CHAPTER 77 — THE WEIGHT OF WHAT HE DID
Dante's POV
Dante didn't leave his office for almost an hour.
He couldn't.
He stood there with his hands braced on the edge of his desk, chest tight, pulse erratic, skin burning with the ghost of a mistake he wished he could erase with his own bare hands.
The kiss was nothing—
it meant nothing—
but it happened.
That was the part that suffocated him.
His reflection in the glass wall looked like a stranger.
A man he didn't recognize.
A man he swore he would never become.
"Auri…" he whispered.
Her face flashed through his mind.
Her smile last night.
The way she hugged him so tight when he came home from the airport.
Her laugh when she talked about Marcela.
Her eyes—gentle, warm, and healing.
Dante felt sick.
He dragged a hand down his face, jaw tightening painfully.
He needed to go home.
He needed to see her.
He grabbed his coat, ignored his tie hanging crooked from Celestine's hands earlier, and walked out of his office like a man fleeing fire.
But the fire was in him.
At Home
The mansion lights glowed softly when he arrived, warm against the deepening twilight.
He took a deep breath before entering, forcing his expression back into something calm, controlled.
He couldn't let her see.
Not tonight.
Not ever.
Auri peeked out from the kitchen the moment she heard the door open.
Her whole face lit up.
"You're home early," she said softly, drying her hands with a small towel.
Dante's chest constricted painfully.
God, she looked beautiful.
Soft sweater.
Hair tied lazily.
Barefoot.
Warm.
His.
He didn't deserve this sight.
"Yeah," he managed, voice hoarse. "Work finished early."
Lie.
But it was all he could say without breaking.
Auri walked toward him—slow, gentle steps—then wrapped her arms around his waist.
He froze for a single second.
Then he hugged her back, burying his face in her hair, inhaling the faint scent of her shampoo. His grip tightened too hard, too desperate.
Auri giggled softly. "Dante… you're squeezing me."
"Sorry," he murmured, loosening enough for her to breathe. "I just… missed you."
She smiled against his chest.
She believed him.
Of course she did.
That hurt most.
He lowered his face, pressing a kiss to the top of her head—
trying to erase the memory of a different kiss that meant nothing but felt like poison now.
Auri looked up at him with those gentle eyes.
"You okay?" she asked. "You look tired."
Tired.
Yes.
Tired of being a man who slipped.
"Tough day," he said. It wasn't a lie. "But I'm fine now."
She reached up and cupped his cheek with her warm hand.
And Dante almost flinched.
Not because of her.
Never because of her.
But because he didn't feel worthy of her touch.
Dinner
Auri cooked pasta.
Dante tried to eat.
She talked—soft, animated—about her day, about Marcela's latest chaotic story at the park, about a dog that barked at them for no reason and how Marcela claimed it was "spiritually attacking her."
Dante tried to respond.
Tried to smile.
Tried to look normal.
But guilt sat on his tongue like rust.
His mind kept drifting.
Unwanted.
Unbidden.
To Celestine's smirk.
Her perfume.
Her lips.
He swallowed hard.
"Aren't you hungry?" Auri asked gently when she noticed his untouched plate.
"I am," he lied.
"Then eat," she teased lightly. "You're spacing out today."
He forced a bite down.
It tasted like nothing.
He hated himself.
Later That Night
Auri changed into an oversized shirt and shorts, hair now loose around her shoulders. She looked cozy, soft, like home.
They settled on the bed.
Auri curled up beside him, resting her head on his chest as she kept talking about her day. She was excited, bright, and for the first time since the loss, she looked peaceful.
Dante stared at the ceiling.
Her voice was warm, melodic… and yet his mind betrayed him.
A flash.
A scent.
A pair of red lips that should have never touched his.
His body tensed.
"You okay?" Auri asked quietly, lifting her head to look at him.
He forced a breath.
Forced a soft smile.
Forced control.
"Yeah," he whispered. "I'm just… tired."
She nodded and rested her head back on him, continuing her story about Marcela's clumsy attempt to feed pigeons.
Dante's eyes traced the ceiling.
His jaw clenched.
His heart pounded with guilt loud enough to drown the sound of her voice.
He looked down at her.
She was smiling while talking, completely at ease, looking so innocent and trusting.
His chest tightened painfully.
He didn't deserve this woman.
He didn't deserve her trust.
He didn't deserve her love.
But he loved her—
God, he loved her more than anything he ever loved.
And that made the guilt worse.
Auri laughed softly at her own story, unaware of the storm inside him.
Dante put a hand on her back, gentle, steady.
Though inside…
he was falling apart.