I remember clearly.
It was a Wednesday.
It was October.
Seven months since I was forced into a marriage I never asked for, with a man I still didn't love. Seven months of pretending everything was fine while my heart quietly unraveled at the seams.
I was sitting on the edge of the bed, combing through my hair with my head tilted slightly to the left, watching the door like it might give me an answer. I wasn't waiting for anyone, not really. Certainly not him. Not Dante.
We hadn't spoken in months, and that silence wasn't a problem. It had become its own rhythm. The new normal.
Lorenzo and I had found a sort of peace—sleeping on opposite sides of the bed, waking up in good moods, making polite conversation over breakfast while Dante occasionally joined us at the table. Everything was perfectly balanced, perfectly neutral. We all ran our separate lives under the same roof, never stepping on each other's toes.
And I didn't expect that Wednesday to be any different.
But it was.
Because Dante walked in.
Just… walked in.
Unannounced, unapologetic, like he belonged.
And he was holding a rose.
A single red rose.
I turned to him, confused, cautious, heart immediately racing.
"Dante—" I said his name softly, too softly. It tasted sweet on my tongue. Sweet enough to be dangerous. Like something that could rot my teeth and destroy me from the inside out.
The moment I said it, something shifted.
A spirit left my body—one I'd held onto for months. The rage, the bitterness, the careful silence. And in its place came… something else. Something unfamiliar and frightening. A soul I didn't recognize. A presence that carried weight, tension, and longing in equal measure.
"Hey, princess," he murmured. The words barely made it out of his throat.
He looked… unsure. Hesitant.
I rose slowly from the bed. "Why are you here today?" My voice was calm, but my heart thudded violently behind my ribs. He wasn't supposed to be here. He knew that. And yet—here he was.
Without saying a word, he handed me the rose. I hesitated, then reached for it.
The thorn pricked me—right on my index finger.
"Ah!" I yelped, instinctively dropping it to the ground. A dot of red bloomed on my skin.
"You seriously want to kill me, don't you?" I said with a small, awkward laugh, trying to keep things light.
But he didn't laugh.
His face stayed still. His eyes didn't move from mine. They were dark, intense, holding something he clearly didn't know how to say. Something heavy. Familiar.
I recognized the look immediately.
My mother used to wear it whenever she fought with my dad. No—not my dad.
He doesn't deserve that word. That title.
I promised myself long ago I'd stop calling him that.
Dante had that same expression now. Like his mouth wanted to speak but his pride wouldn't let it. Like a war was raging inside him and he didn't know which side to let win.
The silence between us stretched, pulled thin like a wire between our bodies. One touch, one word, and it would snap.
I looked down at the rose on the floor, the petals perfect and blood-red.
Then I looked at Dante again.
"Why did you bring me that?" I asked.
He swallowed hard.
"I don't know," he said. "I just… thought of you."
I should've asked why.
Why now? Why me? Why after everything?
But I didn't.
Because deep down, I already knew.
He was loosing. Not that he'd ever admit it.
Not that he'd say the words.
But something had shifted in him. The monster I once knew—the one who blackmailed me, manipulated me, made me hate the sound of my own name—looked almost… human now.
And that scared me more than anything else.
Because if Dante had a heart…
If Dante could feel guilt, or longing, or regret—
Then what excuse did I have to keep hating him?
He reached down and picked up the rose. His fingers brushed mine, and the touch was brief but searing.
"Sorry about the thorn," he muttered.
I watched him—really watched him.
The way his jaw clenched. The way his shoulders were tenser than usual. The way his hand trembled just slightly as he offered it to me again, gentler this time.
I took it. Carefully.
"Thank you," I whispered.
I turned around and faced the window.
"I'm not in the mood to fight," I said.
"Neither am I."
I felt him near the desk. Maybe leaning on it. Maybe standing awkward.
It wasn't like Dante to hesitate. But this version of him did.
"I'm… not good at this," he began.
I turned slightly, just enough to catch his reflection in the mirror. His hair was messier than usual. Shirt wrinkled. There were shadows under his eyes.
"Not good at talking?" I asked, folding one leg under me.
He gave a half-chuckle. "Not good at apologizing."
That made me turn fully.
Dante D'Angelo. The man who could tear people down with a sentence. Apologizing?
I said nothing. I let him squirm.
He cleared his throat, shifted. "Look, I'm not going to make excuses for the things I did. For the blackmail. For the way I treated you. That wasn't right."
"No," I said simply. "It wasn't."
His eyes met mine, and for once, they weren't sharp. They weren't guarded. Just… tired. Sad.
"You deserved better. And I—I should've given that to you."
The words didn't hit like bullets. They didn't explode inside me.
They landed soft. Quiet. And that was worse.
Because it was easier to hate him when he was cruel.
It was safer to despise him when he acted like a monster.
But this—this version of Dante who felt things and said sorry—this was the version that left cracks in my armor.
"I appreciate the apology," I said, but my voice wasn't warm. "It's just… hard to believe anything you say."
"I get that."
"And I don't know if I can trust you. Or even forgive you."
He nodded. Didn't push. Just accepted it.
"That's fair," he murmured.
We stood in silence for a while. The wind tapped gently at the windowpane. Outside, birds chirped like nothing inside this room had ever happened.
"I want to be better," he said eventually. "Not just for you. For myself too. Because I'm tired of being the guy everyone expects to ruin things."
I stared at him. "Then stop ruining things."
A weak smile touched his lips. It faded fast.
"I'll let you be," he said. "I just needed to say it. That I'm sorry."
He turned to leave. And I let him.
I let him walk to the door. I let him twist the handle.
I let him go.
And the moment the door clicked shut behind him, my chest tightened. Not in anger. Not even sadness.
Guilt.
It pressed down on me like bricks, one by one.
I could've said something more. I could've told him I was trying. I could've at least looked at him with something softer than ice in my eyes.
But I didn't. Because if I did, I feared I'd fall apart.
Because if I forgave him, it meant he had power again.
And I was so tired of him having power over me.
So I chose cold. I chose silence. I chose to pretend I was okay.
But I wasn't.
I curled up on the bed, back to the door, back to the light. And I stared at the stupid dried-up rose on my table. The same one that cut my skin. The same one he handed me like a peace offering.
I hated that he was getting under my skin again.
I hated that his apology mattered.
I hated that I wanted to cry.
But more than anything, I hated that for the first time… I didn't want him to leave.
And I let him anyway.
Because pretending I didn't care felt safer than letting him know I still did.