I don’t get punished the way I expect.
No locked doors. No raised voice. No cold shoulder.
The morning after I leave with Rafael, the villa runs on the same quiet, expensive efficiency as always. Staff glides in and out. Security murmurs in the halls. Somewhere, Dante moves through his empire like nothing cracked.
He doesn’t call me.
He doesn’t come to my room.
He doesn’t mention the fact that I walked out of a roomful of his people on another man’s arm.
The silence is its own kind of punishment.
By late afternoon, I’m pacing my room, half waiting for a fight, half dreading it. My phone buzzes every few minutes—Mia, sending me more clips of fan theories and not‑so‑subtle “are you alive?” check‑ins—but there’s nothing from him.
At six, there’s a knock at my door.
I open it to find
