The drive back from the Laurent estate felt heavier than the confrontation itself.
Camille stared out the window, watching the city blur past while her pulse still burned with the memory of Victor's desperation, Elena's bitterness, and the ghosts she'd finally faced.
But the silence inside the car was worse.
Dante gripped the steering wheel with one hand, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the road in a way that told her he was furious at Victor, at Elena, at the situation, maybe even at himself.
She inhaled slowly. "You're angry."
"No," Dante said.
Which was exactly how she knew he was.
"You're gripping the wheel like you want to break it."
"It's my wheel," he said. "I can do what I like."
"Dante"
"You shouldn't have had to face that," he cut in sharply. "You shouldn't have had to hear him say he wanted you back. You shouldn't have"
"Stop."
His head snapped toward her, eyes burning with something almost volatile.
