The glass tower rose above the city like a blade.
Dante stepped out of the black car, his suit immaculate, his expression carved from stone. The valet didn't speak. The security team nodded without question. Everyone knew better than to ask.
Inside, the lobby was sleek—steel, marble, silence.
His name wasn't on the walls.
But it didn't need to be.
He owned everything that mattered.
The elevator opened directly into the top floor. His office was minimalist: black leather, brushed metal, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the skyline. A desk that looked untouched. A room that felt colder than the manor.
He liked it that way.
"Morning, Mr. D'Angelo," said his assistant, eyes downcast.
"Status?"
"Markets are stable. The Singapore deal is ready for signing. And the board wants a private briefing."
Dante nodded. "They'll wait."
He walked to the window, hands in his pockets, watching the city pulse below.
Control. Precision. Power.
This was the world he understood.
But his mind drifted.
To the girl in the garden.
To the tears beneath the willow.
To the way her presence had cracked something inside him.
He hated that.
He hated that she lingered in his thoughts like a whisper he couldn't silence.
She was supposed to be a promise kept. Nothing more.
A knock at the door.
"Sir," his assistant said, "there's a visitor. No appointment. Says it's personal."
Dante turned slowly.
"Name?"
"She wouldn't give one."