Page 6

Dante’s voice cut through the air, low and sharp with restrained frustration.
Grandpa halted mid-step and turned around, nodding with a pleased smile. “Good! It’s decided, then.”
Dante’s hand dropped from his arm as the old man continued, “Great. Tomorrow, she’ll go to your office with you.”
He said it casually, already walking out of the room.
“No, Grandpa, I didn’t mean tomorrow—” Dante tried to interject, but Griffin was already descending the stairs, disappearing from sight before Dante could even reach the door.
Dante clenched his jaw, fists tightening at his sides.
“It’s a deal then! She’ll be ready tomorrow!” Grandpa’s voice echoed from below.
Dante let out a heavy breath, frustration bubbling under his skin, and walked back into his room, slamming the door shut behind him.
***
Charles walked up to the grand entrance of the Fox residence, passing through the outer gate and ringing the bell several times. After a long pause, the doors finally opened, revealing Valentina with a deep frown on her face.
She looked ready to launch into a tirade—until she noticed unfamiliar faces.
“Who are you?” she asked, suspicious.
Charles looked past her expectantly, but saw no one else.
He spoke politely, “Does Anya live here? Anya Fox?”
“No,” Valentina snapped and immediately stepped back into the house. She grabbed the door. “There’s no Anya in this house. Get lost.” With that, she slammed the door and locked it from the inside.
“Mrs. Fox—” Luca stepped forward, trying to stop her, “This is Mr. Charles. He’s—”
But the door was already shut in his face, his hand smacking loudly against the iron. The sharp bang echoed in the quiet night.
Charles and Luca exchanged a look.
Then Charles exhaled deeply and turned to walk down the steps. “Luca, find out what’s going on. I want to know exactly where Anya is.”
“Of course,” Luca replied immediately, already pulling out his phone. “Don’t worry, Uncle. I’ll send men right away. We’ll find her soon.”
***
At the Kingsley manor, the breakfast table looked more like a royal banquet. Dozens of platters lined the marble surface—pancakes, fruits, pastries, cheeses, and more. But Anya sat stiffly, only picking a few slices of fruit, her appetite ruined by nerves.
Next to her sat Dante.
Dressed sharply in a tailored charcoal suit, his broad shoulders and intense aura filled the space beside her. Even without looking directly at him, she could feel him—his quiet, powerful presence made her heart race. Even his silence made her gulp.
Her leg tapped nervously beneath the table, and she forced a piece of fruit into her mouth.
Dante’s gaze slid to her, and she almost choked on that fruit.
“About last night—what you saw—”
“I didn’t see a thing!” she blurted, cutting him off mid-sentence. “Nothing. Not even a shadow. I’m blind. I have night blindness.”
Her breath hitched. She spoke so fast it came out like one long, panicked sentence.
Dante’s sharp eyes narrowed at her, lips pressing into a firm line. Then he returned to his breakfast with a low grunt. “Even if you had seen anything, you won’t remember it.”