The drive back from the restaurant was nothing like the drive there.
Earlier, the air had been warm, cautious, curious.
Now it was thick. Heavy. Loaded with something neither of them dared touch directly—because touching it meant acknowledging it, and acknowledging it meant risking everything the contract had forced them into.
Dante didn't look at her once on the way home.
Not because he didn't want to.
Because he wanted to too much.
His grip on the armrest was tight enough to show the storm beneath his calm exterior. Camille felt every second of it. The way his jaw shifted. The way he exhaled like he was fighting himself.
She stared out the window, her reflection softer than she felt inside. Elena's sudden appearance replayed in her mind, but not with pain—not this time.
It replayed with a strange sense of vindication.
For once, she wasn't the one being belittled, humiliated, replaced.
For once, someone had chosen her publicly.
