The next morning came quietly, too quietly.

The storm had passed, leaving the world washed clean, but inside Dante’s chest, something still raged — the restless pull of unfinished business.

He stood by the window, half-dressed, his shirt hanging open, the bandages beneath visible against his tanned skin. The lake shimmered beyond the glass, soft ripples catching the light, as if mocking his inability to find calm.

Isabella stirred on the bed behind him, hair spilling across the pillow like dark silk. For a moment, he just watched her — the slow rhythm of her breathing, the softness that had somehow survived the chaos of their world.

When her eyes...