I woke up thirsty.
The kind of thirst that sat heavy at the back of my throat, dry and uncomfortable, dragging me out of sleep even though my body begged to stay still. The house was silent—too silent. No music. No distant footsteps. No Dante.
He hadn't been around all day.
Ever since the guard dragged me back inside and locked the doors behind me, I'd been waiting. Waiting for his smile. His questions. His usual calm presence that somehow always felt like a cage dressed up as comfort.
Nothing came.
By the time I slipped out of bed, the digital clock on the wall glowed 12:07 a.m.
I padded down the hallway toward the kitchen, the marble floor cold beneath my feet.
That was when I saw him.
Dante sat at the kitchen table, a single glass of whiskey in front of him. His suit jacket was discarded over the back of the chair, his tie loosened around his collar. He looked up as I entered, his expression cold and unreadable.
