The chapel sat on the far edge of the estate, old and silent, surrounded by withered ivy and shadows that clung like cobwebs. Once, it had been a place of faith. Now, it was little more than a ghost of memory—perfect for secrets.

Aria slipped through the corridor like smoke, the hem of her silk nightgown brushing the stone floor as the mansion slept. Midnight had long struck, and every footstep she took felt like a sin.

When she opened the chapel doors, Dante was already there—leaning against the altar like a fallen angel, dressed in black from collar to boots, the candlelight painting his sharp cheekbones and wicked smirk...