Dante had no idea why Annabelle affected him the way she did.

She sat beside him with her gaze fixed resolutely on the passing scenery outside the car window.

Her silence was a dagger, sharp and unrelenting, and it bothered him far more than he wanted to admit.

“What kind of man gets a cold shoulder just because he told the truth?” he thought bitterly.

He’d told her he loved her.

Simple.

Honest.

Yet here she was, acting as if he’d declared a death sentence.

And her accusation…calling him a goddamned liar…gnawed at him.

He had no idea where it came from or why it stung so much.

He’d asked...