The morning light poured through the lace curtains of the lakeside safehouse like a soft whisper. It painted the white sheets in gold, kissed the edges of the room where shadows still lingered, and finally settled on Dante’s face — bruised, bandaged, but alive.

Isabella sat beside the bed, her hair tangled from exhaustion, her fingers intertwined with his. She hadn’t slept since they escaped Geneva. Not even for a heartbeat.

Every rise and fall of his chest was a reassurance. Every faint flicker of breath — a promise that he was still hers.

When his eyes finally opened, the world seemed to still.

“Hey,” she whispered, her voice raw....