The heavy door to Dante's bedroom clicked shut behind him with a sharp finality.
He ran a frustrated hand through his dark hair, the strands slipping through his fingers as he walked across the vast room. Moonlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting silver lines across the sleek black marble floor. From the distance, the hum of New York City — the city that never slept — echoed faintly through the glass, a low, constant reminder of the world outside.
Dante didn't even glance at the lavish space around him. Instead, he made his way toward a small, hidden door tucked beside his built-in bookshelf. Pushing it open, he entered a smaller, more intimate room — almost like a personal sanctuary.
There, sitting on a polished mahogany table, was a single framed photograph.
It was the only one they had ever taken together.
Him, soft-eyed and a relaxed small smile.
Her, playful and puffing her cheeks at the camera, her beautiful eyes wide .
A humorless smile tugged at the corner of Dante's lips. He reached for the photo, his fingers brushing over the glass, his expression softening briefly — just briefly — before he placed it face-down. It had all been fake.
The shrill buzz of his phone shattered the quiet.
Fishing it out of his pocket, Dante answered. "Ethan," he said, his voice clipped.
"Sir," came his assistant's voice, brisk and efficient. "Our inside source at Laurent Corporation has reported developments. There's movement—serious movement."
Dante's brows furrowed. "Go on."
"There's a faction trying to frame Genevieve Laurent. They're manipulating the company's finances, shifting numbers. If they succeed, it'll collapse the company and ruin the Laurents' reputation completely."
Silence.
"Tell them not to interfere" Dante muttered dryly, staring out the window at the glittering skyline.
Ethan hesitated. "It would be easy to stop, sir it now. A word and—"
"Leave it." Dante cut him off. "Let them destroy it." The only way to build something strong is to start all over not on something else.
"Understood," Ethan replied without question, then ended the call.
Dante slipped the phone back into his pocket, his jaw tightening. It was cruel, perhaps. But necessary.
He had no intention of interfering — not now, nobody gets to take what belongs to Anastasia not unless its him.
Meanwhile, across the hallway, Anastasia was fuming.
She grabbed the damn contract from the dining table, her fingers gripping it so tightly the papers crinkled.
Storming to her room — which, to her utter annoyance, was right next to Dante's — she threw herself onto the bed, spreading the contract before her.
"Let's see what other hell you've cooked up," she muttered under her breath.
She started reading.
Line after line after line of dry, legal jargon.
It outlined her duties as his wife:
A public wedding.
Mandatory appearances.
Sharing a room like a normal couple.
Anastasia swore loudly, rolling her eyes so hard it hurt.
"Normal couple, my ass."
But she forced herself to keep reading — until her eyes caught a paragraph that made her blood run cold.
After the legal marriage is completed, full ownership of Laurent Corporation will be transferred to Dante Montgomery.
Her heart slammed against her ribcage.
What.
The.
Hell.
Without thinking, she shot up, barely registering the way the papers scattered everywhere.
She stormed out of her room, barefoot on the cold marble floors, wearing nothing but a thin white camisole and silk shorts.
Without knocking, she slammed open Dante's door.
"YOU—" She started, only to freeze.
Dante was standing right there.
Fresh from the shower.
A white towel slung dangerously low around his hips, drops of water clinging to his tanned, sculpted skin.
His hair was damp, messy from the towel he had clearly just yanked off.
Anastasia's brain short-circuited for a split second.
Holy mother of...
But she shook herself out of it, forcing her gaze up — determined not to let his stupidly perfect body distract her.
"WHAT IS THIS?!" she barked, waving the crumpled contract in the air.
Dante arched a dark brow, utterly unfazed.
And then — without warning — he reached up, pulled the towel from his waist, and tossed it onto a nearby chair.
Anastasia squeaked — actually squeaked — and spun around so fast she nearly tripped over her own feet, her face flaming red.
"You—You're insane!" she shouted, her voice muffled because her face was now buried in her hands.
Behind her, Dante chuckled softly — a deep, low sound that sent a shiver down her spine, even though she hated herself for it.
Unbothered, Dante casually walked to his walk-in closet.
By the time he returned, he was wearing a pair of dark silk pyjamas, the top buttons left open to reveal just enough of his chest to make Anastasia want to scream — in rage. Of course.
He sauntered toward her, barefoot, moving with the kind of dangerous grace that only made her angrier.
Standing just a breath away, he tilted his head and asked, "Why are you in my room, wife?"
Anastasia whipped around, still fuming.
"You know damn well why!" she snapped, waving the contract like a weapon. "Why the hell would I have to hand over my company to you?!"
Her voice rose with each word, her cheeks flushed not just from anger but from the awkwardness of the situation.
Dante's cold gaze dropped to her furious face, lingering a second too long at the heaving of her chest before returning to her eyes.
He was silent for a moment, as if considering how much truth to reveal.
Finally, his voice came out, low and unbending.
"Because it's the best decision," he said.
"The best decision for WHO?" Anastasia demanded.
"For both of us," Dante replied smoothly, folding his arms over his chest. "The Company is weak. There are things you can't even control when it's handed to you . If you hand it to me, I can protect what's left."
Anastasia stared at him, seething.
"Protect it?! More like steal it!"
He smiled — a cruel, dangerous smile that made her want to slap him.
Or kiss him.
She shook her head violently to banish the thought.
"You agreed to the terms," he said simply. "Next time, don't sign contracts without reading them."
"I was forced!" she shouted.
"You were desperate," he corrected her coldly.
Her hands curled into fists at her sides, trembling with fury.
Dante, meanwhile, simply turned and walked toward his bed, dismissing her entirely.
"Get out," he said without looking back.
"Before you see something else you can't handle."
Anastasia's mouth dropped open in outrage.
"You—you—!"
But no words came out. Only frustrated, furious noise.
Fuming, humiliated, and feeling utterly trapped, she spun on her heel and stormed out of his room, slamming the door behind her so hard the walls rattled.
Inside the room, Dante sat down on the edge of his bed, his elbows resting on his knees.
He stared at the closed door for a long moment, his face a mask of cold indifference.
But deep down, beneath all that ice, something stirred.
A flicker of something dangerous.
Something inevitable.
Anastasia Laurent would curse the day she ever signed that contract.
But by the time he was done with her, she would also curse the day she ever walked away from him.
And there was no escape.
Not in New York City.
Not anywhere.