Celeste sat long after he left.
The bar was nearly empty now. The bartender had begun stacking glasses, wiping down the counter, humming softly to himself. No one told her to move. No one looked at her twice.
Her head felt heavy, thick with alcohol and thoughts she couldn't slow down.
Counselor.
The word wouldn't leave her.
She pressed her fingers to her temple, then to the bridge of her nose, breathing slowly. That was impossible. No one called her that unless they knew exactly who she was. And she hadn't told him her name.
When she finally stood, the room tipped slightly to the left.
The bartender looked up. "You sure you're good to drive, miss?"
Celeste didn't move.
Every instinct in her screamed to run, but her body wouldn't listen. Her fingers curled into the sheet at her chest as if it could anchor her to reality.
"You're supposed to be in prison," she repeated, louder now.
Dante took a slow step inside the room. Then another.
"I was," he said calmly. "For five years."
Her throat tightened. "You—You lied to me."
He tilted his head slightly. "I didn't tell you anything."
She shook her head, breath coming faster. "You knew who I was."
"Yes."
"And you still—" She stopped herself, unable to finish.
His gaze darkened. Not with anger. With something colder.
"You destroyed me," he said quietly.
The words didn't sound like an accusation.
They sounded like a statement.
Her chest tightened. "You were guilty."
"Legally," he replied. "Yes."
She swallowed. "Then why are you here?"
A faint smile touched his mouth.
"Because I wanted to see what kind of woman ruins a man's life and then falls apart when hers does."
That hit harder than any shout would have.
"You followed me," she whispered.
"Yes."
"You waited."
"Yes."
Her pulse roared in her ears. "This was planned."
"Not last night," he said. "But this moment? Very much so."
Her knees felt weak. She sank onto the edge of the bed, still clutching the sheet like armor.
"What do you want from me?" she asked.
He stepped closer.
Close enough that she could feel his presence—solid, unmovable.
"I want what you took from me," he said.
Her stomach dropped. "My career—"
"No."
"My freedom—"
"No."
"My reputation—"
"No."
He crouched in front of her, bringing his eyes level with hers.
"I want your control."
Her breath hitched.
"I want your certainty," he continued. "Your composure. Your sense of safety. I want you to know what it feels like to lose all of it."
Tears burned behind her eyes. "So this is revenge."
His gaze softened.
"No," he said. "This is interest."
That was worse.
"You slept with me," she whispered.
"Yes."
"And you knew."
"Yes."
Her hands trembled. "You're sick."
His mouth curved. "And yet you came with me."
She looked away.
He reached out and gently lifted her chin with one finger.
"Don't," he said. "You don't get to pretend this was all me."
Her breath stuttered.
"You chose me," he said softly. "Even without knowing who I was."
She hated that he was right.
"Get dressed," he said, standing.
Her head snapped up. "What?"
"You're leaving," he said. "For now."
Relief and fear tangled in her chest. "You're letting me go?"
"For now."
She stood slowly, wrapping the sheet tighter around herself.
"What happens next?" she asked.
Dante smiled.
"That," he said, "depends on how much of your life you're willing to gamble."
She waved him off. "I'll take a cab."
Outside, the rain had softened to a thin mist. Cold pricked her skin instantly, making her shiver. She fumbled for her phone, blinking against the blur of the streetlights.
That was when she saw him.
Across the road, leaning against a dark car, a cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers.
He looked up, as if he'd been expecting her.
"You shouldn't be out here alone," he said.
Celeste stiffened. "And you shouldn't be following women out of bars."
A faint smirk curved his mouth. "Maybe I was making sure you got home safe."
She rolled her eyes. "You do that often? Chase strangers to protect them?"
"Only the ones who look like they're about to break."
That made her laugh once—short, humorless. "You really don't quit."
He crushed the cigarette beneath his shoe. "Come on. I'll drive you. You can barely stand."
"I'm fine."
"Sure you are," he said quietly. "But get in anyway."
Every instinct in her body warned her not to.
And yet—silence felt worse than risk.
Her chest was heavy. The night was too long. And she didn't want to be alone with her thoughts.
So she opened the door.The car smelled faintly of clean cologne and rain-soaked leather.
Celeste buckled her seatbelt with unsteady fingers. The engine purred to life, smooth and quiet, too controlled for a man who should have felt like chaos.
Neither of them spoke at first.
The city passed in streaks of gold and red outside the window. Her reflection looked unfamiliar—eyes glassy, lips parted, hair damp at the edges.
"Where to?" he asked at last.
She turned her head toward him. "I don't know."
He glanced at her once, slow and deliberate. Then he nodded.
"Then I'll decide."
That should have frightened her.
Instead, it made her feel… relieved.
The silence stretched. Not awkward—heavy. Like something waiting.
"You always trust strangers this easily?" he asked.
She gave a quiet laugh. "I usually don't do anything easily."
"Tonight, you are."
She didn't answer.
The car slowed. Stopped.
They were no longer on a main road. The building beside them was tall, dark, elegant. Lights glowed faintly behind wide windows.
"Where are we?" she asked.
"Somewhere safe."
She looked at him. "That's vague."
"So is 'I don't know,'" he replied.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Her hand rested on her lap. His was still on the steering wheel. They were close enough that she could feel the warmth of him.
Too close.
"You don't even know my name," she said.
He turned toward her.
"Do you want me to?"
Her breath caught.
Logic screamed at her. Every rule she had ever lived by was begging her to step out of the car, call a cab, go home.
But she had no home anymore.
Not really.
And the look in his eyes—steady, unreadable—made her feel like she was already falling.
"Do you want me to stop?" he asked quietly.
Her heart thudded.
She shook her head.
"No."
His jaw tightened slightly. Just a fraction.
"Then come inside."
She followed him.
The moment she stepped inside, the air changed.
Warmer. Quieter. Too quiet.
The door closed behind them with a soft click that sounded far too final.
Celeste stood there, unsure what to do with her hands, her thoughts, her breathing. The room was dim, lit only by the city glow through tall windows. Everything felt expensive. Intentional. Controlled.
Just like him.
"You don't have to do this," he said, watching her carefully.
She laughed weakly. "Now you're giving me an out?"
"I'm giving you a choice."
She swallowed.
Every rational part of her knew this was wrong. Knew she should leave. Knew she would regret this in the morning.
But she was already full of regret.
And she was tired of being strong.
She took a step toward him.
Then another.
That was all it took.
His hand brushed hers—light, deliberate. Not possessive. Not rushed.
A question.
She answered by closing the distance.
When Celeste woke, it took her a moment to understand where she was.
The ceiling was unfamiliar. White. High. Too perfect.
Her head throbbed. Her mouth felt dry. The sheets were cool and impossibly soft beneath her fingers.
Memory came back in fragments.
The bar.
The rain.
His voice.
The way he had looked at her like he already knew her.
Her heart began to pound.
She sat up abruptly, clutching the sheet to her chest.
Her clothes were gone.
On the nightstand, a glass of water and two painkillers waited beside a folded note.
Drink. You're going to need it.
Her hands trembled as she reached for the glass.
She swallowed.
Slowly, she stood.
The room was immaculate. Masculine. Minimal.
Then she saw the newspaper on the dresser.
Folded neatly.
Waiting.
Something in her stomach dropped.
She unfolded it.
And froze.
DANTE NAVARRO FREED AFTER FIVE YEARS BEHIND BARS.
Her vision blurred.
"No," she whispered. "No… no…"
The room tilted.
The man from the bar.
The way he had looked at her.
The word counselor.
The calm.
The control.
Her breath turned shallow.
A voice sounded behind her.
Low. Familiar.
"Morning."
She turned.
He stood in the doorway, shirt unbuttoned, expression calm—almost amused.
"Morning, counselor," he said softly. "Miss me?"
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
"You're supposed to be in prison," she whispered.
His smile widened.
"Not anymore."