Dante sat at the breakfast table, his jaw clenched so tightly that he was sure the muscle would snap.

The steaming coffee in front of him remained untouched, the aroma doing little to soothe the storm raging inside him.

Across the table, Natasha was in full performance mode, her laughter a sharp and grating sound as she effortlessly filled the space with her chatter.

Her plan had seemed so simple in theory.

Poke at Annabelle.

Prod her just enough to see how she reacted.

Maybe even force her to confront her feelings.

But sitting here now, watching the subtle tremble in Annabelle’s hand as she picked up her fork, he...