I woke the next morning with a gnawing feeling that something wasn’t right. Last night had been... off. Dante’s cold detachment, his cryptic comments—it had left me with more questions than answers. As I lay in bed, sunlight streaming through the curtains, I ran my fingers over the smooth silk sheets, trying to convince myself that everything was fine.
But everything wasn't fine.
Dante hadn’t called or texted since we got back from the dinner. No charming morning messages, no checking in on me like he used to. I sat up, glancing around the lavish bedroom I had spent so much time trying to get used to. Everything here screamed perfection—pristine, elegant, and too perfect to be real. Just like Dante.
Grabbing my phone from the nightstand, I noticed a message blinking. I tapped the screen
