She left the table.
Dante didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Just listened to the fading sound of her footsteps down the corridor.
He had expected it.
The breakfast was a test.
Not of manners—but of fear.
She was afraid.
And that was good.
Fear kept people sharp.
Fear kept them alive.
He stood slowly, walked to the window, and watched her figure disappear into the mist-drenched garden. Her robe trailed behind her like a whisper. She moved like someone trying not to be seen—even when no one was chasing her.
She doesn't trust me. Not yet.
He didn't blame her.
Trust was earned.
And he wasn't ready to give her the truth.
Not yet.
He watched her reach the bench beneath the willow tree. Saw her sit. Saw her cry.
Something twisted in his chest.
Not guilt.
Not pity.
Something older.
Something he hadn't felt in years.
She looks like him.
He turned away from the window, jaw clenched.
This wasn't about comfort.
This wasn't about redemption.
It was about control.
She was here for a reason.
And whether she liked it or not, she was part of something that had already begun.
Dante walked back to the dining table, picked up the untouched cup she'd left behind,
and stared into the cold coffee.
She's not ready. But she will be.
And from that moment—she was mine.