I screamed.
"ADRIEN!"
My body jolted upright, breath tearing out of my chest as though I had been dragged from water. My heart slammed violently against my ribs, fast—too fast—panic still gripping my veins.
My nightdress clung to my skin.
Cold.
I looked down.
No sweat.
My body wasn't wet. My sheets weren't soaked. Nothing around me showed signs of the terror that had just ripped through my mind.
But the fear?
Still there.
Alive.
Burning.
I pressed a trembling hand to my chest, struggling to breathe as the images refused to leave me.
A child.
A little boy.
Dark hair. Small hands. Big frightened eyes.
A room too cold for a child to sleep in.
Water splashing violently against his small body. His gasp. His cry. His tiny frame shaking on the floor while someone stood over him—calm, smiling, cruel.
My vision blurred.
"Adrien…" I whispered again, my voice breaking.
The name felt wrong in my mouth.
Too familiar.
Too painful.
I had never had a son.
I had never carried a child named Adrien.
So why did my chest ache as if something had been torn out of me?
Why did it feel like I had just watched someone hurt my own flesh?
I swung my legs off the bed sharply—
I couldn't stay there.
Not with my heart pounding like that. Not with the name still echoing in my head.
Adrien.
I rushed into the bathroom and turned the shower on without checking the temperature. Cold water burst from the nozzle, splashing against the tiles as steam rose faintly.
I stepped under it fully clothed.
The chill hit my skin hard—but it didn't chase the images away.
I braced my palms against the wall, head bowed as water ran down my hair, my neck, my back.
But my mind—
My mind refused to be quiet.
The little boy appeared again.
Running.
Bare feet against marble floors.
"Mama!" he cried, arms stretched toward me. "Mama—wait!"
My chest tightened painfully.
"I'm here," I whispered without realizing it. "I'm right here—"
The image shattered.
Another one replaced it.
A man's arms around my waist from behind. Strong. Familiar. Possessive.
"Wifey," he murmured against my ear.
My breath hitched.
My fingers dug into the tile.
"What the hell…" I whispered, shaking my head.
The flashes came faster now. Too fast.
Too close.
Faces blurred. Shapes overlapping. Voices crossing each other until my skull felt too small to contain them.
I couldn't see them clearly.
But I could hear them.
The boy again.
Blonde hair this time—lighter than before. Still faceless. Still reaching for me.
His voice echoed inside my head, soft… worried.
"I was scared they hit you too hard," he said.
"But you were always strong."
I gasped.
My knees buckled slightly.
"Who are you…?" I whispered desperately. "Who—"
Another voice cut in.
"You're wondering why I'm here," the voice said calmly. "Why I did this."
My head snapped up.
"You shouldn't have married him."
Pain exploded behind my eyes.
I cried out, clutching my head as the water beat down harder, the sound roaring in my ears. Tears mixed with the shower, sliding down my face as my body trembled.
"Stop," I whispered. "Please… just stop."
My memories weren't memories.
They were fragments.
Broken glass cutting deeper every time I tried to understand them.
A child calling me mother.
A man calling me wife.
Fear.
Love.
Regret.
Betrayal.
I slid down the wall of the shower slowly, curling in on myself as my hands pressed to my temples like I could physically hold my mind together.
My head throbbed violently.
It felt like it was going to split open.
"What's happening to me…?" I sobbed.
The water kept running.
The voices faded—but not completely.
water kept running.
.....
I didn't notice how long it had been until the air around me shifted—heavy, charged, like someone else had stepped into my space without a sound.
I lifted my head slightly.
What the hell was he doing here?
Dante was standing by the bathroom door, his gaze fixed on it, sharp and assessing. He looked… alert. Like he'd been counting seconds.
Then his eyes dropped.
To the floor.
My clothes.
My chest tightened as I followed his gaze. My nightdress lay crumpled near the tiles. Everything else scattered where I'd left them in my rush.
I watched him bend down.
Slowly.
He picked them up one by one, his movements deliberate. The fabric slid through his fingers with infuriating calm.
Even my panties.
Without a word, he folded them once and slipped them into his trouser pocket, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. As if they belonged there. As if I did.
Before I could react, I heard it—
The soft sound of fabric being removed.
A belt unclasping.
Buttons.
Clothes hitting the floor.
My head snapped up.
The shower door slid open.
Dante stepped inside.
No knock.
No warning.
No apology.
Water spilled over his shoulders, tracing the hard planes of his chest, sliding down his torso like it knew the path by heart. His face was unreadable—blank, controlled, faintly annoyed.
I froze.
Then my eyes betrayed me.
They dropped.
Heat rushed through me as I took him in—bare, unapologetic, solid. My gaze lingered on the unmistakable evidence of his arousal, thick and heavy between his thighs, impossible to ignore, impossible to pretend I hadn't noticed.
I stared.
Too long.
A low sound left him.
A groan—restrained, irritated.
"Why are you staring at it," Dante muttered, his voice rough, edged with impatience.
I grabbed the robe off the hook, pressing it against my body, trying to regain control,forcing my legs to move, even though every instinct screamed to stay here and fuck him.
I didn't want him to see the effect he had on me. I refused to give him that satisfaction.
"How could you just barge in?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended, shaking with both arousal and frustration.
He didn't answer.
I turned sharply, making for the door. I had to get out.
But even as I moved, memories flickered—him seeing me naked before, the night I'd kissed him, the dinner, the almost… everything.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to keep walking.
"Where are you going?" Dante's voice was calm, almost teasing.
"Away from you."
I didn't wait for his permission—because God forbid I give Dante that satisfaction. I shoved past him, water still dripping from my hair.
He didn't stop me.
Of course he didn't.
I expected a grip on my wrist. A command. Something violent or possessive or infuriatingly intimate.
Nothing.
I stormed into the bedroom, yanked the door open, and stepped into the hall.
Behind me, Dante leaned casually against the bathroom frame, utterly unbothered. His mouth curved into that signature smirk—the one that never meant anything good for anyone else.
"One…" he said softly.
I froze for half a second, irritation flaring. Was he actually—
"Two…"
I kept walking. Pride carried me forward even as something cold slid down my spine. The air in the hallway felt wrong. Too still. Too heavy. Like the house itself was holding its breath.
"Three."
The scream tore out of me before I understood why.
"Ahhhhhh—!"