Lyra

Dante Rossi doesn't just want me. He wants to own the air in my lungs.

"The terms are simple." His voice slices cleanly through the heavy silence of the study. "You'll marry me."

For a heartbeat, I'm convinced I've misheard him.

"You'll move into this penthouse," he continues, his tone as casual as a man reading a grocery list. "You'll share my bed. And you'll fulfill every obligation expected of my wife."

I grip the strap of my handbag until my knuckles turn white, forcing my spine rigid.

As I stepped through the heavy double doors minutes ago, my gaze swept past security cameras discreetly tucked into corners of the ceiling, and finally a biometric fingerprint scanner gleaming silently on his office door, and two stone-faced guards flanked the corridor.

When the office door shut behind me, the heavy click of the automated locks echoed like a cell door securing. I am trapped.

Dante watches me with a keen, unwavering stare from across the room. He's cradling a crystal tumbler of whiskey, flooded in the afternoon sun pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him.

God, he's beautiful.

Nobody should be allowed to look this flawless while actively locking someone in a room.

A thin, disbelieving laugh slips past my lips. "This is a joke, right?"

His expression doesn't even flicker.

I lift a hand, as if to ward him off. "You called me here to demand marriage? You've officially lost your mind, Dante. There are hundreds of women in this city who would marry you without asking a single question."

"I don't want one of them." His answer comes without hesitation.

Without explanation.

My eyes involuntarily dart toward the locked door, my mind calculating the distance.

"The elevator is to your left," Dante says calmly.

I freeze, my heart hammering against my ribs. I force my chin up. "I wasn't leaving."

"No?"

"I was just. . . "

"You were counting how many steps it would take to reach the door." The corner of his mouth lifts almost imperceptibly. A ghost of a smirk. "You'd make it three."

The psychological weight of his gaze pins me to the spot. I fold my arms tightly across my chest to hide the slight tremble in my fingers.

"You'll hate me. You'll hate being married to me."

Still nothing. Not a denial. Not an agreement. Just those impossible green eyes watching my every breath.

Unable to bear the silence, I turn toward the towering windows. Manhattan stretches out below us, glittering and unreal.

Marry Dante Rossi?

The stable boy my father insisted was beneath me.

Memory can be cruel. I can still smell the fresh hay clinging to his clothes, still see the quiet, fierce pride in the way he used to carry himself. Even when my father spoke to him like he was invisible, Dante had never lowered his eyes. He'd simply looked back. Fearlessly.

Now, he even owns the skies.

Drawing a slow breath, I face the desk once more.

Dante hasn't moved an inch. One hand rests loosely around the whiskey glass, the thin white scars just above his knuckles disappearing beneath the crisp cuff of his shirt.

He knows exactly how unsettled I am, and he's enjoying every second of it.

I swallow the lump of fear in my throat and square my shoulders. "No." The single word hangs heavily between us. I don't soften it. I don't explain it. "I'm not marrying you."

"Walk out that door," Dante says, his voice drop-dead quiet, "and your father will be arrested within forty-eight hours."

The threat hits me like a physical blow. The air leaves my lungs, and the room seems to tilt. "What?"

Dante studies me for a long, agonizing moment, letting the panic settle into my bones. Then, without a flicker of anger, he reaches for a dark leather folder resting on his desk.

With agonizing slowness, he slides it across the polished wood until it stops right in front of me.

My fingers shake as I finally reach out and flip the folder open. The moment the first page comes into view, the last trace of color drains from my face.

Lyra

The words blur together before my eyes, refusing to make sense. Highlighted in bright yellow are names I’ve known my entire life:

Emerson Holdings. Hawthorne Shipping. Meridian Imports.

My father’s companies.

Attached is a list of bank transfers with amounts large enough to make my stomach violently contract.

My heart hammers against my ribs, and I instinctively reach to flip to the next page, desperate to find some context, some proof that this is a mistake.

Before my fingers can turn the paper, Dante’s hand slides over the folder, pinning the pages flat. His palm is warm, his grip completely unyielding.

I freeze, looking up at him. "Why are you stopping me?"

"Not yet," he says, his voice flat and controlled.

"Why not?"

"You haven't answered me."

"I'm not marrying you," I force the words out, trying to match his absolute stillness even as my chest heaves.

A ghost of a smile appears on his face, cold and fleeting, before disappearing immediately. "You'll change your mind the moment you read the rest of the file."

"Or maybe you've spent months manufacturing it." I reply immediately, jutting my chin.

"Read." Slowly, deliberately, he lifts his hand, freeing the pages.

The silence in the room is suffocating as I pull the folder closer and flip to the second sheet.

Foreign accounts. Wire transfers spanning years. It’s accompanied by supporting documents, signatures, and authorization codes. It is far too detailed to be a forgery.

Then come the photographs.

Grainy, distant shots taken from rooftops and parked cars. My father shaking hands with men whose faces are hidden under baseball caps.

My father stepping into an unmarked vehicle shortly after midnight.

The word slips out before I can stop it. "It can't be."

I look up, expecting a defense, a smirk, anything. But Dante hasn’t moved. He’s just letting me drown in the truth.

I flip page after page, each document chipping away at the foundation of my life. Stubborn. Demanding. Controlling. I knew my father was all of those things. But a criminal?

My fingers tighten around the paper.

No.

I refuse to believe this. Documents can be forged. Signatures can be copied.

People like Dante Rossi have the money to manufacture whatever truth they want.

Then, a date catches my eye. My breath catches.

It was the weekend Father cancelled my birthday dinner for an "urgent business meeting." I’d cried for hours, and he’d returned the next morning with an expensive necklace and a face full of guilt.

I look at the photograph attached to the timestamp. The man standing beside him isn't a client. He's carrying a duffel bag.

A cold, heavy dread settles deep in my chest. Every memory I have to defend my father is systematically dismantled by the paper in my hands.

I close the file with a sharp snap.

The silence in the penthouse is deafening. ". . .Where did you get all this?"

"I spent a year building that file." Dante says quietly. "Do you still believe any of those documents are fabricated?" His voice is smooth, entirely devoid of pity.

I open my mouth to say yes, to scream that it's a lie, but the words die in my throat. I look back down at the folder, desperately searching for a loophole. I flip it open again, my fingers moving frantically through the pages.

One. Two. Three.

And then, something slips free from between the final sheets and flutters onto the dark wood of the desk.

Frowning, I pick it up.

I look up to see Dante looking at the photograph. His hand tightens ever so slightly around the whiskey glass making the ice tap against the glass with a soft clink before his grip eases again.

When I look down at the photograph, I'm taken aback when I see it's the picture of a little boy. He’s no older than a year, sitting on a wooden floor, one tiny hand wrapped around a building block.

A strange, unexplained pull tugs at my chest—a sudden, sharp warmth that makes no sense. He has soft dark hair, a slim, upturned nose, and. . .

My breath seizes.

I stare at those bright, impossibly green eyes in the photo.

Slowly, my gaze rises to meet the exact same green eyes staring back at me from across the desk.

Lyra

The photograph trembles between my fingers. I look down at the photograph again. The little boy can’t be more than a year old, dark hair and bright green eyes, with one tiny hand wrapped stubbornly around a building block.

An unfamiliar, sharp twist aches deep in my chest—something primal and entirely uninvited.

Slowly, my gaze lifts. Dante hasn’t moved.

He is watching me, waiting with an unsettling patience, as if he had already lived this exact moment a hundred times inside his head.

The silence in the room is suffocating, the air too thin to breathe. I tighten my grip on the paper, the edges crinkling under my thumb.

"Who is he?" The question leaves me in a whisper.

"Someone worth killing."

"What does that mean?"

Dante doesn't blink. He just tracks the movement of my lips.

My voice grows stronger, fueled by the sheer frustration of his stillness.

"Why does he look like you? What is his photograph doing in a file about my father?"

I wait. One heartbeat. Then another. The silence stretches until it feels deliberate, every passing second tightening around my throat.

"You know what?" A bitter laugh escapes me. "Forget it."

I clutch the photograph against my chest and take a step back. "I don't know what game you're playing, but I'm done."

I turn sharply toward the office door. It doesn't matter if it's locked. I'll pound on it until someone opens it. Behind me, Dante doesn't call my name. He doesn't tell me to stop.

The absence of his voice unsettles me more than if he'd shouted. I reach the door and grab the sleek metal handle. It doesn't move. I twist harder. Nothing.

A pulse of panic flares through me. I press my thumb against the biometric scanner beside the frame.

A harsh red light flashes.

Access denied.

My stomach drops. Slowly, I turn around. Dante hasn't moved from his sit. His expression is unreadable.

"You locked me in."

"You were told not to leave."

My disbelief erupts into anger. "You don't get to imprison people because they refuse to marry you."

"No." His voice remains maddeningly calm. "I imprison people when walking away would put lives at risk."

I stare at him. "What does that even mean?"

He doesn't answer. Instead, his gaze drops briefly to the photograph still clutched in my hand, before rising back to meet mine.

I march back toward the desk, every step fueled by equal parts fear and fury. I slam the photograph flat onto the cool, polished wood between us.

"Then explain this." I jab my finger toward the little boy's face. "Is he your son?"

"...Yes."

The single word knocks the breath from my lungs. My eyes fall back to the photograph. The little boy smiles up at me, oblivious to the way my world has just shifted.

My throat tightens. "When?" I ask quietly. "When did you have him?"

He holds my gaze without answering.

A bitter laugh escapes me.

"So that's it." I shake my head, unable to look at him.

"You ask me to marry you. . ." My voice trembles despite every effort to steady it. "All this time, you've been asking me to become your wife. . . and you already have a child."

My eyes remain fixed on the photograph. He can't be more than a year old. About the age my own son would have been.

Pain squeezes around my heart so suddenly I have to swallow against it. For one impossible moment, jealousy and grief become the same emotion.

I don't even know who I'm angry with.

Dante, the woman who gave birth to this little boy, or fate itself.

A memory flashes without warning; Green eyes laughing across a tiny café table. Dante reaching over to steal a chip from my plate before I could slap his hand away.

"You're impossible," I'd laughed.

"And yet you keep saying yes to dinner."

The memory vanishes as quickly as it comes.

Then something nags at me.

I frown and look down at the open file again. The photograph isn't sitting in a family album.

It's inside an investigation file.

My gaze snaps back to Dante.

"Wait. . ."

I lift the photograph slightly.

"What is your son's picture doing in a file about my father?"

Dante remains silent. Instead, his unwavering gaze is piercing as he stares at me.

"Why won't you answer me? Do you enjoy this? Watching people tear themselves apart while you stand there saying almost nothing?"

For the first time since I walked into the penthouse, Dante closes his eyes—just for a fraction of a second. When they open again, they're colder than before.

He sets his whiskey glass down with a quiet, deliberate clink. His fingers curl briefly against the edge of the desk before relaxing. His hand settles on the dark wood right beside the photograph. Not touching it. It looks like he's protecting it.

For the first time, I see something beneath the control. Not anger. Not impatience. Something far more dangerous.

"My son's name is Cassian," he says.

His voice is quieter now, rougher around the edges. The name settles somewhere deep inside me, heavy and permanent. Cassian. He isn't just a face in a file anymore.

I lower my eyes to the grainy image once more, my thumb gently brushing over the little boy's face.

"Cassian," I murmur.

I swallow the lump in my throat and look back up, refusing to let Dante see me break. "What is Cassian's photograph doing in this file?"

Dante studies me before dropping a bomb. ". . . because your father has been searching for him."

My breath catches. "What?"

"For over a year."

The words refuse to make sense.

"Searching for him?"

"Do you remember what I told you?"

I frown. "You said my father has spent the last year trying to find him. I swallow the lump in my throat. "But that still doesn't answer what his picture is doing here?"

Dante inclines his head. "You're not asking the right question, Lyra," he says, his voice drop-dead quiet. He leans in closer across the desk, his green eyes burning into mine. "Ask me why your father wants him dead."