I reach into my inner jacket pocket and pull out the small, sleek case. The one I now know belongs to him.
It’s heavier again—both toys back inside.
Dante watches every move as I hand it over. He doesn’t break eye contact for a second as he takes it, fingers brushing mine, deliberate and slow.
He slides it into his own pocket like it’s nothing.
Then he takes a long pull of his bourbon and turns back to Matheus.
For the next hour, we work the room like seasoned partners. Never straying far from each other. At times, we greet peopletogether—switching off who leads, who jokes, who seals the moment.
Eve lingers nearby.
Never front and center, but always close. She stands beside us during key introductions, just far enough back to let us stay in control. But when one of us lands a cutting remark or redirects a conversation with effortless command, her eyes shine with approval.
It’s subtle. Intentional.
And suddenly I get it.
This is what she was brought here for. What she’s been working towards.
To get us to stop waging war and start moving in tandem.
And somehow, against all odds, it’s happening.
Corrine finds her way over eventually but this time I know what side of the fence I need to be on.
“Dante,” she says warmly, brushing her fingers over the edge of his sleeve. “Heard you had a car accident. How are you?”
He nods, calm and cool, pulling away from her touch. “Barely scratched the bumper. But thanks for checking in.”
Fucking liar.
I saw the aftermath of the car. Totaled is more like it.
Lucky to be alive¬–another phrase that comes to mind.
He’s been masking it, but I’ve noticed the slight limp occasionally on his right leg. The way he’s favoring it. Squeezing his thigh at times.
She hums, sips her drink, clearly expecting more. But Dante gives her nothing else. Just that polite wall of ice he wears so well when she’s around.
Then—she pivots.
Eyes on me now. “Grant. I was thinking about that weekend in Charleston—remember the rooftop bar?”
She places her hand on my arm. Light. Familiar.
I glance at it, then at Dante.
“Actually,” I say, spotting Isabella across the room, “Dante, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
Dante follows my line of sight as I lean closer. “Isabella Lévêque. She’s working on something I think you’ll be very interested in.”
Corrine’s hand drops.
Dante’s already nodding. “Lead the way, bug.” I feel his touch–featherlight–on my lower back and my stomach drops as deep as his voice when he says that nickname.
And just like that, Corrine’s left behind—no offense, no confrontation. Just… unchosen.
