SAPPHIRE IS HER NAME

Chapter 7

Alina pov

I didn’t say a word as we pulled up in front of the towering glass building. Dante’s so-called "surprise penthouse review" had my brain reeling, but hell would freeze over before I let him see that. My jaw nearly unhinged at the sheer size and sleekness of the place. The sky reflected off the high-rise like a mirror, and I had to blink twice to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating.

Of course it would be this grand. This is Dante we’re talking about.

But no, I wouldn’t let the shock show on my face. I straightened my back, tilted my chin slightly upward, and tucked the awe somewhere behind my ribcage.

We reached the penthouse entrance minutes later, and my eyes darted around, trying to take in every bit of the surrounding luxury. A smile teased the edge of my lips the moment I caught sight of the swimming pool—a shimmering grey pool, not the cliché blue. Strange. Unnerving. Elegant.

But then something froze me.

Just beneath the surface of the pool’s calm, grey sheen, I saw something. No—someone. A name. Letters carved at the bottom of the pool, barely visible.

Sapphire.

I stopped dead in my tracks.

"Keep walking," Dante’s voice came through, hard and unamused.

I ignored him. Of course I did. What else was new?

Drawn like a moth to a flame, I walked slowly toward the edge of the pool. My handbag clung to my right arm like armor, and with my left hand, I brushed a strand of hair back, heart pacing now.

My voice was a murmur, but it carried in the thick air.

"It’s a name. Sapphire."

"Don’t you mind your own business?" Dante’s voice sliced through the moment like a blade.

I turned to him slowly, keeping my expression neutral, although a fire had begun to stir in my chest.

"Not if the things around you look too suspicious, Dante.”

I nodded once, curt and silent, swallowing the growing knot of unease in my throat as I stepped inside Dante’s penthouse for the first time. It was a whole damn planet, not an apartment. My heels clicked against polished marble floors that probably cost more than my entire college tuition, and the air smelled like sandalwood, sin, and secrets.

“You live here?” I whispered under my breath, eyes darting over sleek furniture and intimidating art pieces that screamed old money and dangerous taste.

“No, I just break into strangers’ penthouses for fun,” Dante muttered dryly as he passed me, loosening the buttons of his dress shirt with one hand. “Of course I live here.”

I barely noticed his sarcasm—too busy spinning around like an idiot trying to catch everything at once. The space was beautiful, in that cold, ruthless way Dante was. There was a kind of calculated perfection to it, like nothing was ever out of place, like mess was a foreign concept here.

“I said feel free to look around. Just don’t break anything,” he called out as he moved toward a glass-doored cabinet tucked into a corner—his wine bar, naturally.

I raised an eyebrow. “What if it’s already broken on the inside, Dante? Like you.”

He chuckled low under his breath. “Then it’s not your job to fix it.”

The smile that curled on my lips was involuntary, stubborn. “Good. I’m not in the business of fixing emotionally constipated men.”

He said nothing, just poured deep red wine into two impossibly thin-stemmed glasses, his back to me. I turned from him, needing to stop staring at how sinfully good he looked even in dim lighting.

That’s when I saw it.

My breath hitched.

The photograph sat on a small table beside the floor-to-ceiling window, sunlight kissing its golden frame like it was precious. I recognized her instantly—the little girl I saw at the old house a few days ago. Her eyes were too familiar, her presence too haunting.

And there it was. In small, neat handwriting across the bottom of the photograph:

Sapphire.

My hand moved on its own, fingertips brushing over the image. I wasn’t even fully aware I’d walked toward it. I felt... something. A stirring under my skin. A pulse of something ancient and confusing.

“Who is she?” I asked without looking back.

Dante’s footsteps padded toward me, then paused behind me. He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he handed me a glass of wine.

“Thanks,” I murmured, but my eyes never left the picture. I could feel him watching me as I lifted the glass, the red liquid trembling slightly from the uneven beat of my pulse.

He stepped forward then, his arm brushing against mine as he reached for the photo. His hand hovered there—hovered—and then, without warning, he turned to me.

And kissed me.

No words. No explanation. Just a kiss that stole the breath from my lungs.

I stiffened, confused, caught off guard. The wine glass in his hand slipped from his grasp, crashing to the floor near the tall shelf with a shattering scream. I pushed against his chest, my brows knitting together.

“What the hell—”

But he wasn’t done.

He growled something under his breath and grabbed my face with both hands, crashing his mouth into mine again—desperate, unapologetic. The glass in my hand slipped too, meeting the marble in an explosion of shards.

“Dante—” I managed to whisper between kisses, voice caught in the friction of his hands sliding down to grip my ass. Hard. Like he’d been thinking about doing it since the second we met.

He massaged. He pulled me closer. His mouth moved with practiced, punishing heat over mine.

I tried speaking again, but he devoured the words, pressing me against the window like he owned the damn skyline.

The sound of rainfall started—soft at first, then louder, almost like the city itself had been holding its breath until now.

And then he stopped.

Just like that. Mid-kiss. Breath ragged. Hands still tangled in the fabric of my dress.

I blinked. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

His chest heaved once, then again. He turned his head slightly, jaw tense. “It’s raining.”

I stared at him. “Congratulations. Would you like a trophy?”

He smirked faintly, but his voice dropped an octave. “So why aren’t you screaming my name in my bed, following the rhythm of it?”

My jaw dropped. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I don’t kid.”

“No, of course not. That would require some level of basic humanity.”

His eyes snapped to mine. Dark. Glinting. Intense. But behind the heat was something else—something colder. Older.

I stepped back, keeping him at arm’s length. “You kissed me so I’d stop asking questions, didn’t you?”

“I kissed you because I wanted to,” he said simply. “And because you wanted me to.”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself, Casanova. I’m not that easy.”

“You’re not easy at all. That’s the problem.”

I scowled. “You’re a narcissist.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“I’m deflecting? You’re the one who changed the subject with your mouth!”

He smirked, shrugging as he casually stepped over the broken glass. “What can I say? I’m resourceful.”

“You’re impossible,” I snapped, crossing my arms.

His smirk faded, just slightly. He stepped closer again, more careful this time. “You saw her picture at the house, didn’t you?”

I froze.

“You weren’t supposed to see her pictures.”

“Who is she, Dante?”

His jaw clenched. “She’s not your concern.”

“She’s a child. And she’s everywhere. In your house. In your goddamn pool. What the hell is going on?”

Silence. Heavy. Unforgiving.

“I’m not leaving until you give me something,” I said, voice low now. “A name. A story. A reason I keep seeing her.”

He stepped back, running a hand through his hair, as if trying to decide whether to speak or vanish into thin air. “Sapphire was… she was real. Once.”

I stared at him. “Was?”

He didn’t answer. His throat moved with a tight swallow, and for the first time since I’d met him, Dante looked... haunted.

“She’s my daughter,” he said finally, voice barely audible over the rain. “Or she was.”

I didn’t speak. My anger fizzled into confusion, then something else. Understanding. Pain. Maybe even empathy. A trait I hated giving to men like him.

“What happened to her?” I asked, gently now.

His lips parted, but whatever words were forming never came out. Instead, he turned and walked to the bar again, picking up another wine glass like it was a shield.

“Don’t,” I said, walking toward him. “Don’t drown the answer in alcohol.”

He turned sharply. “You think I drown it in wine? Alina, I’ve been drowning in her ghost since she died.”

The silence that fell was deafening.

I stepped closer. “Tell me what happened.”

He laughed, bitter and quiet. “She drowned.”

The word hit me like a slap.

He looked away. “In that pool. The original one. Back before I rebuilt everything.”

I couldn’t breathe.

“She was six. It was an accident. My mother—” he cut himself off. “She didn’t watch her. Neither did I.”

And suddenly, everything clicked. The name etched into the bottom of the pool. The photo. The girl I kept seeing. My stomach dropped.

“You rebuilt everything... and kept her name at the bottom of the pool?”

He nodded. “I had to see her name every day. Remind myself. Or maybe punish myself. I don’t even know anymore.”

The thunder outside cracked like a broken sob.

I stepped closer, slowly. “She’s not haunting you, Dante. You’re haunting yourself.”

He looked at me then, eyes raw. “You sound like a shrink.”

I smiled sadly. “No. Just someone who knows what it’s like to live with ghosts.”

He didn’t speak, but something softened in his posture.

And then, because I’m a disaster with boundaries, I reached out and touched his hand. Just lightly. A gesture of something fragile and human.

He didn’t pull away.

“I still don’t trust you,” I whispered.

He smirked faintly. “Good. You shouldn’t.”

I tilted my head. “But... I might stay. For another glass of wine. And maybe a little more truth.”

He poured the wine slowly, deliberately. Handed it to me like a peace offering.