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Tires screech against asphalt as I tear down the winding, tree-lined streets leading into the secluded hills on the edge of the city. I need to be somewhere invisible. Somewhere untethered from him, from Jake, from every promise that turned out to be a lie.

I pull into the hidden driveway of the modern, concrete-and-glass property I bought over a year ago. It’s a ghost house. No staff, no furniture except the essentials, a place where not even my family tracks me. Only two people in my entire life know about this place.

I kill the engine and sit there for a second longer than I need to, forehead resting lightly against the steering wheel, trying to pull myself back into something resembling control.

Eventually I open the door and step out onto the gravel. The morning air is cold, biting through my thin shirt, but it does nothing to cool the fever burning under my skin. I drag myself toward the front steps, wanting nothing more than to lock the heavy steel door behind me and collapse onto the floor.

“Maksim.”

I freeze.

The voice is familiar enough to cut through the fog in my head.

I turn.

A car is parked along the curb, just outside the driveway. The driver’s door is open, and Dante is stepping out, eyes locked on me with a mix of caution and concern.

For one awful second, I cannot speak.

I can only stare at him in disbelief.

My first instinct is rage.

My second is relief.

I hate both of them.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

The question comes out harsher than I mean it to. Everything hurts too much for gentleness. My voice sounds scraped raw, like I have been screaming for hours instead of swallowing it all alone in Tristan’s apartment.

Dante doesn’t flinch at my tone. He crosses the driveway with the measured, unhurried grace that belongs entirely to him. A man in his forties who has lived enough life to never let panic dictate his stride. His dark overcoat hangs open against the chill, his silver-streaked hair catching the morning light.

He stops a few feet away, close enough that I can see the concern settle deeper into his face.

“I’ve been trying to reach you for days, Maksim,” he says softly. His voice is a low, rich baritone, the cadence of his Italian accent wrapping around the syllables like dark silk.

I fold my arms because I don’t know what else to do with them.

Dante studies me.

Not glances.

Studies.

“Amore,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into something impossibly tender. “What’s wrong? Why do you look like this?”

The sheer gentleness of the question makes my stomach violently twist. I can’t handle tenderness right now. Tenderness feels like an open palm coming down on a fresh burn.

“Nothing happened.”

His expression barely changes, but disappointment flickers through it.

“Maksim.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are not fine.” He takes one careful step closer. “Look at you?”