Silence settled in the hall, heavy and suffocating, even as Isadora did her best to concentrate only on the sound of her own breathing.
But her heartbeat thumped so loud in her chest that it drowned out everything else, and it only got worse when she heard Dante—the scrape of his fork, the quiet rhythm of his chewing—as he went back to eating his food like a dead woman wasn't lying on the floor beside them.
Worse, it almost seemed like he looked more relaxed than before, as if her near-death and the maid's collapse had taken some invisible weight off him.
Isadora stared silently at him, frozen, unable to touch her own food. She waited for him to finally ask the bodyguards to take the body away.
He didn't.
Instead, he continued to eat slowly, his movements calm, deliberate. Isadora did nothing else but watch him, as though he were the most fascinating thing in the room.
