chapter 51
Isolde folded her clothes with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.
She moved like someone half-alive, mechanical, floating through a room that already felt like a memory.
The soft sound of fabric slipping into a suitcase was the only thing breaking the silence. That, and her breath. Slow, uneven. Shallow.
She packed slowly.
As if dragging her feet would stop the inevitable.
Her fingers brushed a white cotton nightdress. She held it for a second too long before pressing it down beside her favorite pale blue dress—the one Dante liked.
The one he called dangerously innocent.
She zipped the suitcase shut. The soft click sounded like a lock being turned in her chest.
She was dressed in a cream knit sweater that hung off one shoulder, the sleeves too long for her trembling hands.
A pleated skirt swayed around her thighs, paired with white knee socks and flats.
Her hair was half-braided, the rest cascading to her waist in quiet waves.
She didn’t bother with makeup. Her eyes were already too red.
A knock at the door.
One of Dante's men entered wordlessly. A dark suit, dark glasses, dark silence.
He nodded to her once before lifting the suitcase with a practiced ease and leaving her alone again.
She stared at the space where the luggage had been.
Like maybe, if she stood still long enough, the past few hours would reverse.
But it didn’t.
The sun was beginning to set as Dante waited beside the car.
A matte-black Rolls-Royce Phantom. Custom. Bulletproof. Ruthless in its elegance.
He stood in a charcoal dress shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, black slacks, leather watch strapped to his wrist like time bent to him.
His hair was slightly tousled. His mouth unreadable.
When she stepped outside, he looked up.
And for a heartbeat, nothing moved.
He opened the door for her himself.
She slid inside without a word.
He followed.
The interior was dim, the windows tinted. She pressed her fingers to her lap. He didn’t speak. Neither did she.
The silence pressed between them like a second body.
The city faded behind them.
Then the suburbs.
Then the nothingness.
Trees blurred past. Signs for California’s central coast.
She glanced at him once.
He was staring straight ahead. His jaw was tense.
His fingers, resting on his thigh, tapped once. Then again. A slow rhythm.
She wanted to reach for his hand. She didn’t.
The drive took three hours.
By the time they reached the cliffside estate, the sky was bruised with twilight.
The property sat on a private stretch of coastline near Carmel Highlands.
No neighbors. No road noise. Just the wind, the gulls, the waves.
The beach curved gently below the cliffs, sand white and fine, seafoam kissing the shoreline like a secret.
And the house...
The house was nothing like his.
It was two stories. Coastal white stone. Open windows framed by lace curtains fluttering in the sea breeze. Pale wooden shutters.
Terraced gardens with lavender and rosemary. The scent hit her before the car even stopped.
It looked like a home in a storybook.
Like her dream.
And that made it worse.
The car door opened.
He stepped out first.
Then came around to her side.
She hesitated.
He reached for her, lifting her into his arms before she could decide.
Her arms instinctively wrapped around his neck.
She didn’t speak.
Not even when he carried her through the arched double doors and into a house built from the kind of softness he’d always pretended didn’t exist.
Cream walls.
Bookshelves.
A piano.
Sunlight caught in glass pendant lamps. The air smelled like roses and salt.
He carried her up the staircase and into a room that overlooked the sea.
Pale blue bedding. Handwoven blankets. A chaise by the window.
He set her down.
Behind them, the guard entered quietly, placed the suitcase at the foot of the bed, and exited just as silently.
The door clicked shut.
She didn’t turn.
“Why this?” she finally whispered.
His hands slid to her arms, pulling her gently back against his chest.
“Because you’re safer here.”
“I don’t want to be safe,” she said, her voice cracking. “I want you.”
He turned her to face him. His hands cupped her cheeks.
“I’m poison, Isolde. You don’t see it now. But you will.”
“I already do,” she whispered. “And I still want you.”
He kissed her.
It wasn’t rough.
It wasn’t soft. It was final.
Her tears were hot against his lips.
“Don’t leave me,” she begged. “Please. I won’t survive this.”
She stood before him, her fingers trembling as they clutched the edge of his shirt.
Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “I don’t want to be alone,” she said quietly. “Not like this.”
He looked at her like he wanted to commit her face to memory. “This is the only way I know how to protect you,” he said, quieter now. “Away from me.”
Her voice broke. “You didn’t even ask what I wanted.”
“If I asked, I wouldn’t have gone through with it.”
Her fingers slid down his chest. “So that’s it?”
“For now.”
She shook her head, but said nothing more. He kissed her forehead, then her lips.
Not with hunger—but with the heaviness of letting go.
When he stepped back, her arms fell limp at her sides. “I’ll have someone check in occasionally,”
She didn’t answer.
He turned. Paused at the door. “Don’t wait by the window,” he said without looking at her. “I won’t be the one coming back.”
He knew she would go by the window to see him leave.
And then he walked out, closing the door with a click soft enough to feel cruel.
He didn’t look back. Not until he was outside.
He turned once and found her standing near the window and saw her devasted sad face with those beautiful eyes still pleading for him not to leave her.
But he couldn't bear to see her in that state any longer, so he turned around and stepped into the car.
The engine purred.
And then it vanished down the road, leaving her behind.
Alone.