The rain came down hard the next morning — sharp and relentless, like the world itself was cleansing its sins.

Isabella woke to the sound of thunder rolling through the glass windows of Dante’s penthouse. For a moment, she forgot where she was. The sheets felt too soft, the air too still. Then she turned and saw Dante sitting by the window, shirtless, staring at the storm with a cigarette between his fingers.

He looked like a man haunted — half in shadow, half in firelight.

“You didn’t sleep again,” she murmured.

He didn’t turn around. “Neither did you.”

She sighed softly, pulling the blanket closer. “I dreamed of her...