Camille didn't knock when she entered the penthouse office. She refused to. If Dante wanted a wife who acted like an obedient shadow, he married the wrong woman.
The door clicked shut behind her, and the cool, expensive air of the room wrapped around her like a warning. Dante stood by the wide glass windows, sleeves rolled up, jaw clenched, phone in hand. He looked like a storm trying and failing to remain contained.
He heard her footsteps but didn't turn.
"Where were you?" His voice was calm, too calm, and it scraped across her nerves.
Camille crossed her arms. "Out."
"With who?"
"With people who don't interrogate me like a soldier caught sneaking out of base."
That made him turn.
Dante's eyes locked on her like she was the only disruption in a perfectly controlled world. And the worst part? She could see jealousy carved into every line of his expression.
He exhaled once through his nose sharp, irritated, revealing more than he intended.
"You ignored my calls."
"I'm not required to answer every time you summon me," she shot back. "This is a contract, not a leash."
He stepped closer. "Contracts have expectations."
"And so do wives," she countered, refusing to flinch as his presence pressed into her space. "Respect is one of them."
For a moment, his jaw tightened as though he was holding words back dangerous ones.
Then he noticed the small gold bracelet on her wrist.
His gaze stilled.
That wasn't there yesterday.
"Who gave you that?" His voice dropped, low and charged.
Camille's chin lifted. "Someone who actually asked how my day was."
The temperature in the room dropped instantly.
Dante took another step, the tension between them crackling like a live wire.
"I'm going to ask you again," he said quietly, "and I want the truth this time. Who gave you that bracelet?"
"You don't get to police what I wear."
"Camille."
The way he said her name firm, rough, threaded with warning sent a shiver through her spine she refused to acknowledge.
"I met an old friend for coffee," she said. "We talked. He noticed I was upset. He wanted to cheer me up. It's harmless."
Dante's laugh was humorless. "Men don't give gifts to married women out of kindness."
"You're the last person who should lecture me about intentions."
That hit him. She saw it just barely in the slight flicker in his eyes.
He moved past her, pacing once, as though trying to wrestle down something volatile simmering under his skin.
"You think this is about the bracelet?" he muttered. "You think I care about some piece of jewelry?"
"Then why are you angry?"
He spun back around. "Because you were upset, and someone else comforted you before I even knew something was wrong!"
The confession slipped out before he could stop it.
Camille froze.
That… she hadn't expected.
Dante realized it too. He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated, as if furious at himself for revealing too much.
"I don't want to control you, Camille," he said quietly. "But I can't pretend I'm fine watching another man step into a place that should be mine. Not when"
He stopped, biting the rest of the sentence back.
Not when what?
Not when he was starting to care?
Not when she was getting under his skin?
Not when their fake marriage didn't feel fake anymore?
Camille swallowed, her pulse thudding uncomfortably loud in her ears.
"You don't own my emotions," she whispered.
"I'm aware," he said, his voice softer but no less intense. "But I feel responsible for them."
"And I never asked you to."
"Maybe that's the problem," he murmured. "You never ask. You never let me in."
Her breath hitched.
That wasn't fair.
That wasn't true.
But she didn't know how to explain the ache she'd learned to hide, the fear of giving anyone access to what they could destroy.
Before she could react, the office door swung open.
Luca Dante's most trusted advisor stepped inside, froze when he saw Camille, and bowed his head slightly.
"Sir. We have a situation."
Dante's posture shifted instantly, going cold, controlled, lethal.
"What happened?"
"It's about the photo leak."
Camille felt her stomach drop.
"What photo?" she asked.
Luca hesitated, glancing at Dante.
Camille stiffened. "Luca, what photo?"
Dante answered instead.
"There was a leak last night. Someone took pictures of us at the gala. Someone wants to expose that our marriage is not exactly… traditional."
Her heartbeat stuttered.
"And you're just telling me now?"
"I didn't want to worry you until I had the details."
"I'm part of this too," she snapped. "I deserve to know when my life is being threatened."
Dante took a slow breath, temper written in the tension of his shoulders.
"I'm handling it."
"That's not the point!"
Luca stepped back awkwardly as the tension crackled between them.
"This isn't just about you anymore," Camille continued, voice shaking with fury. "If someone exposes your company, your family, your enemies they won't just attack you. They'll attack me too. And you didn't think I needed to know?"
Dante moved toward her, slower this time, as though her anger was something he respected even if it unsettled him.
"You're right," he said quietly. "I should have told you. I'm sorry."
The apology struck her harder than any argument.
Dante never apologized.
He studied her face for a long, weighted moment.
Noticing her trembling hands.
Noticing the way she blinked too fast.
Noticing her fear fear she didn't want to admit.
He exhaled.
"Camille," he said softly, "I won't let anything happen to you. Not because of this marriage. Not because of me. I promise you that."
His voice wasn't commanding now.
It was a vow.
A real one.
And for the first time, she believed him.
But the moment broke when Luca cleared his throat.
"There's something else," he said. "We traced the leak… it came from someone close to the Laurent family."
Camille's blood ran cold.
Her family.
Her cousin.
Her past coming back again to ruin her.
Dante saw her face pale and stepped closer, his voice low and steady.
"We face this together," he said.
And for the first time, she didn't argue.