers and roses, or lose myself in the shadows of wealth and expectation?

One thing was certain.

Perfection never lasted.

***

The house at night was too quiet.

In motels, quiet never meant silence. There was the low whine of traffic, the gurgle of pipes in the walls, the hollow slam of doors three rooms down. Sometimes, I'd lie awake and let the noise wrap around me—a shaky reassurance that somewhere, life went on. But here? In the Ashford mansion, the silence was a living, breathing thing. It pressed at my skin like velvet, thick enough to smother all thought.

I spent the first hours tossed between sheets that smelled like lilies and starch. I couldn’t get comfortable; they were too crisp, too new—a little too perfect, like everything else in this place. My hoodie felt like a lifeline, familiar softness to shield me from the cold perfection of these walls.

Sleep wouldn’t come. Sometimes I think if you lose a certain amount of trust, your body forgets how to rest.

I rolled onto my side, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling—a painted spreading of gold-leaf and cream cherubs, so different from the taupe ceiling tiles back home. My throat burned with thirst. I tried to ignore it, telling myself I’d rather die of dehydration than risk bumping into anyone. But the ache only grew, and by midnight, it scratched at my patience.

Quiet as a shadow, I slipped from under the covers, grabbed my phone for light, and crept toward the door. The floor was plush beneath my bare feet as I eased into the hallway. There was no one—just soft golden sconces glowing along vast stretches of marble, and the omnipresent hush of a house that seemed suspended in time.

Downstairs, the chandelier in the entryway shimmered faintly, casting fractured shapes over the walls. I moved like a thief, following memory through cavernous corridors. Every sound—my breath, the faint scuff of my feet—seemed too loud, echoing back to me. The kitchen was somewhere at the rear of the house. I found myself passing strange pieces of art, the occasional vase perched on columns, and portraits that watched silently from their gilded frames. The ancestors, I guessed, all silently judging.

The hallway bent and widened, opening into a kitchen designed for magazine spreads: marble counters gleamed, industrial-sized fridge humming, glass cabinets lined up with expensive stemware. Every surface shined in the moonlight pouring through seamless windows, painting the floor with liquid silver.

I hesitated, suddenly shy. My old kitchen had peeling cabinets and a Formica table. I’d never been in a kitchen where everything looked like it cost more than my mother’s car. I crossed to the refrigerator, reaching for the handle, when—

A glass clinked softly on marble.

I stilled.

Half-shaded by the open fridge stood a figure, back towards me—broad-shouldered, all wiry muscle under pale skin, silvered by moonlight. He stood shirtless, sweatpants hanging low, a picture of shameless comfort in this ornate room.

Dante Ashford.

For a moment I watched, rootless as a ghost, unable to move. Even from behind, he radiated a kind of command. Like this silence was his doing, and even the house obeyed his rules.

I thought, turn back. You’re invisible. Just go. Don’t let him see you.

But my feet wouldn’t listen. Maybe I was tired of shrinking. Maybe I wanted to see if he’d say to my face what he’d said with his eyes when I arrived.

A treacherous scuff of my heel against marble broke the spell. His head lifted, posture sharpening. He set his glass down, turning slowly—like a lion acknowledging something small and foolish enough to wander into its domain.

His face hit me like cold water. I’d seen him clearly enough earlier, but up close, stripped of pretense, he was something out of a fever dream: sharp jaw, slashing cheekbones, full lips, hair tousled like he’d run hands through it over and over. Moonlight caught turning in pale eyes—silver-gray, so cold it was almost blue. The kind of eyes that saw everything you wanted to hide.

He leaned lazily against the counter, but the tension between us twisted until the very air felt tight, almost electric.

He didn’t bother with preamble.

“So," he drawled, voice so deep I felt it in my ribs, "you’re the new charity case.”