The night of the storm, the villa felt alive.
Thunder rolled over the sea, lightning flashing against the walls as rain lashed at the windows. Ishani sat in her suite, hugging her knees, pretending the sound didn't rattle her. Mumbai storms were familiar, but here—isolated, trapped—they felt louder, heavier.
Then came the knock.
Before she could answer, the door opened and Dante stepped inside, a glass of wine in one hand, his shirt half-unbuttoned. He looked infuriatingly at ease, as if storms bowed to him.
"You look like a frightened rabbit," he said smoothly, his accent curling around the words. "Storms scare you, bella?"
She scowled. "No. But kidnappers do."
His smirk was sharp. "Then it's not the thunder that makes your hands shake."
Before she could snap back, music began echoing faintly through the villa—low, haunting, the soft strains of a violin carried by hidden speakers. She stiffened, realizing this wasn't coincidence. He had planned this.
"What are you doing?" she demanded.
Dante set his glass down, stepping closer, his eyes locked on hers. "Teaching you how to stop trembling."
He extended a hand. She didn't take it.
"Absolutely not," she spat. "I am not dancing with you."
His smirk deepened. He didn't wait for permission. Instead, he caught her wrist, tugging her gently but firmly to her feet. She stumbled into his chest, her palms pressed against the solid heat of him.
"Let go!" she hissed, but his grip only shifted—one hand at her waist, the other holding her trembling fingers.
"No," he said softly. "You'll fight me with words all day, Ishani. But your body tells me the truth."
The violin swelled, thunder growling behind it. He guided her into a slow step, forcing her into rhythm with him. She tried to push away, but every attempt only brought her closer, her curves pressed against his chest, her heartbeat betraying her.
"You're insane," she whispered, her breath uneven.
"Maybe," Dante murmured, leaning down so his lips brushed the shell of her ear. "But insanity has never felt so… inevitable."
She shivered, hating herself for it. His touch wasn't rough tonight—it was deliberate, steady, as if he had all the time in the world to unravel her defenses. He spun her once, pulling her back against him, his arm banded around her waist.
"See?" he whispered, his lips ghosting her temple. "The storm outside means nothing when you're in my arms."
Her throat tightened. She wanted to scream, to claw at him, to break the spell—but the music, the storm, the heat of his body made her dizzy.
So she did the only thing left—she laughed bitterly. "You think forcing me to dance makes me yours?"
His gaze burned as he pulled back just enough to look into her eyes. "No. The way you tremble in my arms does."
Her cheeks flushed with rage and something she refused to name. "I tremble because I hate you."
"Liar," he said softly, and then—just to torture her—he brushed his knuckles along her jawline, stopping short of her lips. The touch lingered, electric, before he released her completely.
The music stopped. The storm still raged. But it was silent between them now—too silent.
Dante retrieved his wine, his smirk cool and devastating. "Remember this, bella. You can fight me in court, in words, even in your mind. But the moment I touch you…" His gaze raked her trembling form. "…you lose."
And with that, he left her standing in the dark, breathless, furious, and shaken.