Camille expected Dante to cancel.
He always changed his mind when emotions got too close, when control slipped from his fingers and something raw threatened to surface. But when she stepped into the hallway an hour later, she found him already waiting at the elevator, dressed in a black suit that fit him like a second skin.
He didn't look at her immediately.
He didn't have to.
The way his shoulders stiffened told her he had felt her presence the second she appeared.
When he finally turned, his gaze moved over her slowly. Not hungrily. Not possessively.
But with something far more dangerous—acknowledgment.
Tonight, she wasn't an obligation or a contract.
She was someone he wanted to see.
"You're ready," he said quietly.
"Yes."
Silence stretched, warm and charged.
Then he pressed the elevator button.
They rode down without speaking. The air hummed with unspoken things neither of them were ready to touch. Camille's heartbeat matched the soft thrum of the descending lift, each floor tightening the tension between them.
When the doors opened, a sleek black Maybach waited outside.
The chauffeur bowed. Dante didn't speak. He opened the door for her himself.
Camille blinked, startled by the unexpected gesture.
Dante noticed. "Don't make it a big thing," he muttered.
She hid a small smile and got in.
The Drive
The city lights washed over them in gold as they drove through the downtown district. Camille pressed her fingers to the cold window, watching skyscrapers blur past. Dante leaned back, eyes fixed ahead, but his attention wasn't entirely on the road.
His gaze drifted to her reflection more times than he realized.
Camille saw it.
She didn't comment.
"Where are we going?" she finally asked.
"A place where people don't bother us."
"Is that even possible for you?"
Dante's jaw shifted. "Not really. But I can try."
Her chest tightened—strange and warm.
For a moment, she forgot the contract, the revenge, the complications. For a moment, she let herself imagine this was something else—something normal.
Something honest.
The Restaurant
When the car stopped, Camille's breath hitched.
A rooftop glasshouse restaurant, suspended high above the city, glowing soft amber against the night sky. Strings of warm lights framed the entire structure, reflected in the sky like a constellation.
Inside, the tables were spaced far apart, surrounded by trees and candlelight. A private world carved out of the chaos of the city.
Camille turned to Dante.
"This… is beautiful."
He didn't look at the view. He looked at her.
"You deserve it," he said simply.
The words weren't coated in charm or arrogance. They were real.
A waiter led them to a secluded corner, where the night breeze carried a faint scent of jasmine. Camille felt herself relax for the first time in a long time—shoulders dropping, breath steadying.
For the first few minutes, neither of them spoke. Dante ordered for both of them, his voice calm and low. Camille watched the city lights pulse far below, thinking she had never been this high yet felt grounded.
Finally, she broke the silence.
"Why did Matteo bother you so much?"
A muscle jumped in Dante's jaw.
"I don't trust him."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I'm giving."
Camille leaned forward. "Dante."
His name softened him, just enough to make him exhale.
"He saw you," Dante said after a moment, voice tense. "Really saw you. Men like him don't get interested unless there's something they want to take."
"And you think I'd let him?"
"No," he said instantly. "But I don't like people thinking they can touch what they shouldn't."
Camille froze.
There it was again—words he didn't mean to reveal.
A part of him tugging the truth to the surface without permission.
"And what shouldn't they touch?" she asked softly.
He didn't look at her. "You know the answer."
Her heart faltered.
"I don't," she whispered.
Dante finally met her eyes.
Fire. Conflict. Something he tried for weeks to pretend wasn't there.
"You," he said quietly.
Her breath caught.
He didn't reach for her. He didn't lean close. He didn't touch her hand.
But the weight of the word you pressed against her skin like heat.
The Interruption
Just as she was about to answer, the worst possible thing happened.
A familiar voice echoed across the quiet restaurant.
"Dante?"
Camille froze.
She didn't need to turn to know who it was.
Elena.
Her cousin. The woman who stole her past life, her engagement, her place in society. The woman Victor had chosen over her.
Elena walked toward them in a glittering gold dress, a bright smile plastered on her lips—one that faltered the moment she saw Camille.
"Oh," Elena said, her tone dripping false innocence. "I didn't expect to see you here. Either of you."
Camille stiffened.
Dante did not stand. He did not greet her. He simply stared at Elena with the kind of coldness that could freeze oceans.
Elena turned her attention to Camille, her smile sharpening.
"You look… better," she said. "I heard you've been struggling lately. So it's nice you're finally getting out."
Camille inhaled sharply.
Dante's chair scraped softly as he leaned forward.
"Elena."
The warning in his voice made her blink.
"Don't," he said.
"Don't what?" Elena asked innocently.
"Don't speak to her like that."
Elena's eyes widened—more from shock than offense.
"You're defending her?"
"Yes," Dante said without hesitation. "I am."
The entire atmosphere shifted.
Camille felt something warm coil in her chest, unfamiliar and overwhelming. No one had ever defended her publicly. Not like this. Not with conviction that could slice through stone.
Elena's lips tightened. "Well. I suppose we all have our tastes."
Dante's eyes darkened. "Leave."
Elena faltered. "What?"
"You heard me."
There was no raised voice, no anger… just pure, controlled authority that stripped every ounce of power from Elena's posture.
She stepped back.
And left without another word.
The Aftermath
Camille let out a shaky breath the moment Elena disappeared from view.
Dante noticed.
"She won't bother you again," he said.
Camille looked at him. "Why did you do that?"
"Because you don't deserve to be spoken to that way."
"Dante…" Her voice softened, unsteady. "You didn't have to—"
"I did."
Their meals arrived, but neither touched the food.
The world outside glowed in soft gold, city buzzing below, but everything around them felt still.
Calm.
Warm.
Foreign.
Like the chaos of the last few days had been pushed aside by something they weren't ready to name.
"I'm trying," Dante murmured. "With you. I don't know how to be… softer. But I'm trying."
Camille swallowed, her heart twisting.
This was him—exposed, raw, honest in a way he wasn't with anyone else.
And she felt it. All of it.
"You don't have to be soft," she whispered. "You just have to be real."
Dante's gaze found hers again.
And in that moment, the air between them felt like standing at the edge of something vast—dangerous, beautiful, impossible to pull away from.
The tension didn't burn anymore.
It pulled.
It wrapped.
It settled into something deeper.
Something that terrified them both.