“Never?” His voice was lower now, dangerous in a different way. “Funny, because right now it feels like all of this—” his hand cut the air between us, sharp, dismissive — “was just convenient to you.”
I shook my head so hard it hurt, and I hastily wiped away the few tears that had fallen. “It wasn’t. It’snot.”
He stepped closer, deliberate, controlled, like every movement was a test I was about to fail. “Then prove it. If you’re not your father’s spy, if you didn’t just use me—” his gaze pinned me where I stood, unflinching — “then tell me something real, Cole. Or don’t, and I’ll walk out that door right now and never look back.”
My throat worked. “Something real?” I couldn’t think of one thing to say. My chest heaved, traitorous tears burning the corners of my eyes. “I don’t do as well as you do under pressure.”
His scoff was loud.
“No, seriously!” I called out, desperate for him to stay. “I’m being real. You love pressure, you thrive on it. I hate it. You put me on the spot saying tell you something real, I can’t think of one single thing because I panic.” I dug the heels of my hands intomy eyes, rubbing them before I looked at him again. “That’s real. Okay?”
Dante’s slow, knowing smile wasn’t cocky this time. It was devastating in its cruelty. “That was pathetic,” he said, his voice low and merciless. What made it worse was that he almost sounded tired when he said it. Not cruel. Just done.
The silence was loud.
"The Academic Association file access," he said at last. "You mentioned it weeks ago, offhand."
I frowned. "What about it?"
"I made a note of it." He wasn't looking at me. "I didn't use it, but I filed it. The same way I file defensive formations. The same way I file everything that could be relevant."
The silence felt different now.
"Relevant to what?" My voice was careful.
"To keep myself safe." He finally looked at me. "You were a risk, Sav. From the night you overheard that call, you were a risk. I kept you close because contained was safer than distant. That's where it started."
I was very still. "And where did it end up?"
He didn't answer.
"You kept me close—" I started.
"I kept you close, then I realized I liked you, and by the time I knew the difference, it was too late to explain the beginning without it sounding like what it was."
"What was it?"
He held my gaze. "Damage control.” He licked his lower lip. “That then became something else."
"But it started as damage control."
"Yes."
A chill settled in my chest. I thought about my father's office. About what he'd asked me to do. About the word spy and how clean it had sounded compared to what Dante hadjust described, which was the same room, just with different furniture.
I swiped at the heat on my cheeks, fury rising to drown the ache. “This isexactlywhy I shouldn’t have slept with you,” I whispered, the words rushing out as if they’d been caged inside me for too long. “My life is complicated enough without adding you to it. Being near you is already too much.”
For a second, his face went still, the words sinking in. Then his jaw ticked, and something shuttered behind his eyes.
“Good,” Dante said, each syllable clipped and sharp. “Because I don’t make a habit of fucking snakes.”
The air left my lungs like he’d punched me.
But there was no gloating in his stare, no triumph. Just that cold, practiced mask — the one I was starting to realize he wore not for the cameras, but to survive.
He turned away from me, and then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a quiet finality that hurt worse than if he’d slammed it.
I stood there, every muscle trembling, until the silence pressed too heavily against my chest. My knees buckled, and I grabbed the edge of the workbench, hands clutching at the wood to keep myself upright.
