The morning light spilled across the marble floors like liquid gold, warming the quiet calm of the penthouse. Camille woke slowly, blinking against the soft sunlight. For the first time in what felt like weeks, her body wasn't braced for danger or chaos. She lay there, listening—really listening—to the silence.
It felt unreal.
No gunshots.
No arguing.
No threats wrapped in velvet danger.
Just… peace.
She turned her head slightly. Dante wasn't beside her. The sheets were cool on his side, but the faint scent of cedar and smoke lingered. Her heart tugged, the way it always did when his presence felt too big and too close and yet too far all at once.
She sat up, brushing back a strand of hair as she noticed something on the nightstand: a single white card, embossed cleanly with Dante's handwriting—sharp strokes, purposeful, the way he moved through the world.
"Come downstairs when you're ready. — D."
Her chest warmed despite herself.
He remembered.
