Chapter 56 Seraphine
The closet was obscene.
That was the only word for it.
Floor-to-ceiling racks. Shelves stacked with shoes still in boxes. Drawers labeled by season. Color-coded. Pressed. Pristine. Like someone had taken one look at my life and said, you’ll need options.
Amara, meanwhile, was in paradise.
“Oh my god,” she breathed, already yanking hangers free. “He has taste. Expensive, morally questionable taste, but taste.” She tossed a blazer onto the bed, then another. “Oh this is silk. This is absolutely silk. Who just owns silk like this?”
I hovered by the mirror, staring at my reflection while she rummaged.
I looked… off.
Bloated. Puffy. Heavy in a way that had nothing to do with food and everything to do with emotions. My stomach felt tight, my thighs felt bigger, my chest too much. I tugged my shirt down reflexively even though no one was judging me.
Except me.
Amara glanced over once, then again.
She stopped mid-rummage.
“…Okay,” she said slowly. “What’s going on.”
“I’m fine,” I lied automatically.
She raised an eyebrow. “You’re standing like you’re bracing for impact. You’re not fine.”
I sighed and leaned back against the dresser, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.
“Dante and I—” I swallowed. “We slept together. Like… an hour ago.”
Amara froze.
Then her mouth fell open. “YOU DID NOT.”
“I did,” I groaned. “And now he’s acting all cold and distant and business-mode and I feel like I did something wrong and—what if he doesn’t like me anymore? What if I did sex wrong? What if—”
“Whoa. Stop.” She crossed the room in three steps and grabbed my shoulders. “First of all, that’s not how sex works. Second of all, that man does not go cold because he regrets you. He goes cold because he’s trying not to burn the world down.”
I shook my head. “You didn’t see him, Amara. He wouldn’t even look at me.”
“Because if he did, he wouldn’t leave,” she said firmly. “Trust me. I know that type.”
I laughed weakly. “I feel ridiculous.”
“You feel vulnerable,” she corrected. “That’s different.”
She turned me toward the mirror, hands still on my shoulders. “You didn’t do anything wrong. And if Dante didn’t want you, he wouldn’t have planned closets. Plural.”
That… helped. A little.
“Now,” she said, clapping her hands, “we are not spiraling in a dragon king’s walk-in closet. We are getting you dressed.”
She pulled out a black pencil-skirt suit and held it up. “This. Trust me.”
I changed while she narrated every step like a stylist on a reality show.
When I stepped back into the mirror—black skirt hugging my hips, fitted jacket nipping in at the waist, sheer tights and sleek black heels—I barely recognized myself.
I looked… sharp. Put together. Powerful.
Amara grinned. “See? Badass. Certified.”
She, meanwhile, had chosen chaos.
A hot-pink, skin-tight professional dress that somehow walked the line between boardroom and bombshell, paired with black heels and a matching pink blazer.
“I’m business,” she said, striking a pose, “but make it threatening.”
She zipped two bags closed. “I packed enough for both of us. Multiple scenarios. Emotional support outfits included.”
She grabbed my face gently, forcing me to meet her eyes. “Listen to me. Stop being mean to yourself. Whatever Dante is doing right now has nothing to do with you being ‘not enough.’ You are not allowed to shrink.”
My throat tightened.
“Okay,” I whispered.
“Good. Now let’s go scare some powerful men.”
The argument died the second we stepped into view.
Lucian stopped mid-sentence.
Dante didn’t.
He simply went quiet.
His attention locked onto me like a physical thing — slow, deliberate, unapologetic. Not just seeing me. Assessing. Taking in the line of my skirt, the way the jacket cinched my waist, the exposed column of my throat.
Heat followed his gaze.
Possessive. Controlled. Dangerous.
Amara felt it too.
She straightened instinctively beside me, chin lifting, shoulders back — her body responding to Lucian’s presence the way water answers gravity. Lucian’s jaw clenched, his argument forgotten, eyes darkening as they tracked her from heels to mouth.
Neither man smiled.
Neither looked surprised.
Dante was the first to move.
One step forward.
Then another.
The sound of his shoes against marble echoed too loudly in the suddenly silent foyer. He stopped directly in front of me — close enough that I felt the heat rolling off him, close enough that my pulse jumped traitorously.
His eyes dropped to my lips.
Then back to my eyes.
“Turn,” he said.
Not loud.
Not harsh.
Just… absolute.
My breath hitched — not from fear, but from instinct — and I turned slowly, letting him see exactly what he wanted. I felt his presence behind me, felt the tension coil tighter, felt the weight of his attention settle between my shoulder blades like a hand that hadn’t touched me yet.
When I faced him again, his expression had shifted.
Approval.
Ownership.
Something darker.
“Good,” he murmured.
The word slid under my skin.
Amara let out a shaky laugh beside me. “Wow. Okay. So this is the energy now.”
Lucian stepped closer to her in response — not crowding, but claiming space. His voice dropped low, calm and commanding.
“You dressed to be seen,” he said. “And you are.”
Her lips parted. She swallowed. “You don’t sound mad about it.”
“I’m not,” he replied. “But you’ll stay where I can see you.”
Her shoulders relaxed at the order.
Mine tightened at Dante’s silence.
He reached out then — not grabbing, not gentle either — two fingers tipping my chin up until I was forced to meet his eyes.
“You look dangerous,” he said quietly. “Do you know that?”
My voice came out softer than I intended. “Should I be sorry?”
His mouth curved — sharp. Predatory.
“Never,” he said. “Just honest.”
His thumb brushed my jaw once — brief, grounding, electric — then dropped away like he hadn’t just undone me with a touch.
Lucian cleared his throat, regaining command of the room. “We need to leave. Now.”
Dante didn’t look away from me. “Get your bag.”
Not a request.
I nodded.
Amara glanced between us, eyes wide, then smirked. “Well. If we’re doing end-of-the-world meetings, at least we’re doing them hot.”
Lucian’s hand settled at the small of her back — firm, guiding, possessive.
“Move,” he said.
She did.
Dante leaned in close enough that only I could hear him.
“This isn’t over,” he murmured. “You don’t get to look like that and walk away untouched.”
My breath stuttered.
His voice dropped lower.
“Behave,” he added. “For now.”
And gods help me —
I wanted to.