“Tell me the truth.”
Althea’s voice trembled, but her eyes did not waver.
Dante Moretti stood before her in the silent hall of the mansion, his shadow stretching across the marble floor like a silent warning. The lights above them felt too bright, too honest, as if they were forcing secrets to surface.
For the first time since she met him, Dante did not answer immediately.
The silence between them was heavy.
“Who told you?” he asked at last.
His voice was calm, but something underneath it was broken. Controlled. Dangerous.
“That doesn’t matter,” Althea said quietly. “What matters is whether it’s true.”
Dante stared at her for a long moment. His gaze was no longer the gaze of a predator who had already won. It was the gaze of a man who had lost control over something he never expect
