You’re watching me on the cameras? Seriously?

Cassidy’s POV

I stood in the middle of my bedroom suite, feeling like a thief in my own house. The morning light poured through the tall, arched windows, casting long golden rays across the pristine white carpets, turning everything into a deceptive glow of warmth. But the room felt cold, sterile, like a museum exhibit of a life I no longer recognized. My suitcases lay open on the massive four-poster bed, their black leather exteriors gaping like hungry mouths, waiting to devour the remnants of my existence here. I’d been packing for what felt like an eternity—forty minutes, according to the antique clock on the mantel—but I’d only managed to fold exactly three sweaters. Soft cashmere in neutral tones: beige, gray, ivory. Safe colors. Boring colors. Colors my mother would approve of.

Because every time I reached for something else—a dress, a pair of heels, even a damn scarf—my hands stopped me. No, not my hands. Memories. Dante’s hands. Rough yet gentle, calloused from whatever secre