The next morning dawned gray and heavy, clouds rolling over the horizon like restless waves. The air inside the villa carried an uneasy stillness, the kind that pressed down before something broke.
Isla stood before the mirror, brushing her hair with slow, steady strokes. Her reflection stared back, calm on the surface, though her thoughts churned like the sea. She had barely slept, haunted by Dante's words. Let me show you I can change.
She wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it. The same man who once locked her away now spoke of redemption as though it were a vow. Yet the look in his eyes had been real—haunted, stripped of power. It left a crack in her armor she couldn't ignore.
A knock came at her door.
"Come in," she said, her voice flat.
It was Miriam, her expression tense. "My lady, Lord Dante has called for you. He wants you in the council room."
