The invisible line
The bass from my brother’s sound system vibrated through the floorboards, a constant thrum that matched the dull ache in my chest. It was Friday night, and our penthouse was a sea of smoke, expensive bourbon, and the city’s elite.
I stood at the top of the grand staircase, hidden by the shadows, watching the one man who had spent the last four years pretending I didn't exist.
Dante Vane. My brother’s best friend. A man who changed women as often as he changed his luxury cars.
He was leaning against the bar, looking effortlessly handsome in a black button-down with the sleeves rolled up to reveal his tattooed forearms. A blonde girl was laughing at something he said, her hand resting provocatively on his bicep. Dante didn't pull away. He leaned in, whispering something in her ear that made her blush a deep crimson.
It stung. It shouldn't, but it did. To me, Dante was the sun—blinding and unreachable. To him, I was just Leo’s "innocent" little sister.
"She’s getting too old to be tucked away in this house, Leo," Dante’s voice drifted up. It was deep, smooth, and utterly cold.
"She’s nineteen, Dante. She’s staying right where I can keep an eye on her," my brother, Leo, replied. "The world is too messy for a girl like Elena. She’s... pure."
"Pure," Dante repeated, his voice dropping an octave. He didn't look up at the stairs. He kept his eyes on the blonde. "She’s a kid, Leo. Don't worry about her. No one’s interested in a girl who still smells like vanilla and textbooks."
His words cut deeper than any blade. A kid.
I decided I’d had enough of being the invisible ghost. I walked down the stairs, my heart hammering against my ribs. I had spent an hour on my makeup, and my dress was a thin, emerald silk that clung to every curve I usually tried to hide.
As I reached the bottom, the blonde girl looked me up and down, then turned back to Dante. "Who’s this?"
Dante’s gaze flicked to me. His eyes were like ice—hard and completely unreadable. He didn't look at my dress. He didn't look at my lips. He looked through me, as if I were a piece of furniture he was tired of seeing.
"The brat," he said simply, turning back to his drink.
"Elena, what are you wearing?" Leo stepped forward, his face darkening with brotherly protectiveness. "Go back upstairs and put on a sweater."
"I'm nineteen, Leo! I just wanted a drink," I snapped, my eyes stinging with tears I refused to shed in front of Dante.
"You heard your brother," Dante remarked, not even bother to turn around. "Go on, Elena. The adults are talking."
I turned and ran back up the stairs, the humiliation burning in my throat. I hated him. I hated the way he made me feel like nothing.
What I didn't see was the moment I turned my back.
The moment the elevator doors began to close, Dante’s glass shattered in his hand. His knuckles were white, and his gaze was no longer icy—it was predatory. He watched the spot where I had been standing with a hunger so dark it would have terrified me.
"Dante?" the blonde asked, reaching for him.
"Get out," he rasped, his voice trembling with a suppressed rage. "Everyone. Out. Now."
