{Don't read! Still editing}
Tears slid down Isadora's face for a long while as she sat there, staring blankly at the door Dante had walked through.
The soft sound of her quiet sobs was the only thing filling the silence, broken now and then by her shallow, uneven breaths. The room still smelled of him — the sharp, masculine scent of his cologne mixed with the faint trace of smoke that always lingered wherever he'd been. It clung to her skin, to the sheets, to the air itself, like a cruel reminder she couldn't shake off.
She couldn't help it.
Her chest felt tight, as though something inside her had cracked open. She had bent her back just to satisfy him — swallowed her pride, endured the pain done everything she could to please him — only for him to toss it right back in her face. And worse, to tell her that all she showed was weakness.
Weak.
The word rang in her head, sharp and humiliating, until her tears burned hotter against her cheeks.
It pissed her off.
