The black Maybach pulled into the vast driveway of the Montgomery estate under the golden hues of the descending sun. The engine purred softly to a halt, but the silence inside the car was serene, peaceful—almost sacred. Dante sat still, one hand resting on Anastasia's waist, the other brushing lightly over the silk of her dress. Her head rested on his lap, breath soft and even, her long lashes resting delicately against her cheeks. His gaze remained locked on her face, taking in every detail—the gentle curve of her lips, the fluttering of her lashes, the way her hair framed her serene face.
For once, Dante Montgomery felt something he could not name.
