*Luna.”
His voice hits my spine before the door finishes opening.
I freeze, half‑crouched by his desk, the bottom drawer not quite closed, the key still in the lock, my old demo case cold in my hand.
I look over my shoulder.
Dante stands in the doorway, shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie gone, top buttons undone. His hair is slightly mussed, like he’s run his hand through it one too many times.
His eyes go straight to the drawer.
Everything in him goes very, very still.
For one stretched‑thin second, no one moves.
Then he steps inside and quietly closes the door behind him.
The click sounds louder than it should.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
His voice is low, controlled, but there’s a rough edge under it that wasn’t there at the gala.
I straighten slowly, the jewe
