Camille didn't sleep that night.
She lay awake in the vast, cold luxury of the Moretti penthouse bedroom, staring at the ceiling while her past crawled out of the shadows she thought she'd buried.
Victor.
Elena.
Her cousin.
Her ex-fiancé.
The two people who tore her heart apart and then acted as if she was the villain for feeling hurt.
And now one of them was leaking photos of her marriage?
She shouldn't be surprised.
But she was furious.
At them.
At herself.
At the universe for refusing to give her peace.
When dawn finally crawled across the sky, Camille sat up, splashed cold water on her face, tied her hair back, and marched straight into the kitchen.
She wasn't expecting Dante to be awake.
But he was.
He stood over the counter, reading documents on his tablet, a cup of coffee untouched at his side. He looked sharp, polished, dangerously calm the kind of calm that came before a storm.
His eyes lifted when she approached.
