The night felt heavier than usual, thick with the kind of silence that clung to the walls. The villa was alive with guards and low murmurs, yet Isla felt utterly alone. Outside, rain fell in a soft drizzle that turned the stone paths into mirrors. Inside, the storm was quieter but far more dangerous.
Dante had not spoken to her properly for two days. Their last argument still burned in the air like smoke that refused to clear. He had accused her of lying again, of plotting behind his back, of letting the world outside his walls seep into her heart. And Isla, tired of the endless war between them, had not denied it.
She sat in the study now, staring at the map spread across the table. It was old, its edges curling from age, but it showed every route that led out of this city, every road that could carry her away from him. Her fingers hovered over the lines, tracing the faintest possibility of freedom.
