Dante didn't normally pace.
He was a man who stood still, commanded stillness, was stillness. But tonight, he crossed his office floor like a storm in a cage sharp turns, clipped breaths, the stiffness of someone holding himself together by force.
Camille heard none of that.
Because she was on the other side of her bedroom door, pressing her palm against the wood, trying to breathe through the noise exploding in her chest.
She had heard too much.
And not enough.
Questions dragged at her like heavy chains What photographs? Why Victor? Why her? Why was Dante fighting shadows alone?
But deeper than the confusion was something she didn't want to acknowledge.
Something warm.
Something dangerous.
Something that felt like a door opening inside her without permission.
She pushed away from the door.
She shouldn't confront him. She shouldn't ask anything. She shouldn't even step outside the room.
But her feet moved anyway.
The hallway felt colder now, as if the entire mansion sensed the shift in the air. A single light glowed downstairs, spilling from Dante's office like a warning.
For a moment, she hesitated.
What if he was angry she overheard? What if he pushed her away again? What if she misread the softness in his voice, the way it broke around the edges when he said he shouldn't care?
But truth real truth didn't come from running.
She squared her shoulders and walked toward the office.
The door was nearly closed now.
But not fully.
He never fully closed doors unless he wanted to shut someone out entirely.
She reached for the handle.
Her fingers hovered.
Her pulse hammered.
Then she pushed it open.
Dante stopped pacing instantly.
He turned sharply eyes finding her in an instant, as if he'd been waiting. His suit jacket hung open, tie loosened, hair slightly disheveled, giving him a strangely human look she wasn't used to seeing.
For three long seconds, neither of them spoke.
Then Dante's jaw tightened in a way that told her everything.
He knew.
He knew she'd heard.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asked, voice too calm to be natural.
"No," she said. "Could you?"
His eyes flickered. A small crack in the armor.
"Walk," he said suddenly.
"What?"
He gestured toward the hallway. "If you want answers… and I know you do… I'd rather not give them standing in a doorway."
He brushed past her, the closeness making her breath hitch warm, sharp, startling. She followed him down the halls until they reached the glass-walled conservatory. Moonlight poured in from every angle, bathing the room in silver.
Dante stopped near the center, hands in his pockets, staring at the moon as if it could offer him a script to follow.
"You heard," he said quietly.
"I did."
His posture stiffened.
"How much?"
"Enough," Camille replied softly. "Enough to know someone is targeting me. Enough to know you've been dealing with it alone."
Silence.
Heavy.
Loaded.
Cracking at the edges.
Dante exhaled slowly. "You weren't supposed to hear that."
"But I did."
He finally looked at her.
Really looked.
His eyes sharpened with something that wasn't anger or frustration it was fear wearing the mask of control.
"Camille," he said, voice low, "some things are easier to handle when the other person doesn't know they're in danger."
She blinked. "Danger?"
He cursed under his breath. A soft, frustrated sound she'd never heard from him.
"Not physical," he clarified. "Reputation. Influence. Your past. The people who want to harm you will use anything they can."
"Because of you?" she asked.
A muscle ticked in his jaw.
"Because of what you are to me."
Her breath caught.
He didn't look away this time.
"Dante…" she whispered, unsure where to place the word in the space between them.
He stepped closer not touching, but too close to ignore. She could feel the tension rolling off him like heat.
His voice softened. "I'm not good at this. At explaining myself. At being… understood."
"You don't have to be good at it," she said. "You just have to be honest."
That shook him.
He rubbed a hand over his neck, eyes darting away, as if honesty was a battlefield he wasn't prepared to walk into.
"The pictures," he began quietly. "They were doctored. Manipulated. Someone wants to drag you through the mud using your past with Victor."
Her stomach twisted. "Why? What do they gain?"
"Pain," he said simply. "Leverage. Chaos. And possibly attention."
She clenched her hands. "So Elena."
"Not confirmed," he replied. "But she's… likely involved."
Camille swallowed. The hurt came fast and sharp despite everything she'd tried to bury.
Dante watched the shift in her expression, and something in him softened. Without thinking, he reached out then hesitated halfway, fingers curling as if touching her was too dangerous.
But his voice gentled.
"I will handle it."
"What if you can't?"
His eyes hardened fierce, unyielding. "I don't fail at things I care about."
Her heartbeat jumped.
It shouldn't have but it did.
"Why?" Camille whispered. "Why do you care?"
The question felt like a blade held between them sharp, demanding, impossible to ignore.
Dante inhaled deeply, straightening. His walls were rising again, inch by inch, but not fast enough to hide what flashed across his eyes
Something raw.
Something real.
Something he was desperate to deny.
Then he said, almost too quietly:
"Because seeing you break in public tonight felt… wrong."
Her chest tightened.
"I don't want you shattered by people who don't deserve to touch even a fragment of you."
Silence fell again but this time, it throbbed with emotion instead of confusion.
She stepped forward before she could stop herself. "Dante…"
He tensed not pulling away, but bracing as if the air itself had become too close.
"You shouldn't be near me right now," he murmured. "I'm not in the right state of mind."
"I'm not afraid of you."
"You should be."
She shook her head. "I'm only afraid of being kept in the dark."
That got him.
He closed his eyes briefly, as if steadying himself. When he opened them again, they were clearer, but the storm inside hadn't faded.
"I'll tell you everything," he said. "But not tonight. Tonight… I need to think before I make a mistake."
She nodded, but something inside her still ached.
She turned to walk away
Then Dante's voice stopped her.
"Camille."
She looked back.
His eyes held hers, unguarded for a single breathtaking second.
"You weren't wrong to listen."
Her breath trembled.
"And you're not a burden. Not to me."
The words hit deeper than he knew.
She swallowed, nodded once, and slipped out of the conservatory.
Dante stood there long after she left, jaw clenched, fists tight, fighting something he refused to name.
He knew she overheard.
He knew the truth was unraveling.
And he knew one thing with alarming clarity:
This wasn't just a contract anymore.
Not even close.