Dante didn't normally pace.
He was a man who stood still, commanded stillness, was stillness. But tonight, he crossed his office floor like a storm in a cage sharp turns, clipped breaths, the stiffness of someone holding himself together by force.
Camille heard none of that.
Because she was on the other side of her bedroom door, pressing her palm against the wood, trying to breathe through the noise exploding in her chest.
She had heard too much.
And not enough.
Questions dragged at her like heavy chains What photographs? Why Victor? Why her? Why was Dante fighting shadows alone?
But deeper than the confusion was something she didn't want to acknowledge.
Something warm.
Something dangerous.
Something that felt like a door opening inside her without permission.
She pushed away from the door.
She shouldn't confront him. She shouldn't ask anything. She shouldn't even step outside the room.
But her feet moved anyway.
