CHAPTER 8 – TWO PHONES, ONE SMILE
I didn't drive straight home after dinner.
The city lights blurred past my windshield as I took the long way, windows down, night air cooling the faint burn left behind by Dante Moreau's presence. He was… different than I'd expected. Quieter. Sharper. Watching more than he spoke.
And annoyingly perceptive.
I smiled to myself as I pulled into my driveway.
My house sat back from the road—large but understated, painted in black and white, clean lines softened by warm lights spilling through the windows. No gates towering toward the sky. No excessive guards. Nothing that screamed untouchable.
People always expected excess.
I liked misleading them.
Inside, I kicked off my heels and loosened my hair, letting the playful mask fall away the moment the door shut behind me. Silence settled—comfortable, familiar.
I dropped onto the couch and reached into my bag.
Two phones.
One sleek and elegant.
The other matte black, scratched, untraceable.
The first buzzed.
Dante:
You left before dessert.
I smiled faintly and typed back.
Seraphine:
I don't like sweet endings.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Dante:
Noted.
I placed the phone face down and picked up the second.
A message was already waiting.
MASK GIRL:
You watched me tonight.
I exhaled slowly.
Dante:
You performed well.
A pause.
MASK GIRL:
Careful. Admiration makes men careless.
I didn't wait for his reply this time.
I stood, walked to the mirror near the hallway, and studied my reflection. The soft dress. The relaxed posture. The smile the world believed.
None of it was real.
And yet… tonight, some part of it had almost felt effortless.
Annoying.
I changed quickly, trading silk for cotton, glamour for comfort. As I tied my hair back, my mind replayed the way Dante had looked at me across the table—not hungry, not dismissive.
Amused.
As if he thought he had time.
A soft knock echoed through the house.
I stilled.
Another knock. Firm. Familiar.
I opened the door to find him standing there, coat slung over his arm, expression unreadable as ever. The city lights framed him like a deliberate choice.
"You forgot something," he said calmly.
I arched a brow. "My appetite?"
"The conversation," he replied.
I stepped aside. "You should be careful, Dante. Showing up unannounced might give people ideas."
"I don't mind," he said, stepping inside, gaze sweeping my home—not impressed, not disappointed. Curious. "It suits you."
"That's a dangerous thing to say to a woman who doesn't care about approval."
His lips twitched. Barely.
We sat across from each other, the space between us charged but quiet.
"The contract papers will arrive tomorrow," he said. "No pressure."
I leaned back. "Liar."
"Realist."
I studied him, then smiled—light, cheerful, harmless. "You assume I need what you're offering. Power. Influence. Protection."
"You don't?" he asked.
I met his eyes, fire flickering beneath the softness. "I already have everything I need."
Something shifted in his expression. Not suspicion.
Interest.
"Then why agree at all?" he asked.
I tilted my head. "Curiosity."
Silence stretched.
Finally, he stood. "One year, Seraphine."
"One year," I echoed. "Try not to underestimate me."
His gaze lingered. "I never do."
When the door closed behind him, I exhaled slowly.
I picked up the black phone.
A new message blinked onto the screen.
Dante:
Good night, Mask.
I smiled—sharp, knowing, dangerous.
"Sleep well," I murmured to the empty room.
"While you still can."