The sun was a traitor.
It spilled through the tall windows like it owned the room, brushing over my bare legs, up the hem of a shorts I didn't remember putting on. My throat was dry. My head pounded like it had been cracked open and filled with fog.
I blinked at the ceiling.
Where the hell was I?
The scent was the first thing I noticed—musk, spice, something dark and sinful. Then came the sound. That soft, steady tick of a luxury clock on the wall.
Then… his voice.
"You drool when you sleep."
I jerked up, breath hitching. My shirt slipped off one shoulder, and I yanked it back up like modesty mattered now. He stood by the window, shirtless again—because of course he was—with a glass of something amber in his hand and a smirk on his face like he'd just won a goddamn war.
"Dante," I spat his name like venom. "Where the fuck am I?"
He sipped. "My suite."
"Why?"
"You were drunk. I didn't feel like stepping over your body on the balcony"
I stood, swaying slightly. My head spun. My stomach churned. Flashes of last night licked at the edges of my memory—his arms catching me before I fell, his voice telling someone to "get the fuck out of his way," the pressure of hands… warm and unrelenting.
And then… nothing.
Just heat.
Just need.
Just—
"You touched me."
He raised a brow.
I stormed toward him, every step fueled by rage I didn't understand. "Don't play dumb with me, Dante. I remember—" I faltered. Did I? "You put your hands on me. I know you did."
He didn't blink. "I took your shoes off. Put you in bed. That's it."
"You're lying."
He stepped forward, his grin vanishing, eyes dark now. "Why would I lie about not fucking you?"
I swallowed. My skin burned. My thighs still ached like they'd been worshipped. Like someone had made me come apart with just his fingers.
And I remembered—
Then his thumb found my clit.
He pressed. Just once.
My back arched and my eyes nearly rolled into the back of my head.
Electricity. Raw, unforgiving.
Fuck Fernando.
Fuck Lorenzo.
Dante was the one who knew what he was doing.
And God, I was ready to let him ruin me.
My face flushed, chest tightening. I wanted to slap him. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to scream and then beg him to touch me again.
"I hate you," I hissed.
He didn't flinch. "Good. That's healthier than the way you moaned last night."
I froze.
His lips curled. "You kept saying 'more.' Kept begging for it. And you think I fucked you?"
My heart stuttered.
He leaned close, voice low, teasing. "If I'd fucked you, Isabella, you wouldn't be able to stand right now."
I shoved him.
He didn't move.
I shoved him again—harder this time—then stormed toward the door, yanking it open like it was his throat I wanted to tear out. My face burned with shame, confusion, and something worse: want.
"I don't remember what happened," I snapped. "But I swear to God, if you touched me without my—"
"I didn't."
I stopped.
His voice was different this time. Calmer. Like he was daring me to believe him.
"I could have," he said. "You were begging for it. Half-naked. In my arms."
My stomach twisted.
"But I didn't."
I turned back just enough to see the tension in his jaw.
"Why not?" I whispered.
His eyes met mine. And for a moment, there was nothing smug about him.
"You don't get to be ruined by me… not like that."
My breath caught.
For a heartbeat, everything stilled.
And that's when it shifted—quietly, viciously. Like something in the room tilted off its axis. Like we both knew something had changed, but neither of us would say it out loud.
Instead, I pulled the door open wider.
"Go to hell," I muttered.
"I'll save you a seat."
And then I was gone.
Slamming the door behind me like it would keep that moment from crawling under my skin.
But it was already there.
Gnawing.
Scratching.
Settling in.
I didn't know if I hated him more because I couldn't remember—or because I wanted to remember everything.
I didn't stop walking until I was halfway down the east wing, barefoot, breathless, and ready to claw through marble if it meant getting him out of my head.
God.
My palms still tingled. My chest still ached. My thighs—fuck, they still pulsed like they remembered something I wasn't supposed to feel.
He said he didn't fuck me.
But he also didn't deny touching me.
I hated the way that felt like a confession.
I pushed open my bedroom door and slammed it shut behind me. It echoed like thunder through the hallway, probably cracked a painting off the wall. I didn't care.
I leaned against the door, exhaling like I'd been holding my breath since last night. Maybe I had.
I hated him.
I hated the way he talked like he owned me.
The way he looked at me like I was a puzzle he'd already solved.
The way his voice dropped when he got too close, like seduction was just another weapon in his pocket.
But worse than all that?
I hated how part of me wanted to go back into that room and ask him to touch me again.
No lies. No pretending I was strong.
Just this sick, burning need to feel something real again.
I stormed toward the vanity, dragged my fingers through my tangled hair, and caught my reflection.
Red cheeks. Swollen lips. A faint bruise near my collarbone that wasn't there yesterday.
Oh my God.
He hadn't fucked me—but he'd touched me.
And I… I let him.
Not only let him—I begged.
I closed my eyes and shoved the memory down, tried to rewrite it. Pretend I'd imagined it. That it was all just alcohol and shame, that none of it mattered. That Dante D'Angelo wasn't carving his way beneath my skin.
But the truth screamed louder.
Last night, I wanted him.
Not Fernando.
Not Lorenzo.
Him.
I collapsed onto the edge of my bed, dress bunching around my hips. My body still felt like it was caught in his grip, like his breath was still dragging across my ear.
"You kept saying 'more.'"
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Why couldn't I stop hearing it?
I squeezed my eyes shut, shoved a pillow over my face, and screamed into it until my throat burned. I wanted to disappear. Burn this room. Burn this entire goddamn mansion. Burn him.
Because I couldn't keep pretending this was just hate.
It wasn't.
It hadn't been for a long time.
And that terrified me more than anything else.
Not because I was falling.
But because he would never catch me.