~04~

Dante's pov~

The doors close behind us with a heavy thud that swallows the murmured congratulations of our fathers. We stand in an ornate sitting room lined with velvet chairs and polished tables no one ever sits at. Roses in a crystal vase fill the air with sweetness that doesn't belong here.

I slip my arm free from hers the moment the last servant bows out. She lets me. Her fingers leave my sleeve like a blade sliding from flesh — no hesitation, no regret.

For a moment, we just stand there, facing each other across the marble floor like duelists waiting for the signal. Her dress catches the afternoon light spilling through the tall windows — she looks almost too delicate for this house. But her eyes ruin that lie immediately: dark, alert, cutting through my indifference like she's searching for weak spots.

"So," she says first, voice calm but edged. "This is what forever looks like."

I don't answer. I cross to the bar cart, fingers already curling around the bottle of whiskey before I even think about it. The familiar weight, the smooth amber swirl — the only thing in this house that's mine by choice. I pour two fingers, neat. The smell alone calms the static under my ribs.

She watches me, arms folded lightly over her chest, chin tilted — regal and defiant all at once.

"Don't bother offering me one," she says, and there's almost a smile at the corner of her mouth — but not a warm one. "I doubt we'll be sharing much."

I take a sip — slow, deliberate, savoring the burn that settles everything inside me for half a heartbeat. I study her over the rim of the glass — the curve of her throat, the stubborn set of her shoulders, the calm hatred in her eyes.

And that perfume — it hits me, sweet and clean all at once, warm vanilla wrapped in something soft that doesn't belong in a room like this. I hate that it lingers between us, that it mixes with the bite of the whiskey I actually want.

"You think I care what you want to share?" I say finally, my voice flat. The whiskey burns down easy — an anchor, a shield. "Let's make one thing clear. This is business. You do your part, I do mine. That's all there is."

She lifts an eyebrow — a flicker of disbelief that looks almost amused. "And what part would that be, exactly? Smile for the family portraits? Give you an heir you'll ignore?"

I don't flinch. "Something like that."

She lets out a quiet breath — a half-laugh with no warmth at all. "You really are your father's son, aren't you?"

The words hit like a slap I pretend not to feel. I drain the glass, savoring the last burn. The empty crystal feels heavy in my hand — familiar, honest, unlike anything else in this room.

I step closer — not because I want to, but because I need her to understand how this works. She doesn't back away. That sweet vanilla drifts up between us, too soft for the words we're throwing like knives.

"You want to play the dutiful wife?" I say, voice low, steady. "Play it. Or don't. I don't care. But don't stand there pretending this means something it doesn't."

She smiles then — sharp enough to cut. "You think I want it to mean something? Don't flatter yourself."

We're close now — close enough that the soft sweetness of her perfume digs under my ribs and settles there like an itch I can't scratch. I hate it. I hate her for wearing it, for standing here like she's not afraid of me at all.

I lean in, just to see if she'll break. She doesn't. "Good," I say. "Then we understand each other."

She breathes out a soft laugh — mocking, clean. "Perfectly."

For a heartbeat, the world is just her eyes locked on mine, her breath warm with that quiet vanilla sweetness that shouldn't belong here. Two strangers bound together by cold steel and family blood, neither one willing to bow.

I step back first — not because she won, but because I choose to. The whiskey hums warm in my veins. Her scent still clings to the air.

"Dinner is at eight," I say. "Wear whatever makes you look obedient."

She laughs — sweet and cutting at once. "Keep dreaming."

And she brushes past me, that warm vanilla trailing behind her like a promise she never intends to keep. I watch her walk away, every step a reminder: beautiful chains are still chains.