CHAPTER 73 — The Quiet Storm (Dante's POV)
The house was quiet after dinner, filled only with the faint hum of the AC and the soft rustle of Auri moving around their bedroom—folding clothes, humming absentmindedly, talking about Marcela again as she placed things inside their dresser.
Dante sat at the edge of the bed, hands clasped, elbows on his knees.
He felt like a storm contained in a glass.
One wrong breath and the whole thing would shatter.
Auri didn't notice.
Not yet.
She was still glowing—still light in ways he hadn't seen since before—
He swallowed harshly.
Before they lost their child.
Auri walked over, placing her pajamas on the bed. "Dante?"
He blinked and straightened. "Hmm?"
"You're quiet."
She narrowed her eyes softly. "Like… really quiet."
"I'm just tired," he said.
Half-true.
Half-lie.
He wasn't just tired—he was exhausted to the bone from fighting himself.
Auri sat beside him, leaning into him gently. "You don't look like regular-tired. You look like… mind-tired."
He almost flinched.
Because she was right.
Because she always read him too well.
But he couldn't tell her that a stranger's perfume had followed him off the plane.
That a woman had leaned close enough to tempt him.
That his body reacted when it shouldn't have—when it never should.
He couldn't burden Auri with that.
Not when she was finally healing.
Not when she was just starting to smile again.
So he forced a smile, soft and controlled.
"I'm okay, sweetheart."
Auri watched him for a moment—too perceptive, too sharp.
"When you call me sweetheart that softly, it's either you're stressed from work… or you're hiding something."
Dante's chest tightened.
He hated lying to her.
Absolutely hated it.
Auri gently touched his jaw, turning his face toward hers. "Dante… I'm your partner, not your employee. You don't have to look strong for me."
His throat tightened painfully.
He didn't feel strong.
He felt filthy.
Weak.
Guilty.
And terrified that if he opened his mouth, the truth would spill out—I was tempted—I hated myself for it—I never want you to feel replaced—I'm afraid of losing you again—I'm afraid of losing myself—
The words piled in his chest, sharp and suffocating.
But he clenched them down.
"Auri," he murmured, breath trembling slightly, "there's nothing wrong. I promise."
Auri didn't push further.
She simply laid her head on his shoulder, her arms wrapping around his middle. "Okay. I'll trust you."
That hurt worse than anything.
Her trust.
Her softness.
Her willingness to believe in him—even when he didn't believe in himself.
Dante closed his eyes, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
She didn't know how hard he was fighting.
She didn't know how loud his thoughts were.
You're disgusting for reacting.
She relies on you.
How could you even feel that?
Get yourself together.
His jaw clenched as Auri spoke again.
"So… Marcela invited me to another walk tomorrow."
Auri smiled against his shoulder, voice bright. "She said she wants to show me the café she calls her 'emotional support bakery.'"
Dante hummed, forcing calm. "That sounds good for you."
Auri pulled back, eyes sparkling. "You don't mind?"
"Of course I don't," he murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "If she makes you happy, go."
Auri leaned forward and kissed him—a soft, warm kiss.
One that felt like forgiveness for a sin she didn't even know he committed.
He kissed her back gently.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Because if he kissed her the way he wanted to—desperate, needing, trying to erase temptation—it would raise questions.
She pulled away smiling. "Then I'll go. And when you're less tired, I'll tell you about her conspiracy theories about ducks."
He let out a small laugh.
A forced one, but a laugh nonetheless.
Auri climbed under the covers, patting the space beside her. "Come here. Sleep next to me. You look like you need it."
Dante changed quietly, then slipped into bed—keeping a small, respectful distance so he wouldn't let his guilt turn into a different kind of tension.
Auri snuggled against him anyway.
Her hand resting on his chest.
Her breath warm on his collarbone.
"Goodnight, Dante," she whispered.
He wrapped an arm around her gently.
"Goodnight, Auri."
She slept quickly—peacefully—her breathing evening out.
Dante stared at the ceiling.
Wide awake.
Heart heavy.
Mind screaming.
And then…
she appeared again.
Celestine.
Her smirk.
Her perfume.
Her whispered provocations.
The heat his body had betrayed him with.
Dante shut his eyes tightly, cursing under his breath.
"No," he whispered to himself.
"Not again."
He turned his head to look at Auri sleeping on his chest.
And guilt slammed through him like a punch.
How dare he?
How dare his mind wander when she trusted him?
When she fought so hard to heal?
When she still carried the scar of what they lost?
His heart twisted painfully.
He wasn't angry at Celestine.
He was angry at himself.
Furious.
Because the woman he loved—his Auri—was right here, fragile and strong and healing in his arms.
And his body had betrayed him during a moment of weakness he didn't ask for.
He pressed a trembling kiss to the top of her head.
Never again.
He would never let temptation stain him again.
He would burn the card if needed.
He would bury the guilt until it died.
He would fight.
Because Auri was worth fighting the entire world for.
Including himself.