The Parisian sun filtered through tall velvet curtains, spilling soft golden light across the vast master bedroom of Dante's mansion. The air was infused with the faint aroma of freshly baked croissants and coffee, drifting in from the dining hall downstairs.
Anastasia sat at the long glass dining table, a silk robe loosely tied around her waist, hair tumbling freely over her shoulders. The spread before her was straight out of a postcard — croissants, pain au chocolat, delicate fruit tarts, thinly sliced cheeses, and bowls of raspberries glistening like jewels. A silver pot of steaming coffee stood between her and Dante, its scent rich and comforting.
