Chapter 6 - Secrets in the Steam
The bathroom Martha led me to was larger than my entire apartment. Heated marble floors warmed my bare feet, and a massive freestanding soaking tub was already filling with water, scented with the calming aroma of lavender and eucalyptus. A plush stack of folded towels and a soft, oversized silk bathrobe sat neatly on a wooden stool nearby.
“Take your time, my dear,” Martha said gently, her eyes lingering for a brief second on the faint bruising blooming on my arm where Derek had grabbed me. She didn’t ask questions, and her lack of judgment nearly brought fresh tears to my eyes. “I’ll leave some fresh clothes outside the door. Sleep is the best medicine for a heavy heart.” “Thank you, Martha,” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion.
When the heavy oak door clicked shut, I stripped off my damp, stained blouse and cheap slacks, letting them drop to the floor like discarded armor. Sinking into the steaming water felt like a physical release. For three years, I had held my breath. Every shift at the diner, every walk home in the dark, every quiet night staring at the ceiling of my studio—I had lived in a constant state of hyper-vigilance. Now, surrounded by stone walls miles away from Derek’s reach, the armor finally cracked. I let myself cry, silently letting the hot water wash away the humiliation, the fear, and the lingering residue of a marriage built on a foundation of glass.
As I soaked, my mind raced back to Dante Vance. Who was he, really? The whispered rumors of the city’s underground—stories of a syndicate leader who operated with surgical precision, a man who controlled shipping ports, financial firms, and politicians alike—flashed through my mind. People called him the Shadow Prince, a mythical figure who supposedly ruled the eastern seaboard from behind closed doors. And yet, this terrifying archetype of modern crime had walked into a dingy attorney’s office just to stop a petty, abusive middle-manager from forcing his ex-wife to sign away her life. It didn't make sense. Unless… unless there was history I didn't know about.
Stepping out of the tub twenty minutes later, I wrapped myself in the luxurious silk robe. Outside the door, Martha had left a simple, elegant cashmere sweater and tailored trousers that miraculously fit me as if they had been custom-made. When I walked down the grand staircase, guided by the rich aroma of roasted garlic and herbs, I found myself standing at the edge of a massive, professional-grade kitchen.
May you like
Dante was leaning against the marble island, holding a crystal glass of amber-colored liquor. He had discarded his suit jacket, his white dress shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, lightly scarred forearms. He looked up as I approached, his dark eyes sweeping over me once with quiet approval.
“The clothes suit you,” he observed, gesturing to a small dining table set near the glass wall overlooking the glittering city lights. A plate of pan-seared salmon and fresh asparagus sat steaming on the table. “They fit,” I corrected quietly, walking over and taking a seat. “Though I suspect they cost more than my car.” Dante chuckled, walking over to pour a glass of sparkling water for me. “Everything in this house has a price, Emma, but very few things are actually valuable. Eat. You need your strength.”
