Elena Russo had left Valenport quietly, like smoke slipping through a crack in a wall. No goodbyes. No hints. No hope left behind for the man who had broken her.
She rebuilt herself slowly, meticulously. Every scar Dante had left became a lesson, every harsh word a shield. She learned to trust only herself. She learned to laugh freely without permission. She learned that love, when forced, was not love at all—it was a cage.
She worked, she traveled, she thrived. The world beyond Dante's shadow was sharper, wider, freer. And though her heart still ached sometimes—like an echo that would not die—she carried on.
Meanwhile, Dante Moretti discovered something terrifying about himself: absence has teeth.
It had been years since Elena left, yet no matter how many deals he closed, enemies he crushed, or alliances he forged, a hollow ache followed him. Nights that had once been his solace became unbearable stretches of silence. He found himself staring at her empty desk in the Moretti Tower, a ghost sitting across from him.
He tried to replace her—other secretaries, assistants, women who smiled just to please him—but none could see through the armor he wore. None could challenge him with quiet strength, none could stand unafraid in his presence.
He had loved her the only way he knew how. He had claimed her, controlled her, broken her. And in return, she had walked away, leaving him with nothing.
The realization hit him like a bullet.
He had lost the one woman who could have saved him—from himself.
Fate, however, has a way of bringing reckoning.
One rainy evening, Dante walked out of a boardroom, heading to his car. He hated the rain—it made everything look softer, weaker. But as he neared the entrance, he froze.
There, across the slick marble steps, stood Elena Russo.
She was stunning. Elegant, confident, untouched by his cruelty. Her eyes—brown and fierce—locked with his, and for a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them.
Dante's chest tightened. His mind raced.
She looked at him once, then turned, continuing down the steps as though she hadn't noticed him at all.
But he would not let her pass.
"Elena." His voice was rough, uneven—the first crack in his armor she had ever seen.
She stopped, glanced back briefly, neutral. "Mr. Moretti."
The silence stretched. Years of absence hung between them like chains.
"You… you're here," he said, finally finding words that felt inadequate.
"I have been," she replied simply. "Not that it concerns you."
Dante felt the ground shift under him. He realized then that he had never truly loved anyone before. He had only loved possession. Fear. Control. But this—this quiet, unshaken woman—was different.
He wanted her. Not as property. Not as a shadow of his dominance. He wanted her.
And yet he had no idea how to ask for her back.
Elena had changed.
She had learned to read people carefully, to protect herself. She no longer trembled in his presence. She no longer needed his approval. But she did notice something else—something in Dante she had never seen before.
He looked smaller. Softer. Less untouchable. The fire that once consumed everything in his path had dimmed, replaced by… uncertainty.
Dante Moretti, the man who had once claimed her heart with domination and left her in pieces, now stood before her vulnerable, searching, humbled.
It was tempting to laugh.
It was tempting to walk away forever.
But Elena stayed.
Because deep down, even after all the pain, a part of her had never stopped loving him.
And Dante, the man who once broke hearts with a word, now had to rebuild one with patience, remorse, and truth.
The game had changed.
Elena Russo was no longer the girl who had quietly endured him.
Dante Moretti had lost her once.
And he would not make the same mistake again.
The question was… could she trust him enough to let him back in?