That room was never open to her.
Dante kept it locked like a fortress, with every drawer shut and every file in place. When he was there, she never felt welcome to linger. When he was not, the door itself seemed like a warning. But that morning, when Isla went in to pick up a book from the shelves, something was different.
The desk wasn't clean. A file was open, papers spread across the polished wood like someone had stopped in mid-thought. No guards lingered in the hallway. No lock clanged shut behind her.
For a moment, she stood in the doorway, suspicion nipping. Dante never left a mess.
She took a silent breath. It was a trap.
She all but turned on her heel and left. Almost. Curiosity, though, was stronger than caution. She walked slowly across the room and looked down at the pages.
