The silence in the master suite was no longer peaceful; it was a suffocating shroud. Nala felt the photograph between her fingers the glossy paper felt like a jagged piece of glass cutting into her palm. Her eyes stayed locked on the image of a younger, colder Dante standing before the inferno that had swallowed her father’s dreams and his life.
Dante took a step forward. The expensive Italian leather of his shoes didn't make a sound on the plush Persian rug, but to Nala, each movement felt like the approach of a predator. The dim amber glow of the bedside lamp cast long, distorted shadows across his face, making him look less like the CEO she knew and more like the ghost from her past.
"Don't come any closer," Nala whispered, her voice cracking. She scrambled backward on the silk sheets
