The next morning, Dante walked into the kitchen just as Emilia was finishing the last batch of scrambled eggs. Steam rose from the pan, curling in the air like tired sighs. Her shoulders looked tense, and the dark circles under her eyes showed she barely slept.
“Emilia,” Dante said, leaning on the counter with that unreadable calm, “I’ve got something for you.”
She didn’t even look up. “If it’s not a proposal from those companies you told me to send messages to, Dante, please. Spare me.”
Her voice dragged with sarcasm and exhaustion. She had spent the past two days sending out proposals, drafting emails, praying for even one meeting request—only to be met with silence or rejection. She felt wrung out.
“No,” Dante said, stepping closer. “I’ve got something better.”
That made her pause.
