The first two days passed in a strange, heavy quiet.

Dante left early and returned late. He spoke very little. In the mornings a silent staff member brought breakfast. In the evenings a different one delivered dinner. I was given the run of the penthouse—except the elevator, which required his fingerprint—and a closet full of clothes that had appeared overnight. Silk. Soft cotton. Things that felt expensive against my skin and still somehow temporary.

He did not touch me.

That was the worst part.

Every night he came to bed after midnight, still in his black shirt, the scent of night air and smoke clinging to him. He would remove...