The next morning, Dante strode into the living room, his irritation already prickling his skin like needles. He wasn’t in the mood to entertain anyone, let alone deal with the aftermath of Annabelle's action. But as he stepped into the room, his scowl deepened at an unexpected sight.

Antonia was seated with her legs crossed, casually instructing the cook about breakfast as though she owned the place. She waved her hand, listing out the exact way she wanted some things done in a voice that left no room for argument. Her presence was commanding, almost unsettling, and Dante’s patience slipped another notch.

“Antonia,” he said, approaching her. “Didn’t expect you...