Ophelia's POV:
The days after the attack blurred into one another.
Ophelia learned quickly that fear didn't always scream. Sometimes it whispered, soft and persistent, curling into the quiet moments when the house was too still and her thoughts too loud.
The Ravenwood Estate had never felt this large.
Sunlight spilled through tall windows, illuminating marble floors and antique walls that had stood long before she was born. It was a home built on legacy, on old money and quiet power. Yet for the first time, it felt less like a sanctuary and more like a gilded cage.
Her ankle throbbed faintly beneath the wrap as she moved slowly through the sitting room, careful not to strain it. The doctor had called it a mild sprain. Rest, he'd insisted. Your body's been through enough.
Rest was easier during the day.
At night, sleep abandoned her.
Vivienne had barely left her side since she returned home. Vivi hovered with a gentleness that felt almost comforting, warm tea, soft reassurances, a constant reminder that Ophelia wasn't alone.
"You should let Father know you're truly okay," Vivi said one afternoon, settling across from her with a concerned look. "He's been calling nonstop."
Ophelia nodded. "I will."
Vivi smiled. "Good. I'll handle the rest. Security, inquiries… we'll figure this out together."
Together.
The word lingered long after Vivi left the room.
Later that evening, Ophelia sat on the edge of her bed and dialed her father's number.
He answered on the second ring.
"Ophelia."
Her chest tightened at the sound of his voice. "Hi, Dad."
"I just landed in Zurich," Alaric Ravenwood said, his tone strained despite his attempt at calm. "Vivi told me what happened."
"I'm okay," she said quickly. "I promise."
"You were chased," he replied sharply. "In my city. While I was halfway across the world."
"It wasn't your fault."
A pause followed, heavy and filled with unspoken worry.
"They didn't take anything," Ophelia added. "They just… followed me."
"That's what concerns me," her father said quietly. "This wasn't random."
She swallowed. "I know."
"I've instructed security to double patrols. No one leaves the estate without an escort."
"I don't want to live afraid," she murmured.
"I know," he said, softer now. "But promise me you'll be careful."
"I promise."
When the call ended, Ophelia stared out at the city beyond her window. New York glowed beneath the night sky, bright, alive, indifferent. Somewhere within it, answers existed.
She just didn't know where to look.
The following days brought no clarity.
Security found nothing. No usable footage. No witnesses willing to speak. Even the restaurant staff remembered nothing unusual beyond a normal evening crowd.
It was as if the men had vanished into thin air.
Lucien called once, her cousin's voice smooth and polite as he expressed concern, reminding her to rest and offering help through his connections. Aunt Celeste sent a brief message, formal and distant, wishing her a "speedy recovery."
Everyone cared.
Yet no one had answers.
That unsettled her more than the attack itself.
One evening, as she sat alone in the living room, Vivi joined her quietly.
"You've been distant," Vivi said gently. "You don't have to carry this alone."
Ophelia forced a small smile. "I know. I just… keep thinking about it."
"About the men?"
"About why," she admitted. "Someone knew my routine. Knew I was alone."
Vivi's gaze flickered, just for a second, before softening again. "Maybe it was coincidence."
"Maybe," Ophelia said, though the word didn't sit right.
Later that night, long after the house had gone silent, Ophelia lay awake staring at the ceiling. The city lights cast faint shadows across the room, dancing like restless thoughts.
Her mind drifted back to the restaurant.
To the warmth of candlelight.
To the calm she'd felt before everything shattered.
To the stranger who had stepped in when she thought she was alone.
She still didn't know his name.
But she knew one thing with unsettling certainty.
If answers existed anywhere, they were waiting where it all began.
And despite the fear still clinging to her bones, Ophelia knew she would return to the restaurant, because some debts demanded closure, and some saviors refused to stay faceless.
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Dante's Parallel POV :
Sleep avoided him.
Not because of unfinished business, that was familiar, but because his mind refused to let go of a woman he should have already forgotten.
Dante Moretti stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of his penthouse, the city stretching endlessly below. New York glittered under the night sky, distant and indifferent, unaware of the quiet war already unfolding within its streets.
He thought of her again.
The look in her eyes when fear finally reached her.
Wide. Disbelieving. Terrified.
He'd watched the moment it happened, the second she realized she was being followed. How her steps faltered. How panic stripped her of reason and sent her running without direction.
He'd cursed under his breath and moved faster, instincts taking over as the men closed in and the city swallowed her whole.
Now, days later, the memory refused to fade.
He wondered if she was better.
If exhaustion had finally claimed her.
If she was sleeping, or lying awake like him, replaying every step that had led her into danger.
He hadn't asked for her number.
Hadn't asked her name.
That restraint was deliberate.
Getting too close to innocent things only got them ruined.
Dante turned away from the window and picked up his phone.
"Talk," he said when the call connected.
"We have the men," the voice replied. "They're not cooperative."
"They will be," Dante said calmly. "I want names. Who hired them. How they knew her routine."
"And if they don't?"
His grip tightened slightly around the phone. "Then they'll learn."
The call ended.
Another followed.
"Increase surveillance around the Ravenwood Estate," he instructed. "Discreet. No uniforms."
"Understood."
He set the phone down, jaw tight.
Dante didn't intervene without reason. Every move he made carried consequences. Lines once crossed were rarely uncrossed.
Yet he'd crossed one willingly.
Not because she'd asked.
But because someone had decided she was easy prey.
That mistake would cost them.
He poured himself a drink but didn't touch it, his gaze drifting back to the city.
She had thanked him before leaving the car, quietly, like gratitude itself still frightened her. Then she'd disappeared behind gates and walls meant to keep the world out.
Good.
She didn't need to see the part of him that came next.
Not yet.
——————————————————————
Ophelia stood in front of her mirror, the city lights casting a soft glow through the bedroom window. Her ankle still throbbed faintly from the sprain, but she ignored it, wrapping it carefully in the lace of a supportive bandage. She tugged at the hem of her dress, smoothing it over her curves. Simple, elegant, nothing too flashy, she didn't want to announce herself, only… to be seen.
Her fingers lingered over the necklace her mother had left her, a small gold charm that always reminded her of home, of safety. She took a deep breath, trying to calm the jittering in her chest.
Why am I doing this? she thought. Fear still gripped her, vivid memories of the men chasing her clung stubbornly to her mind. But there was something she couldn't shake. A pull she didn't fully understand, a need to know who had saved her.
She slipped into her shoes, the quiet click against the marble floor echoing like a heartbeat. The city outside hummed, alive and dangerous in its own way, and she imagined Dante somewhere in its shadows, always watching, always in control.
Her reflection stared back at her: pale but determined, trembling but unbroken. She swallowed the nervous lump in her throat. Tonight, she would go back. Tonight, she would face the unknown.
And maybe, just maybe, she'd finally see him again.
——————————————————————
Ophelia adjusted the last strand of hair falling across her face and studied her reflection in the mirror. Her dress was simple, flowing, the kind that didn't demand attention but somehow commanded it. It hugged her in all the right places without trying too hard, soft fabric brushing over her curves. She looked… good. Really good. Not flashy, not overdone, just effortless elegance, the kind of presence that lingered in a room long after she left. Her ankle throbbed slightly, a reminder of the night she'd run, but she ignored it, flexing it gently and testing each step. She moved with grace, masking the tremor in her limbs, projecting confidence even as her heart hammered against her chest.
Her fingers lingered on the delicate gold necklace she always wore, a gift from her mother, a reminder of strength, of grounding, of who she was. Taking a deep breath, she let herself imagine that tonight would be ordinary. Calm. Safe. A night without fear, without running, without shadows lurking just beyond the light. And yet, the pull she felt in her chest told her it wouldn't be ordinary. Not tonight.
She straightened her back and glanced at her reflection one last time. Her hair caught the dim light of the room, glowing softly, and her eyes, wide and alert, reflected a determination she hadn't fully felt in days. She had survived. She had made it home. And now, she would do something she had never dared before, she would step back into the world that had almost swallowed her whole.
Her phone buzzed softly on the vanity. She picked it up and called the driver, giving the address of the restaurant with steady hands, though her pulse raced beneath the surface. The city was alive outside, a thousand lights blinking and swaying, taxis honking, pedestrians moving in constant motion. It should have been ordinary, but the memory of the men following her clung stubbornly to her mind. Every shadow in the street, every figure that moved too quickly, made her heart stutter. She told herself it was just the city, not her imagination. Just the night, not the memory.
The ride to the restaurant was quiet. The driver didn't speak, leaving her alone with her thoughts. She stared out the window, taking in the blur of lights, the endless stream of cars, the towering buildings that made her feel both small and strangely protected. She wondered if Dante was out there somewhere, in some corner of the city, always watching, always in control. And then she shook the thought away. She didn't know him. Not really. She barely knew anything about the man who had saved her.
Yet she felt the pull. The need to see him again. To know who he was. To somehow repay a debt she couldn't explain. She pressed her hands together in her lap and took a deep breath. It's just a visit, she told herself. Nothing more. No expectations. Just answers.
When the car finally stopped in front of the restaurant, she paused for a moment, taking in the familiar façade. Candlelight glimmered through the windows, spilling onto the sidewalk. The quiet hum of the city mixed with the faint aroma of herbs and roasted meat drifting out the open door. She smoothed her dress, adjusted her hair, and straightened her back. Every part of her wanted to turn around, to get back into the car and forget the entire plan. But another part, the part that had survived being hunted, the part that had learned she was stronger than she thought, pushed her forward.
She stepped out, heels clicking softly against the sidewalk, and entered the restaurant. The space was quiet now, the remnants of dinner service lingering in the air. Tables were cleared, chairs pushed neatly in place, and the soft glow of the candles created a warm, inviting atmosphere. She waited, heart thumping in her chest, eyes scanning the room instinctively. Nothing seemed out of place. No one was staring. No one was watching.
Minutes stretched, each one feeling longer than the last. Her mind raced. Maybe he won't be here. Maybe I imagined everything. She swallowed hard and glanced at the entrance again, gripping her purse tightly. Every sense was on high alert. The hum of the city beyond the walls, the soft clatter of dishes being cleaned in the back, the faint scent of bread and wine, it all felt heightened, almost exaggerated.
She stood by the window, glancing at the street outside, imagining herself walking away and pretending none of this ever happened. But she couldn't. Not yet. Something told her that the night wasn't over, that the story didn't end with her safely behind the gates of the estate. There was someone she needed to see. Someone she needed to find.
And then it hit her.
A scent. Sharp, clean, intoxicating. Familiar. Unmistakable. Her chest tightened, and her heart lurched in recognition before her mind could even catch up.
She turned instinctively, and there he was. A figure in the dim light of the restaurant, calm, composed, commanding attention without a word. The world seemed to blur around the edges, leaving only him, only the presence that made her pulse quicken.
Recognition didn't come immediately, but the pull was undeniable. She froze, caught between fear and something else, something she couldn't yet name. Her stomach twisted, nerves coiling and loosening at the same time, her breath catching in her throat.
And in that instant, she realized the truth: the night wasn't over.
She had come seeking answers, but instead, she had found him.