The crumpled paper felt like a shard of glass in Elena's palm.
Run.
The ballroom, once a sea of golden light and shimmering silk, suddenly felt like a closing trap. The air grew thick, smelling of expensive perfumes and a hint of ozone from the cooling rain outside. Elena's lungs burned. She looked toward the heavy oak doors where Dante had disappeared. He was gone, swallowed by the shadows of men in black suits and the whispers of old enemies.
Was the woman telling the truth? Was the auction just a stage for something more violent?
Elena moved. She didn't think, she just let her feet lead her toward the service exit. Her midnight blue gown rustled against the marble floor, a sound that seemed deafening in her ears. She passed a waiter carrying a tray of empty flutes, her shoulder brushing his, nearly sending the crystal shattering. She didn't apologize. She couldn't breathe.
She pushed through the heavy velvet curtains and slipped into the back hallway. The silence here was sharp. The cold air from the loading docks hit her face, damp and biting. She reached the heavy steel door, her fingers fumbling with the latch.
The door swung open, and the city's roar rushed in. She stepped out into the alleyway, the rain starting to fall again in thin, needle-like streaks. She took one step, then two.
"Where are you going, Elena?"
The voice was like a physical wall. She froze, her heart leaping into her throat.
Dante was leaning against the black sedan parked at the end of the alley. He was silhouetted by the streetlights, a trail of smoke rising from the cigarette between his fingers. He looked calm—too calm. But as he stepped into the light, Elena saw the way his jaw was set, a jagged line of tension.
"I... I needed air," she stammered. Her hand instinctively tightened around the note.
Dante didn't move. He just watched her, his obsidian eyes tracking every twitch of her expression. He flicked the cigarette away. It hissed as it hit a puddle.
"In the rain? Without a coat?" He began to walk toward her, his footsteps slow and deliberate. Click. Click. Click. The sound of a predator closing in. "You were never a good liar. Even five years ago, your eyes always gave you away."
"Dante, I just—"
He reached out, his movements too fast for her to react. He didn't grab her, but his hand closed around her wrist, lifting it. He pried her fingers open. The crumpled note fell onto his palm.
Elena's breath hitched. She watched as he smoothed out the paper. His face didn't change as he read the word Run. If anything, he looked bored.
"Who gave this to you?" he asked. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble.
"I don't know. A woman... she said someone else was bidding. She said you bought me as a ransom." Elena looked at him, her eyes searching his face for a crack, a sign, anything. "Dante, tell me the truth. Am I in danger? Is that why you did it? Not for revenge, but because—"
"Because I'm a saint?" Dante cut her off with a sharp, humorless laugh. He crumpled the note back into a ball and tossed it into the gutter. He stepped closer, pinning her against the cold brick wall of the hotel. He didn't touch her anywhere else, but his presence was a cage. "Don't mistake a business transaction for a rescue mission, Elena."
"Then why the ten million?" she whispered, her voice cracking. "My family's assets aren't worth half that. You paid double what anyone else would have."
Dante leaned down, his lips inches from her ear. She could smell the tobacco and the faint, bitter scent of the gin he'd had at the bar.
"I paid ten million because I wanted to make sure no one else could touch you," he murmured. His thumb grazed the pulse point at her wrist, a touch that was both intimate and terrifying. "There are people out there who want you dead because of what your father did. And there are people who want to use you to get to the money he hid."
Elena's head snapped up. "He didn't hide any money. We lost everything."
"That's what you believe," Dante said, his gaze hardening. "But the world doesn't care about your beliefs. To them, you're a map to a treasure chest. To me..." He paused, his hand moving to her throat, not squeezing, just resting there. The heat of his palm was the only warm thing in the alley. "To me, you're the only thing left of the man who tried to destroy me. And I'm not letting anyone else have the pleasure of breaking you."
He pulled back, the cold air rushing between them. He opened the car door.
"Get in. We're leaving."
The drive back to the estate was a blur of neon lights and heavy rain. Elena sat in the back seat, her mind a chaotic storm. She looked at Dante's reflection in the rearview mirror. He was staring at his phone, his thumb tapping rhythmically against the screen.
He's protecting me, she thought. Then, a second later: He's using me as bait.
When they arrived at the manor, the gates groaned shut behind them. The sound felt final.
Dante didn't wait for the driver to open his door. He stepped out and walked toward the house, but stopped when he realized Elena wasn't following. He turned back, his silhouette framed by the glowing windows of the foyer.
"The East Wing is locked for the night," he said. "You'll stay in the main suite. With me."
Elena's heart skipped. "The contract said—"
"The contract said you belong to me for a year," he interrupted. His voice was flat, devoid of the heat from the alleyway. "And tonight, I don't feel like sleeping with a target on my back. If they want you, they have to come through me. Now, move."
She followed him into the house. The black marble floors felt like ice under her feet. They reached the master bedroom—a space filled with shadows and the scent of cedarwood. Dante took off his jacket and tossed it onto a chair. He began to unbutton his shirt, his movements efficient and indifferent.
Elena stood by the door, her hands clutching her silk skirt. "Where am I supposed to sleep?"
Dante gestured toward the massive bed. "There's enough room for both of us to pretend the other doesn't exist. Unless you'd prefer the floor?"
He sat on the edge of the bed, his back to her. Elena saw the scars then—not just the one on his jaw, but the faint, jagged marks across his shoulders. They were old, but they told a story of a life she had never understood while she was living in her ivory tower.
She walked to the other side of the bed and lay down, still in her midnight blue gown. She stared at the ceiling, her body stiff.
"Dante?" she whispered after a long silence.
"Go to sleep, Elena."
"Why did you keep the notebook? If you hate me so much, why did you keep it for five years?"
The silence that followed was so long she thought he had fallen asleep. Then, she heard the sound of the sheets shifting.
"To remind myself that even a princess can lie," he said. His voice was low, and for the first time, it didn't sound like a threat. It sounded like a wound. "You told me I had a soul. And then you watched them try to take it from me."
"I was seventeen, Dante! I was scared! I didn't know how to stop them!" She turned toward him, her eyes burning with tears she refused to let fall.
Dante turned his head. In the dim light, his eyes looked like two bottomless pits. He reached out, his hand hovering over her face for a second before his fingers traced the line of her jaw.
"Fear is no excuse for silence, Elena. Not in my world."
He withdrew his hand and closed his eyes. Elena lay there, the scent of him filling her senses. She realized then that the ransom wasn't just about her life. Dante was holding her captive in the ruins of their past, and the only way out was to find the soul he claimed he had lost.
But as she drifted toward a restless sleep, one thought remained: If the note was right... who is the one still bidding?