Anastasia stepped out of the bathroom, the steam still clinging to her damp skin as the cool air of the bedroom kissed her freshly cleaned face. The faint smell of sandalwood lingered in the apartment—Dante's cologne embedded in the very walls—so distinctly him that it made her pulse quicken. She paused, her bare feet pressing into the cold polished floor, as she realized something that should have been obvious: she didn't have any of her own clothes here. Not a single dress, not a shirt, not even a change of underwear.
Her brows knitted as her eyes slid toward the massive closet at the far end of the room. It was Dante's space, neat yet masculine—suits perfectly aligned by shade, shoes polished to the point of reflecting light, and shirts pressed and stacked like soldiers awaiting command. Anastasia walked toward it with hesitant steps, tugging open one of the dark oak doors and staring inside.
Rows upon rows of Dante.
