Dante’s POV

Alina thought she was hiding it well.

But I’ve spent enough years reading men across a poker table, enemies across a boardroom, and snakes across a battlefield to know when someone’s playing a part. And Alina—my Alina—was acting.

The signs were small. The slight tremor in her hand when she picked up her coffee cup. The way her eyes darted away just a second too quickly when I looked at her. The quiet. She’d always been thoughtful, yes, but this wasn’t thoughtfulness. This was retreat.

And I hated it.

She stood at the window that morning, hair loose down her back, the mug cradled in both hands like...