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.
"Don't tell me to stop," he said, voice low. "I already held back once today."
Camille blinked. "Held back from what?"
"From breaking his jaw."
The air in the car tightened.
"Dante…" She didn't know what to say whether to argue, scold him, or thank him.
So she settled on the truth.
"He can't hurt me anymore."
"That's where you're wrong," Dante murmured. "People like him always try. Always push. Always feel entitled."
She swallowed. He wasn't wrong.
Then he added, softer, "But he won't get anywhere near you again. That's a promise."
She looked away, heart pounding in a way that made no sense.
The Moretti penthouse loomed as the car pulled in sleek glass, steel, shadows, and too many windows reflecting a life she never expected to enter.
They stepped into the elevator.
Dante remained silent, but the anger had changed. It simmered differently now less rage, more… restraint.
When the elevator opened, Camille stepped out first.
But she froze instantly.
The lights inside the penthouse were on.
Dante never left lights on.
She turned slowly, instinctively stepping closer to him.
"Did you leave them on?" she whispered.
"No."
The shift in Dante was immediate CEO to predator. Controlled, deadly, alert.
He walked past her, shoulders tense, scanning the room with one sharp sweep.
"Stay behind me," he said quietly.
Camille's breath hitched, but she obeyed.
The living room looked untouched.
The kitchen spotless.
Everything exactly in place—except the envelope sitting on the marble counter.
A plain, white envelope.
No name.
No handwriting.
Dante approached it slowly, fingers tightening at his sides.
Camille felt the air grow colder.
"Dante…" she whispered.
He didn't answer.
He opened the envelope.
Inside was a single photograph.
Camille leaned closer then her stomach dropped.
It was a picture of her.
Taken earlier that day.
At the Laurent estate.
From behind the front gates.
Someone had been watching.
Someone close enough to take a perfect shot.
Dante's jaw flexed hard. "They followed us."
"Who?" Camille whispered.
He didn't speak but she saw the calculation in his eyes, the pieces snapping together.
Victor?
Elena?
The media?
Someone Dante knew?
A business rival?
A family enemy?
The Morettis had plenty.
And then Camille saw something she never expected to see on Dante's face.
Real worry.
He crossed the room, grabbed her wrist gently not to restrain her, but to check her pulse.
Her heart hammered under his touch.
He exhaled slowly. "Good. You're okay."
"Of course I'm okay," she said, breath shaking. "I'm not the one spiraling."
Dante stared at her like she didn't understand the danger she was in.
"You were photographed at your family estate," he said firmly. "Someone watched you and waited until you left. Someone followed us without being noticed. Someone broke into my building security enough to leave this here."
Camille froze.
When he said it like that, the fear became real.
"And," Dante added, voice dropping, "they wanted me to find it. They wanted me to know they were close."
She swallowed hard. "But why me?"
Dante stepped closer, expression hardening. "Because you're my wife."
His tone wasn't warm.
Wasn't tender.
It was a declaration of responsibility. Of danger. Of an unspoken promise he didn't want to say out loud.
Camille forced herself to steady her breathing. "What do we do now?"
Dante didn't answer right away. Instead, he studied her quietly, intensely, like he was memorizing her expression before making a decision he couldn't undo.
Then he said:
"You're not staying here alone again."
Camille blinked. "I never asked to stay alone."
He shook his head. "No. I mean you're not staying anywhere without protection. Not the office. Not the penthouse. Not the elevator. Not even the lobby."
"Dante"
"I'm not negotiating," he said calmly.
"You always negotiate," she fired back. "That's your entire personality."
His mouth twitched like he wanted to smile but refused. "Not when your safety is involved."
Camille sighed. "So what, I get guards now?"
"Yes."
"And what are you going to do? Watch me every second?"
"Maybe."
She blinked. "…You're joking."
He wasn't.
Dante stepped forward, closing the space between them until his presence felt overwhelming.
"Someone followed you. Someone violated this home. Someone wanted to send a message." His voice dropped to a dangerous calm. "And I don't tolerate threats."
Camille's chest tightened not out of fear, but something far more complicated. "I'm not a damsel."
"I know," Dante said softly. "That's why I'm angry."
She frowned. "What does that even mean?"
Dante exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand through his hair something he never did.
"It means," he said quietly, "you were strong enough to walk away from Victor. To face your family alone. To stand up for yourself. And now someone thinks they can break you again."
Camille swallowed hard.
"I won't let that happen," Dante finished.
Her voice shook. "Why do you care so much?"
Dante didn't answer immediately.
He stepped closer close enough that she could feel the heat of his frustration, the tension in his breath.
"Because," he said finally, "I was wrong earlier. You're not just my responsibility."
Camille's heart pounded.
"You're not just my wife," Dante added, voice low. "Contract or not."
The room fell silent.
Camille opened her mouth to speak then
A sudden loud knock shattered the moment.
One.
Two.
Three.
Aggressive.
Impatient.
Deliberate.
Dante's eyes snapped toward the door.
Camille's pulse spiked. "Who"
"Get behind me," Dante said again.
Knuckles pounded on the door a second time, louder.
"DANTE!"
A voice thundered from the hallway.
Not Victor.
Not Elena.
Not a stranger.
A man Dante recognized.
His expression darkened instantly.
Camille froze.
"Who is that?" she whispered.
Dante's jaw clenched. "My brother."
Camille's blood ran cold.
The problems weren't just coming from her past anymore.
They were coming from his.