The morning light of Paris spilled through the vast windows of Dante's estate, brushing over the silk sheets and gilded furniture like a painter's final stroke. The golden rays danced lazily across the white curtains, fluttering gently in the breeze that carried the faint scent of rain and blooming roses from the gardens below.
Anastasia stirred beneath the soft sheets, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks as her hand instinctively reached out to the other side of the bed. Her fingers met only cold linen. Empty.
Her brows furrowed faintly. For the past week, every morning had begun with the same quiet warmth — Dante's body beside hers, his arm slung over her waist, his heartbeat steady against her back. But now the space was cold, hollow, and unsettlingly quiet.
