Chapter 12 Sophia’s arrival
Sunlight poured through the tall windows of Dante’s bedroom, soft and golden, turning the dark sheets to warm amber. I woke slowly, body deliciously sore in places I’d never felt before. Every shift reminded me: his hands, his mouth, the way he’d filled me, claimed me, whispered my name like a prayer when he came inside me.
Dante was already awake.
He lay on his side, propped on one elbow, watching me with those storm-gray eyes. No walls. No distance. Just quiet, intense tenderness.
“Morning, beautiful,” he murmured. His voice was rough from sleep and everything we’d done last night.
I smiled—shy, happy, still a little dazed. “Morning.”
He leaned down and kissed me—slow, lingering, like he was memorizing the taste of me all over again. When he pulled back, his thumb brushed my bottom lip.
“How do you feel?”
“Sore,” I admitted. “But… good sore.”
His expression softened. “Come here.”
Before I could move, he slid his arms under me—effortless, possessive—and lifted me against his chest. Naked skin to naked skin. I wrapped my arms around his neck, legs dangling.
“Dante—”
“Shower first,” he said simply. “Then I’m feeding you.”
He carried me into the en-suite bathroom like I weighed nothing. The shower was already running—steam thick, water hot. He stepped under the spray with me still in his arms, letting the water cascade over both of us.
He set me on my feet gently, but didn’t let go. His hands slid down my back, soaping me with slow, careful strokes—shoulders, spine, hips. He washed my hair next, fingers massaging my scalp until I was melting against him.
I tipped my head back under the spray, eyes closed. “You’re spoiling me.”
“You deserve to be spoiled.” He kissed the wet curve of my shoulder. “Every fucking day from now on.”
When we stepped out, he wrapped me in a thick towel, dried me himself—gentle pats on my arms, my thighs, between my legs where I was still tender. Then he dried himself quickly, pulled on black sweatpants that hung low on his hips, and disappeared into the walk-in closet.
I stayed wrapped in the towel, hair dripping, feeling strangely cherished.
Minutes later he returned with one of his T-shirts—soft black cotton that smelled like him—and a pair of his boxer briefs.
“Wear these,” he said. “Breakfast in ten.”
I slipped into the clothes. The shirt fell to mid-thigh, loose and oversized. The briefs were comically big but soft. I padded barefoot after him down the hall.
The kitchen smelled like coffee and bacon. Dante stood at the stove in nothing but those low-slung sweats, broad back flexing as he flipped pancakes. My heart did a stupid flip.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Sit.”
I hopped onto a barstool at the island. He slid a mug of coffee in front of me—black with two sugars, exactly how I liked it—then set a plate down: golden pancakes, crispy bacon, fresh berries.
He leaned across the island, kissed me quick and deep. “Eat.”
I was halfway through the first pancake—moaning around the bite—when the front door opened.
Heavy footsteps. A woman’s laugh—bright, confident, familiar from Instagram reels and tabloid photos.
Sophia.
She swept into the kitchen like she owned it—designer coat open over a silk slip dress, long legs in heels, hair perfect even at 9 a.m.
“Dante, baby!” she called, voice honey-sweet.
My fork froze halfway to my mouth.
She launched herself at him—arms around his neck, pressing a loud kiss to his cheek.
Dante caught her waist automatically, steadying her, but his eyes flicked to me—sharp, unreadable.
Sophia pulled back, beaming. “I just got back from Milan. You should be excited to see me.”
Then she noticed me.
Her smile widened—perfect, white, influencer-polished.
“Oh! You must be Liliana.” She walked over, hips swaying. “Dante’s little sister. He’s told me a few things about you.”
Little. Sister.
The words hit like ice water.
I stared at her. Then at Dante.
He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t corrected her.
Sophia tilted her head, still smiling. “He said you were back from college. Cute. You look just like the pictures.”
My stomach twisted so hard I thought I might be sick.
Little sister.
After last night. After he’d been inside me. After he’d whispered “mine” against my skin like a vow.
I set the fork down. Slowly.
“Who are you?” I asked. Voice flat.
Sophia laughed—light, tinkling. “I’m Sophia. His… well.” She glanced at Dante, playful. “We’ve been seeing each other on and off for a while. Right, baby?”
Dante’s jaw ticked. He opened his mouth.
I didn’t wait.
I slid off the stool. Bare feet silent on the tile.
Sophia frowned. “Hey, are you okay?”
I didn’t answer.
I turned and walked—fast—up the stairs, down the hall, into my bedroom at the far end. The one I’d used before last night. Before everything changed.
I slammed the door.
Locked it.
Then I sank to the floor, back against the wood, knees to my chest.
Shattered.
The word echoed in my head—over and over.
Little sister.
He hadn’t told her. Hadn’t corrected her. Hadn’t said a word.
I pressed my palms to my eyes, trying to stop the burn. But the tears came anyway—hot, silent, furious.
Last night had felt real. Sacred. Like something we’d both been fighting for years.
And this morning he let another woman call him baby. Let her call me his little sister.
Like I was a child he was babysitting.
Like what we’d done—what he’d taken—was nothing.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I ignored it.
Footsteps in the hall—heavy, deliberate.
A soft knock.
“Liliana.”
Dante’s voice. Low. Careful.
“Open the door.”
I didn’t move.
Another knock. Firmer.
“Liliana Please.”
The same word Sophia had used.
Something inside me cracked wider.
I stood—shaky—walked to the door, but didn’t open it.
“Go away,” I said. Voice small.
Silence.
Then: “She’s not—”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
More silence.
“I’ll explain,” he said finally. “When you’re ready.”
I laughed—bitter, broken. “Explain what? That you’ve been fucking her too? That I’m just the little sister you decided to screw last night?”
“That’s not—”
“Stop.” My voice cracked. “Just… stop.”
I heard him exhale—rough, pained.
“I’m not leaving,” he said quietly. “I’ll be right here. When you want to talk.”
Footsteps retreated.
I slid back down the door.
Curled into myself.
The T-shirt still smelled like him.
I hated that I still wanted to bury my face in it.
I hated that I still wanted him.
But most of all, I hated that I’d given him everything—my trust, my body, my heart—and he’d let another woman walk in and call me his little sister.
Like last night had never happened.
Like I was still just the girl he was supposed to protect.
Not the woman he loved.
Tears fell harder now.
I didn’t wipe them away.
I let them come.
Because some things hurt too much to pretend they don’t.