Camille woke slowly, her lashes fluttering against the velvet pillow, the faint hum of the penthouse's hidden ventilation brushing warm air over her skin. For the first time in what felt like ages, she wasn't waking to panic, threats, or Dante dragging her into another storm. She woke to silence. Clean, golden, quiet luxury.
The satin sheets were cool under her palm. She stretched slightly—then froze.
An arm was draped around her waist. Heavy. Warm. Steady.
Dante.
His breathing was even, slow, the kind that didn't belong to the ruthless devil heir she'd seen interrogate a grown man without blinking. In sleep, he looked… different. Less carved from iron. His dark hair fell partly across his forehead, and there was something almost boyish in the way his fingers curled against her hip, unconsciously claiming her even in rest.
For a long moment, she simply stared.
Everything between them had been so intense lately—danger, distrust, overheard secrets, near arguments, dark truths—and yet here, in the dim morning light, he looked like the kind of man she could maybe, almost trust.
Her heart tightened.
Stop, she scolded herself. Don't start falling for him because he looks peaceful in the morning.
Carefully, she began shifting to slip out of his hold—
But Dante's arm tightened instantly, pulling her back against him with surprising gentleness.
"Don't," he murmured, voice low from sleep. "Five more minutes."
Camille's breath caught.
"I wasn't going anywhere," she said quietly, though she wasn't sure if it was entirely true.
He hummed—a warm, deep sound against the nape of her neck. "Good."
For a moment, there was nothing but the warmth of the sheets and the faint glow from the tall glass windows overlooking the entire city. A soft-life kind of moment she wasn't used to. A fragile one.
After a few minutes, he finally opened his eyes.
"Morning," she said cautiously.
He studied her, his eyes still soft from sleep. "You look better."
"I actually slept."
"Because you weren't worried I'd bury you alive while you slept?" he said dryly.
She rolled her eyes. "You're not funny."
His lips curved. "I'm hilarious."
She tried not to smile. Tried.
Dante sat up slowly, leaning against the carved black headboard, and for once there was no armor in his posture. No cold mask.
Just him.
"Camille," he said suddenly, voice more serious. "About what you overheard yesterday…"
Her pulse jumped.
So he did realize.
She lifted her chin. "I wasn't trying to listen—"
"I know." He ran a hand through his hair. "But you heard enough."
"And?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
He didn't look away. "And you deserve answers."
Her heart skipped. He wasn't dodging. He wasn't manipulating. He wasn't intimidating her.
He was being… honest.
"What part do you want first?" Dante asked. "The part about the attack? The part about my father's warnings? Or the part about the person who wants to use you against me?"
Camille felt her stomach twist.
She whispered, "Start with the truth you've been avoiding the longest."
"That would be my father," he said quietly.
He shifted closer, resting his forearms on his knees, staring at the city beyond the window like it helped him speak.
"My father doesn't trust anyone. Not even me. He thinks emotions are weaknesses. Attachments are liabilities." Dante let out a slow breath. "He saw the way I looked at you."
Camille blinked. "The way you… looked at me?"
His jaw flexed. His silence was answer enough.
Her heart thudded—hard.
"So he thinks you're… distracted?" she whispered.
"He thinks you're my soft spot," Dante said, voice low. "And he's right."
Camille inhaled sharply.
He continued before she could react.
"That's why he gave me those warnings. He knows someone is trying to provoke me. And he knows the fastest way is using you as bait."
The room felt suddenly colder.
"Who?" she whispered. "Who would target me?"
Dante's expression darkened.
"Someone connected to your cousin Elena's marriage," he said. "And to Victor."
Camille froze. The name alone sent a sharp sting through her chest.
But Dante's voice softened. "I know what Victor did. Leaving you for Elena. Betraying you. Humiliating you."
She clenched her fists. "That's in the past."
"Not for them," Dante said. "They didn't just abandon you. They want something from you. Something they think you still have."
Camille blinked in confusion. "I don't have anything."
"You do," Dante said quietly. "You just don't know it yet."
Her pulse raced.
"What are you talking about?"
He met her eyes. "Your father left something behind—something that ties directly into the business empire Victor's new in-laws are trying to expand into."
She stared at him, stunned.
"My father didn't leave anything," she said. "He—he died with nothing."
"That's what you think," Dante said. "But everyone else knows otherwise."
She swallowed hard.
A thousand questions stormed her mind, but one rose louder than the rest.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
His jaw tightened. "Because I needed time to confirm. And because if you panicked, you'd run."
She looked at him sharply. "You think I'd run?"
"No," he said, voice low and firm. "I think you'd run from me."
Her breath hitched.
There it was—the real truth.
She lowered her voice. "And now? Why are you telling me now?"
Dante moved closer, slowly, deliberately, until his arm brushed hers.
"Because someone called me last night," he said. "Someone who shouldn't have your number."
Camille's blood ran cold.
"My… number?"
He nodded. "They sent a warning."
"What did it say?"
Dante held her gaze, unreadable. "It said: She doesn't know what she carries. But soon, she will. And when she does… she'll die for it."
Her breath shattered. "Dante—"
"You're safe here," he said instantly, voice turning fierce. "I won't let anything happen to you. Not now. Not ever."
Her chest tightened painfully.
"Why?" she whispered. "Why are you acting like this suddenly?"
Dante didn't hesitate.
"Because I can't lose you."
The air between them thickened.
Her pulse roared in her ears as Dante leaned in—slow, deliberate, intense—but he didn't kiss her. Instead, he rested his forehead gently against hers, grounding her.
His voice was a whisper. "Let me protect you, Camille."
Her fingers trembled on the sheets.
After everything—fear, danger, heartbreak, betrayal—this was the first time she felt something close to… safety.
She closed her eyes and breathed out shakily. "Okay."
When she opened them again, Dante's expression had softened with something rare.
Relief.
He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered—a warm, gentle graze that sent a shiver down her spine.
"You deserve peace," he murmured. "You deserve softness. And I promise you… I'll give you that."
Outside, the early sun spilled across the penthouse's glass walls like gold.
Inside, Camille felt something she hadn't felt in years.
Hope.
"Today," Dante said, standing up with quiet determination, "you're not leaving this penthouse. No danger. No stress. Just comfort."
"What do you mean?" she asked.
He turned back with a small, rare half-smile. "I booked the entire rooftop spa. For you."
Her lips parted. "You… what?"
"You deserve a soft life," he said softly. "And I intend to give you one… starting now."
Her heart thudded uncontrollably.
Maybe this wasn't just a contract anymore.
Maybe something deeper was unfolding—dangerous, risky, forbidden—but real.
And it was only the beginning.