Dante's POV,
I stayed in the hallway long after she slammed the door.
The silence felt loud, the kind that presses against the skull until your own thoughts start bleeding. My jaw ached from how hard I'd clenched it. I told myself I was angry because she was reckless. Because she poked sleeping lions and then acted shocked when they bit. That story sat better than the truth which was… I was angry. Angry that she kept everything from me.
It had come as a bomb that birthday. I knew nothing of Ophelia's past and had just learnt more of it today. From Rhea. Ophelia shouldn't still be surviving.
My study door opened behind me.
"You're a fool," he said calmly, which somehow hurt more than shouting.
I turned. Victor stood there with that measured disappointment he wore like a tailored suit. Lucien lingered behind him, arms crossed, lips tight. No teasing tonight. No charm. Just disapproval.
"You let your temper speak where your brain should have," Victor continued. "We were discussing containment. Strategy. Lucien had already lined up Scarlett's people. And you?" He shook his head. "You set fire to gasoline."
Lucien exhaled slowly. "I expected better from you, Dante. That woman is fighting demons. You didn't have to become one of them."
Then Scarlett appeared.
My mother.
Her eyes were red. Not misty. Red. Raw.
Before I could speak, her hand came up and struck my cheek.
The sound was sharp. Final. My mother has never struck me. This was a shock.
"I did not raise you this way," she said, her voice breaking as tears spilled freely now. "I did not teach you to mock a woman who clawed her way out of hell. Struggling does not make her weak. And you still dared to call her a fraud?"
She pressed her hand to her mouth, shaking. "You humiliated her. In your house."
I stood there, stunned, the sting on my face nothing compared to the weight in my chest. My mother turned away first. Victor followed her. Lucien hesitated, then left too, disappointment trailing behind him like smoke.
I walked down the corridor in a daze.
That was when Alistair appeared, hands in his pockets, grin half-formed.
"What is it with you and making women cry?" he asked lightly. "You collect tears now or what?"
I scoffed. "She didn't cry."
Alistair's smile faded. "Careful. The ego makes one blind."
He walked past me, whistling softly, leaving his words lodged somewhere uncomfortable.
I kept walking.
When I reached her door, I meant to pass it. Truly. I told myself she hated me now. That she was too proud, too sharp, too untouchable to break over words.
Then I heard it.
A sharp inhale. A sob cut short like she was angry at herself for making the sound. Her voice followed, raw and unguarded.
"Get up. Don't be weak. Don't you dare."
Something crashed.
"Stupid," she screamed. "Stupid for thinking they'd ever let you win."
I froze.
This wasn't quiet crying. This was a crash out. A woman tearing into herself with the precision of someone who had learned cruelty early.
My chest tightened painfully.
I raised my hand. Didn't knock. Just rested it against the door like a coward.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, so softly it barely existed. "Fuck, I'm sorry"
The sniffling continued. Became louder. She didn't hear me. Or maybe she did and chose not to.
I stood there a moment longer, then forced my feet to move.
For the first time, the silence behind me felt heavier than the one before.
And it followed me all the way to my room.