Morning sunlight hit the glass walls of the penthouse long before Camille opened her eyes. For the first time in days, the air wasn't heavy with confrontation or unspoken wounds. It felt… calmer. Almost peaceful.
Almost.
Camille stepped out of her room after a long shower, wrapped in a soft robe, her hair damp and falling around her shoulders. She expected to find the penthouse quiet, but instead—
Voices. Low. Male. Unfamiliar.
She paused.
Dante didn't entertain guests in his home. Anyone who entered that space was someone he trusted completely—or someone he was willing to use.
Curiosity pulled her forward.
When she stepped into the lounge, the sharp scent of cologne and quiet laughter greeted her. Three men in tailored suits stood by the glass balcony, glasses of whiskey in hand. The city skyline stretched behind them like a painted backdrop.
They stopped talking the moment they saw her.
All except him.
The one in the center. Tall. Handsome in a polished, practiced way. Smiling too easily, too directly.
His eyes swept over her—not disrespectfully, but with interest. Genuine interest.
"Good morning," he said, lips curling. "I don't think we've met."
Camille blinked, taken off guard. "I—"
Before she could answer, Dante's voice cut in like a blade.
"She wasn't supposed to be down yet."
He strode in from the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, jaw tight. Possessiveness radiated off him—subtle to others, thunderous to her.
The unfamiliar man raised an eyebrow.
"Is that how you greet your wife in front of company, Dante?"
Camille stiffened. Wife. The word carried too much weight, too many implications she hadn't sorted through.
Dante ignored the comment.
"Camille," he said, voice low, "this is Matteo Deveraux. And his associates."
Matteo. That name. She had heard it somewhere—whispers about a businessman who played every boardroom like a warzone. Smart. Charming. Dangerous in a different way than Dante.
Matteo extended his hand.
Camille hesitated.
Dante's eyes darkened.
And that was all Matteo needed to smirk.
He stepped closer—too close. Not invading her space, but standing just near enough that the move was intentional. Calculated. Testing.
"It's an honor. Dante never introduces anyone. Normally, everything in his life is locked behind bulletproof glass."
Camille took his hand politely.
A spark—not romantic, not emotional, but bold.
Matteo's thumb brushed the back of her hand lightly in greeting.
Simple. Normal.
Yet Dante's jaw flexed like someone had pulled a trigger.
"That's enough," Dante said quietly.
Matteo released her hand but didn't look away from her. "My apologies. Didn't realize she was off limits."
Camille's breath hitched.
Off limits?
Dante stepped between them, his back a wall of controlled fury. He didn't touch her, but his presence was enough to burn the air.
"She's not here for your entertainment," Dante said.
"Entertainment?" Camille snapped, offended by both men now.
"Relax," Matteo murmured to her. "Your husband just enjoys guarding what's his."
"I'm not—"
Dante cut in again, sharper. "We're done here. Meetings continue off-site."
Matteo chuckled. "Hit a nerve, did I?"
No one moved.
Tension thickened until it vibrated in the room.
Then Matteo leaned in slightly—not toward her, but toward Dante—speaking just loudly enough for Camille to hear.
"You're losing control. Interesting."
Dante's eyes turned lethal.
Camille felt her pulse race.
The atmosphere, once cold, now simmered—charged with something unfamiliar, dangerous, impossible to ignore.
Matteo finally stepped back and grabbed his coat.
"I'll see myself out," he said smoothly. "Camille, a pleasure."
Dante didn't relax until the elevator doors shut.
Only then did he turn to her.
And nothing in his face was calm.
"Why were you looking at him like that?"
Camille froze. "Looking at him like what?"
"You know exactly what I mean."
"No," she shot back, "I don't. Because I didn't do anything."
"You didn't push him away."
"I shook his hand!"
"It was the way you looked at him."
Camille stared in disbelief. "Are you serious?"
But Dante wasn't joking. His expression was storm-dark, voice low, shoulders tense as steel.
Camille took a step forward. "What is your problem?"
"You," he said without hesitation.
The word hit her chest like impact.
"You are my problem," he continued. "You walk into a room and disrupt the entire balance. You don't even realize it."
Her breath caught.
"This is ridiculous," she murmured.
"Is it?" Dante stepped closer. "Matteo sat down, saw you once, and forgot why he came here. Do you think that's normal?"
"That's not my fault—"
"It becomes your fault when you encourage it."
"I didn't encourage anything!"
"Yes," he said, quieter now, more dangerous, "you did."
Camille felt her heart hammering, frustration rising like heat.
"Do you want me to hide in my room again?" she snapped. "Avoid breathing around other men so you don't… what? Get annoyed? Get jealous?"
Dante's eyes sharpened.
"That's not what this is."
"Then what is it, Dante? Explain it to me. Because every time someone looks at me, you act like—"
She stopped.
Because Dante's expression shifted—raw, unguarded, almost vulnerable for a split second before he masked it.
"Like what?" he asked quietly.
Camille swallowed.
"Like you care."
Silence.
Heavy. Electric.
Something flickered in his eyes, the kind of emotion she'd never seen from him—an admission he refused to voice, a truth he fought to bury.
He stepped closer until there were only inches between them.
Too close. Too charged.
"Camille," he said slowly, "I don't care."
But his voice betrayed him. It wasn't steady. Not controlled. Not cold.
He sounded like someone trying to convince himself.
Camille's pulse thundered.
"If you didn't care," she said softly, "you wouldn't have reacted like that."
"You think you understand me?"
"Maybe not. But I know what I saw."
Dante exhaled sharply, looking away as if the room itself was too small.
"Matteo isn't someone you flirt with."
"I wasn't flirting!"
"He wanted something from you."
"And maybe you're not used to that! Maybe no one ever tells you no, so when someone doesn't act the way you expect—"
"Don't," he warned.
But Camille didn't back down.
"You're angry because someone else noticed me. Someone saw me. Someone looked at me like I mattered."
Dante's eyes snapped back up.
"You matter," he said instantly.
She froze.
He looked like he regretted it the moment the words escaped.
But he didn't take them back.
Camille's breath trembled.
Dante stepped closer again, voice low. "I don't want you near Matteo. Or anyone like him. Not because I think you're weak. But because I know what men like that want."
"And what do you want?" she whispered.
His jaw tightened.
Emotion flickered again—real, sharp, and undeniable—but he didn't speak it.
He couldn't.
He simply stood there, breathing hard, shoulders tense.
Camille swallowed, chest tight, trying to understand him, trying to read the emotion he kept locked behind iron walls.
The air between them buzzed.
Not soft.
Not tender.
But powerful. Pulling. Magnetic.
If she moved even a little, she would brush against him.
If he leaned in even slightly, the space between them would collapse completely.
Dante finally stepped back, breaking the moment.
But his voice was softer, rougher, when he spoke.
"I'm taking you out tonight."
Camille blinked. "Why?"
"Because you deserve something other than chaos."
It wasn't anger anymore.
It wasn't control.
It was something else—something he couldn't hide no matter how hard he tried.
"Get ready," he said, already turning away. "I won't let today end like this."
Camille watched him walk off, her heart racing in a way she couldn't explain.
Jealousy had exposed something he tried so hard to bury.
Something real.
Something dangerous.
Something that terrified them both.