Isabella's POV
The memory of Dante’s room—the steam, the shocking expanse of his bare chest, the way the towel had hung so precariously on his hips—played on a loop in my mind. It was a film reel I couldn’t switch off, each frame more vivid and mortifying than the last. I’d spent the entire morning hiding in my room, claiming a headache to Elena, who had delivered a tray with a smirk that told me the entire staff was probably placing bets on us.
My sanctuary, the garden, felt different too. The sun was too warm, the scent of roses too intoxicating, the memory of him watching me from his balcony a constant, phantom presence. I was pruning a particularly stubborn rose bush, attacking it with a fervor that was entirely unnecessary, when his voice cut through the quiet hum of the island.
“
