The drive back to Dante's estate was drenched in a silence so heavy it almost pressed against Anastasia's chest. The air in the car was cold, not from the air conditioner, but from the biting chill of Dante's presence. His sharp profile was turned away from her, his fingers drumming slowly against the leather armrest, as though he had all the time in the world. Anastasia kept her eyes on the window, watching the blur of city lights melt into the darkness like smudged paint on a canvas.
The wedding ring glinted on her finger, catching the occasional flash of streetlamps. It felt foreign. Cold. Heavy. But what truly disturbed her wasn't its weight—it was the look Dante had in his eyes when he slipped it on her hand earlier that day. It wasn't tenderness. No. It was something deeper. Something dangerous. Possessive.
