Dante didn't wait for a comeback. He turned on his heel and walked away, the hallway swallowing his footsteps into darkness.
He didn't go to his study. Didn't pour a drink.
Instead, he went straight upstairs—into his bedroom, shedding the weight of the night like a second skin.
The marble bathroom greeted him with cold, silent judgment. He turned on the tap, let icy water splash over his hands, then his face. Again. And again.
He stared at his reflection in the mirror.
Jaw clenched. Sleeves rolled. A man who just drove through the city for a girl he claimed to control.
"Pathetic," he muttered under his breath. Not at her.
At himself.
He ran his fingers through damp hair, straightened, then wiped his face dry with a towel. The tension still sat in his shoulders, but at least the air in here wasn't thick with her scent, her voice, her smirks.
Until a knock tapped at the door.
Not her knock. Lighter. Uneven.
"Come in," he called, still gripping the sink.
The door creaked open, and a smaller head peeked in.
Ethan.
Pajamas slightly crooked, one sock half-off, a notebook clutched in his hand.
Dante raised an eyebrow. "It's late."
"I know," Ethan said, stepping in sheepishly. "But I... I can't figure out this math problem. And Avery's useless with numbers."
A twitch of amusement cracked through Dante's mask.
"Is she," he said dryly.
"She said something about numbers being 'enslaved concepts.' I don't even know what that means."
Of course she did.
Dante sighed, motioning the boy closer. "Show me."
Ethan came over quickly, flipping open the notebook to a messy page of equations and doodles of dragons wearing crowns.
Dante leaned over, scanning the work. "You're adding decimals. Not conquering kingdoms."
Ethan shrugged. "Still feels like war."
Dante smirked—barely. Then he grabbed a pen and circled one of the mistakes. "Here. Start again. Line it up properly."
Ethan nodded, tongue sticking out a little in focus as he began writing. Dante stood beside him, quiet, watching the numbers form.
He hadn't done this in years. Helped. Taught. Sat beside someone like this.
It felt... foreign.
Almost human.
"Do you help a lot of people with homework?" Ethan asked, eyes still on the page.
Dante hesitated. "No."
"Then I'm lucky, huh?"
Dante didn't answer. Just watched the boy finish the problem, quietly impressed.
"Done."
He checked the answer, then nodded once. "Good."
Ethan beamed.
Then looked up. "Is Avery in trouble?"
Dante's expression didn't change. "Why do you ask?"
"She seemed nervous. Before you came in."
Smart kid.
"She'll be fine," Dante said. "As long as she stops poisoning me."
Ethan blinked. "She baked again?"
"Unfortunately."
They shared a look. Mutual understanding.
"She's trying," Ethan muttered. "Even if she's bad at it."
Dante looked away, voice low. "I know."
A silence settled between them. But this one wasn't sharp. It was... softer.
Less like war. More like quiet after the storm.
Ethan closed his notebook. "Thanks. For helping."
"Go to bed."
Ethan paused at the door. "You should sleep too."
Dante didn't respond until the door clicked shut behind the boy.
Then he leaned back against the counter and let his eyes close.
*****
The morning light slipped through the heavy curtains in pale streaks, soft and cold. Avery stirred beneath the covers, eyes blinking open to unfamiliar silence.
For a moment, she forgot where she was.
Then the ceiling reminded her—too high, too perfect. Not home. Not really.
Dante's mansion.
She exhaled slowly, the memory of last night flickering across her skin like static. The cake. The oven. His voice in the doorway. The heat in his eyes when she said she didn't want to be alone.
She hadn't expected him to come back.
But he had.
And he'd looked at her like she'd flipped something inside him—like she'd made the devil feel.
Avery sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Enough brooding. Enough of that heat that curled in her stomach when she thought of him.
Today, she wanted something else. Something normal.
Ethan's laughter. A little routine. A damn coffee that didn't taste like someone else's control.
She swung her legs out of bed and moved quickly through the motions—brushed teeth, quick ponytail, one of the few normal outfits she'd managed to smuggle into this new life. High-waisted jeans. A simple black tee. Sneakers. A small defiance against the luxury she was drowning in.
By the time she stepped into Ethan's room, the boy was half-asleep, his blanket twisted around one ankle, his head buried under a pillow.
"Rise and shine," she whispered, nudging his shoulder.
A muffled groan. "Tell the sun to go away."
She smirked. "Can't. It's got places to be. And so do you."
Ethan peeked out, blinking. "Is Dante still mad about the cake?"
"Probably," she said, brushing his hair back. "But I'm driving you to school today. So, let's call that a win."
He sat up straighter, suddenly alert. "Wait—really?"
"Yes. And after that, I'm going to stop by the coffee shop."
His smile faltered just a little. "Do you think it's still there?"
Her throat tightened.
"Only one way to find out."
They got ready quickly. She packed his bag, found his missing sock behind the nightstand, and bribed him with a banana to brush his teeth without arguing.
By the time they made it down to the foyer, the staff was already bustling—quiet, polished shadows gliding through the halls.
Avery didn't ask permission.
She didn't tell Dante.
She just scribbled a note—
"Taking Ethan to school. Then coffee. Don't worry, I locked the oven."
—and left it on the kitchen counter where he'd be sure to find it.
As they stepped into the car, Ethan buckled himself in, feet swinging slightly.
"Do you think he'll get mad you left without asking?"
Avery started the engine and gave him a sideways glance.
"Let him."
And with that, she pulled out of the long, winding driveway—wind in her hair, Ethan beside her, the city stretched out ahead like freedom she hadn't tasted in weeks.
She didn't know what she'd find at the coffee shop.
But she knew what she wouldn't find there:
Dante Harlan.
And for one morning, that was enough.
******
The road stretched smooth and quiet ahead. Ethan tapped the window, humming softly to a tune only he could hear.
Avery relaxed into the seat, just a little.
For once, nothing hurt. Nothing pressed on her chest like it usually did in that mansion. She was driving again. Ethan was smiling. And her coffee shop—her little corner of real life—was only ten minutes away.
"Hey," Ethan said, glancing at her. "Do you think they still have those muffins with the chocolate chips?"
Avery laughed. "Only if we get there before the morning rush."
But then—
A flash in the rearview mirror.
Black SUV. Gaining fast.
Her brow furrowed. "What the hell…"
Then—
BAM!
The SUV rammed into the back of their car. Avery's head jolted forward as she slammed the brakes, tires screeching.
"Ethan—down!"
"Wha—!"
"Get on the floor, now!"
He dropped just as two more vehicles surged from opposite sides, boxing them in. One van swerved ahead, cutting them off.
It was a trap.
This wasn't random.
Avery's heart pounded like a war drum. She reached for reverse—but her door was ripped open before she could move.
Rough hands.
Masks. Guns.
"Let me go!" she screamed, twisting, kicking. "Don't touch him!"
They didn't care. One yanked her from the seat, another reached into the car for Ethan.
"Stop! Please! He's just a kid!"
A cloth covered her mouth.
The sharp sting of chemicals.
Everything spun.
Ethan's screams echoed in her ears as the world went dark
****
The shattered mug still steamed on the kitchen tile.
Dante stared at the note Avery left—calm, teasing, her.
"Taking Ethan to school. Then coffee. Don't worry, I locked the oven."
He should have stopped her.
He should have known peace never lasted.
The phone rang.
Unknown number.
He answered it.
"Speak."
A pause. Then a gravelled voice:
"If you want the girl and the boy back alive, listen carefully."
Dante's entire body went still.
A dangerous silence fell.
The kind that made men run before the devil opened his mouth.
"Where are they?" he asked, voice low and sharp enough to cut bone.
"You don't get to ask questions," the man said, amused. "Not anymore. You've made enemies, Harlan. And now they've come to collect."
Then—another voice. Small. Trembling.
"Dante…?"
Ethan.
"I—I'm scared…"
The line cut.
Just like that.
Dante stood in silence, jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached.
Then—
He moved.
Quick. Mechanical.
He dialed a private line.
"Track her car. I want live footage. I want plates. I want faces."
"Yes, sir. What if they—"
"If they hurt her," Dante said, voice like a calm storm, "make sure their families don't have anything left to bury."
A beat.
"And if they touch Ethan…" His eyes flared. "I will gut them myself."
Another pause.
"Sir… should we mobilize quietly?"
"No," Dante said, already grabbing his coat. "I want noise. I want panic. I want the city to know the devil is looking for what's his."
He hung up.
And hell followed.