The car ride from the gala to the Moretti penthouse should have been silent.
But silence wasn't neutral tonight.
It was loaded.
Tight.
Like every unsaid word was pressing against the windows, waiting to explode.
Camille sat on the right side, staring out into the moving city lights.
Dante sat on the left, his posture rigid, jaw locked, one hand gripping the edge of the seat not out of anger, but restraint.
He was holding something in.
And Camille could feel it.
She had felt it since the moment she stepped away from him at the gala.
The driver dropped them at the private elevator. The moment the doors closed, Camille stepped to the far corner, putting physical space between them.
Dante noticed.
He didn't comment.
He didn't breathe too loudly.
But his eyes followed her with a sharpness she had never seen in him before
a sharpness that held more than irritation.
It held confusion.
And something dangerously close to… hurt.
Camille didn't want to acknowledge that.
