The drive back from the gala should have been quiet.
It wasn't.
The moment Camille and Dante stepped outside the glittering hall, the cold night hit her like a slap sharp, waking, almost cleansing. But the storm inside her chest didn't settle. Not after Elena's attack. Not after Dante's reaction. Not after the look they exchanged before leaving.
The valet brought the black car around, sleek and predatory like everything in Dante's world. He opened the door for her, and she climbed in, her pulse still unsteady. Dante entered from the other side, shutting the door with a soft thud that felt too final.
The car began to move.
Silence stretched.
Camille stared out the window, the city lights streaking like blurred sparks against glass. She tried to steady her breathing, but each inhale felt tight, each exhale uneven. Her hands trembled before she tucked them under her legs.
She wasn't crying.
But she felt close.
Dante watched her.
