The heavy door to Dante's bedroom clicked shut behind him with a sharp finality.
He ran a frustrated hand through his dark hair, the strands slipping through his fingers as he walked across the vast room. Moonlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting silver lines across the sleek black marble floor. From the distance, the hum of New York City — the city that never slept — echoed faintly through the glass, a low, constant reminder of the world outside.
Dante didn't even glance at the lavish space around him. Instead, he made his way toward a small, hidden door tucked beside his built-in bookshelf. Pushing it open, he entered a smaller, more intimate room — almost like a personal sanctuary.
There, sitting on a polished mahogany table, was a single framed photograph.
It was the only one they had ever taken together.
Him, soft-eyed and a relaxed small smile.
Her, playful and puffing her cheeks at the camera, her beautiful eyes wide .
