Chapter 2

Celia arrived the next afternoon like she’d never left.

Beautiful in the delicate, curated way women learn when men reward fragility. Soft hair. Small smile. A child clinging to her hand with wide eyes and practiced innocence.

Dante brought them into the Moretti mansion like it was normal.

Like he hadn’t just ripped me out of it.

I came back to pack the rest of my things because I refused to leave anything behind that could be used as a leash.

Celia found me in the upstairs hallway. She held her child close, fingers resting on the little shoulder like a claim.

“Rina,” she said warmly, like we were friends. “Thank you for being… understanding.”

I stared at her. “You’re welcome.”

Her smile faltered for half a heartbeat, then recovered. “Dante says you’re important to him.”

My laugh almost escaped. I swallowed it down.

“Dante says whatever makes things easy,” I replied.

Celia tilted her head. “This is temporary. He told me. Three years, and then everything can settle.”

So she knew the number too.

Of course she did.

Her child looked up at Dante—eyes bright, voice clear. “Daddy?”

My stomach clenched.

Dante didn’t correct him.

He didn’t even blink.

He just rested a hand on the child’s head like this was what family looked like.

Celia’s gaze slid to me, gentle and cruel. “We’ll need the master suite,” she said softly. “For the child. He gets nightmares.”

Dante’s eyes flicked to mine.

He opened his mouth, probably to offer me some lie wrapped in silk.

I beat him to it.

“Families should live together,” I said, voice calm. “I’ll move out.”

Dante’s brows knit. “Rina—”

“It’s fine,” I added. “Really.”

The child smiled. “Yay!”

Celia’s smile widened, satisfied. “You’re so gracious.”

Dante stared at me like I was a stranger.

Maybe I was.

Maybe the version of me that begged for crumbs died last night outside his study door.

—

Later, Celia invited me to dinner “as a thank you.”

I went because her tone wasn’t an invitation—it was a performance. And in Dante’s world, refusing performances made you a target.

The restaurant was dim and expensive and filled with men who smiled without warmth.

I sat alone.

At nine, my wine turned warm.

At ten, I called.

Celia answered sounding breathless. “Rina, I’m so sorry. Nico got sick. Dante and I are at the clinic.”

A pause—too deliberate.

“We forgot to tell you,” she added. “You’re not upset, are you?”

I looked at the empty chair across from me.

“No,” I said. “I’m not upset.”

I ended the call and stood.

As I walked out, I caught a familiar scent—Dante’s cologne, rosemary and amber.

It lingered near the bar.

Like he’d been here earlier.

Like this had been arranged.

My phone buzzed before I reached the car.

Dante’s name lit up the screen.

“Rina,” he said when I answered, voice clipped. “Be at the mansion at eight tomorrow. Wear something appropriate.”

“For what?”

“Just do it,” he snapped.

He hung up.