Annabelle lay sprawled on her bed, staring at the ceiling as tears streamed sideways into her hair. They were hot, angry tears.

The kind that refused to be soothed, no matter how much she tried to calm herself.

She wiped them away furiously, but they kept coming, mocking her attempts to feel in control.

“Dante dear,” she muttered aloud, the memory of Natasha’s tinkling voice searing through her mind.

The way the redhead had said it was so casual and so familiar that it felt like a dagger twisting in her chest.

She had no idea he would like something so…cheesy.

Apparently, she knew nothing about the man!

Dante dear....