The hotel suite was silent except for the sound of rain against the glass windows.
Victor had practically forced them there after spending twenty minutes ranting about how "wanted traumatized rich people" should not remain standing in open parking lots arguing about feelings.
So now they were hidden inside one of Dante's private penthouses overlooking the city.
Forty-three floors above ground.
Far away from reporters.
Far away from cameras.
Far away from the ashes of the facility that nearly killed them.
But distance didn't stop the tension sitting heavily between them.
Camille stood near the window wearing one of Dante's black shirts, freshly showered but emotionally exhausted.
The city lights blurred softly beneath the rain.
Everything looked normal outside.
Cars moving.
People walking.
Restaurants glowing warmly in the dark.
Nobody would ever know what had happened beneath the surface of their world.
Nobody would know how close everything came to collapsing.
