She swept into the penthouse like she owned it. Red hair pulled back in a severe bun. Sharp black suit. Cold brown eyes taking in everything.
"Where is she?" Isabella asked. No greeting. No pleasantries.
"My room," Dante said. He looked exhausted. Hadn't slept properly in three days. Hadn't left Novalee's side except to meet his mother.
Isabella raised an eyebrow. "Your room? Not her cage?"
"She's—she's not well."
"Not well?" Isabella's expression sharpened. "What did you do, Dante?"
"I didn't—" He stopped. Started again. "Her husband came. I let them see each other. He—he killed himself. In front of her. And she tried to follow."
Isabella was quiet for a moment. Then: "Show me."
Dante led her to his bedroom. Opened the door.
Novalee lay in the bed. Wearing Dante's shirt. The coll
