Chapter 2: Beneath the Calm

Seraphina

Three days.

She hadn’t spoken a word.

Not to him. Not to the maid who brought her food. Not to the man guarding the terrace. Not even to herself.

The room was a palace — tall arched windows, ivory walls kissed with gold, a bed that could hold four broken rebellions. But she felt like a bird trapped in the gilded throat of something ancient. And watching.

He hadn’t shown himself since that first night.

She hated how that made her wonder.

Was he bored of her already?

Or was he still watching — like a ghost pressed against the walls?

Seraphina paced, barefoot and furious, her black silk robe dragging across the cold marble like smoke. She hadn’t eaten. Not because of defiance — okay, mostly defiance — but also because nothing here tasted real. Not the food. Not the calm.

And especially not the safety he promised.

He hadn’t even locked the windows.

How considerate.

She threw the breakfast tray to the floor, porcelain cracking like gunfire.

Almost instantly, a voice echoed from the intercom above the door.

“Break something more valuable, and I’ll start replacing it with velvet cuffs.”

His voice. Calm. Cold. Just amused enough to infuriate her.

“Oh, so you are alive,” she muttered.

A pause.

Then, softer: “Barely.”

...****************...

The Dinner He Waited For

That night, the silence ended.

A new dress appeared on the bed. Black lace, backless, elegant and sinful. No tag. No note. Just a quiet dare.

Seraphina didn’t wear it because she obeyed.

She wore it to spit in his face.

When she walked into the dining hall, the room exhaled.

It was absurdly beautiful — like something out of a forgotten Versailles dream. A single, long table stretched between chandeliers. Lit candles flickered in tall crystal holders. The only sound was the ocean, murmuring beyond the glass doors.

And Dante.

Seated at the far end, in a black shirt and no tie, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms.

As if he hadn’t orchestrated this like a symphony of control.

“You clean up well,” he said.

“You already used that line,” she replied, sweeping into the chair without waiting for him to offer it.

He smirked, slow and unreadable. “You remembered.”

She picked up the menu. It was blank.

“So it’s a game, then.”

“No,” he said simply. “It’s dinner.”

Food arrived like magic — risotto with saffron, wine she couldn’t pronounce. She refused it all.

His eyes darkened. Just slightly.

“You need to eat.”

“I don’t need to do anything you want,” she replied.

He leaned back, studying her. “You’re not scared of me.”

“Should I be?”

“No,” he said, too quietly. “You should be scared of everyone else.”

That shut her up. Just long enough for him to reach forward and refill her glass with water. Not wine.

“You think I’m the monster,” he continued, “but I’m the one holding the others back. You think you exposed me. But you only exposed what they wanted you to find.”

“And you?” she whispered. “What do you want?”

He met her gaze.

“To keep you breathing.”

...----------------...

The First Real Fight

Later, after the wine had gone untouched and the tension grown unbearable, Seraphina wandered into a hallway she hadn’t seen before. The door at the end was unlocked. Just slightly ajar.

Inside, the room was not a study. It was a shrine.

To her.

Newspaper clippings. Surveillance photos. Shots of her laughing, writing, arguing with a taxi driver. One, in particular, froze her blood.

She was sitting in her apartment . Alone. Reading. And the timestamp was from months before her article on him.

Her stomach twisted.

She turned as the door shut behind her.

Dante stood in the doorway, not even pretending to be ashamed.

“You were watching me,” she said.

“I still am,” he replied.

“Before I published anything?”

He nodded.

“So what was it, huh?” she hissed. “Curiosity? Paranoia? Obsession?”

He stepped forward. Calm. Slow.

“You think this is the first time I’ve kept someone under watch? You think you were different?” His voice was sharp now. Tired.

She pushed him. Hard. “Don’t pretend this is about protecting me. You don’t get to decide what I’m safe from. You don’t get to decide what I want.”

He didn’t move when she pushed again.

“You think this is love?”

He blinked. Slowly. “No.”

“Then what is it?”

He stepped forward. She stepped back.

“I don’t know,” he murmured. “But it’s the only thing keeping me sane.”

Something in his voice cracked. And it scared her more than anything else.

She slapped him.

His cheek turned pink. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

“You still don’t understand,” he said, breath shallow.

“Understand what?”

He looked at her then — truly looked. Like he’d been holding it in for years.

“I would rather burn the world than bury you in it.”

She staggered back.

“I didn’t ask you to care,” she whispered.

“And I didn’t ask to fall,” he snapped. “But here we are.”

Silence bloomed.

And then, suddenly, too suddenly, he turned. Walked out. This time, he didn’t lock the door.

...****************...

Later That Night

She couldn’t sleep.

Not because of fear. But because she’d seen it — a moment of real emotion. Not ice. Not control.

Just a man unraveling, too quietly to scream.

And for the first time, she wondered…

Was she his weakness?

Or was he hers?

Let me know if you'd like:

A smoother polish for this chapter,

Additional internal monologue from Seraphina,

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