The next morning, the storm was gone. In its place came a sky of faded blue, heavy with the scent of wet earth and renewal. The sun crept slowly across the estate walls, glinting off rainwater that had gathered in shallow puddles across the courtyard. Everything looked cleaner, quieter—except for the two people who stood on opposite sides of a new kind of silence.
Isla watched the sunrise from the balcony, her shawl drawn tight around her shoulders. The golden light touched her face gently, and for the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to simply breathe. The fragile truce she'd made with Dante hung in the air like an unfinished promise—both soothing and dangerous.
