Chapter 7: A Night of Freedom

Dante set down his glass and took hers, placing it on a nearby table. Then he took both her hands in his, his touch warm and solid.

“Elena,” he said softly. “You don’t have to do anything. We can sit on that couch, talk until morning, and I’ll call you a car home. No expectations. No judgment.” He squeezed her hands gently. “But if you want to forget about your life for a few hours, if you want someone to make you feel valued, and seen, and cherished, then I’m here. Your choice. Always your choice.”

Elena looked up at him. At this stranger who’d shown her more kindness in three hours than her husband had in five years.

She thought about Marcus in Boston with Isabelle. Thought about the email Sarah had shown her, I need you to end things with her cleanly. Thought about five years of being invisible, unwanted, not enough.

And she chose herself.

“I want to forget,” she whispered. “Just for tonight. I want to feel like I matter.”

Dante’s eyes darkened. “You do matter, piccola. More than you know.”

Then he kissed her.

It was soft at first, tentative, giving her time to pull away. But Elena didn’t pull away. She leaned into him, her hands fisting in his tuxedo jacket, and kissed him back with five years of loneliness and longing.

Dante made a low sound in his throat and deepened the kiss, one hand sliding into her hair, the other wrapping around her waist. He kissed like he meant it—like she was precious, important, worth savoring.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Elena felt like she was drowning.

“Bedroom?” Dante’s voice was rough.

Elena nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

He led her through a doorway into a room dominated by a massive bed. Elena’s nerves came roaring back. What was she doing? She’d been with exactly one man in her entire life, Marcus, and that had been perfunctory at best. She didn’t know how to do this.

Dante must have sensed her panic because he stopped, cupped her face in his hands, and said firmly, “We stop whenever you want. You say the word, and I stop. Understand?”

“Okay.”

“Say it, Elena. Tell me you understand.”

“I understand.” Her voice shook. “I can stop this whenever I want.”

“Good girl.” He kissed her forehead, gentle and reassuring. Then her cheek. Then her jaw. Working his way down her neck with soft, patient kisses that made her shiver.

His hands found the zipper of her dress. “Can I?”

“Yes.”

The dress pooled at her feet, leaving her in just her underwear. Elena fought the urge to cover herself. Marcus had always turned off the lights, always made her feel like her body was something to hide.

But Dante looked at her like she was art.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, his hands skimming her waist, her hips, leaving trails of heat. “So damn beautiful.”

No one had ever called her beautiful and meant it. Not like this.

Dante kissed her again, walking her backward until her legs hit the bed. They fell together onto the mattress, and Elena let herself get lost in sensation—his hands, his mouth, the weight of him above her.

He touched her like she was precious. Like she was worth taking time with. He learned what made her gasp, what made her arch into his touch, what made her forget her own name.

And when they finally came together, when he pushed inside her with a groan that sounded like prayer, Elena felt whole for the first time in five years.

They moved together slowly at first, then faster. Dante whispered things in Italian she didn’t understand but felt in her bones. He watched her face like he was memorizing it, like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

When Elena shattered, Dante was right there with her, pressing his forehead to hers, their breath mingling as they came apart together.

Afterward, he held her. No awkward silence, no rushing to get dressed. Just held her like she belonged there.

“Stay,” Dante murmured into her hair. “Stay tonight.”

Elena knew she shouldn’t. But she was so tired of doing what she should.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Just tonight.”

She fell asleep in his arms, safe and warm and seen.

When she woke up, morning light was streaming through the windows. For a moment, Elena forgot where she was. Then she remembered—the ball, the stranger, the best night of her life.

She sat up slowly, looking around the bedroom.

Dante was gone.

Elena’s heart sank. Of course he was gone. Last night had been beautiful, but it wasn’t real. It was just two people playing pretend, escaping their lives for a few hours.

She got dressed quickly, trying not to feel like an idiot. What had she expected? A relationship? A future? She was married, and he was—

She realized she didn’t even know his last name.

There was a note on the nightstand, written in bold handwriting:

Piccola,

I’m sorry I had to leave. Business emergency that couldn’t wait. But last night meant more to me than you know.

You deserve to be happy, Elena. Don’t settle for less.

—D

Elena read it three times, her throat tight.

Then she folded it carefully, put it in her purse, and called a car to take her home.

The house felt different when she walked in. Emptier somehow. Like it knew what she’d done.

Elena stood in the entryway for a long moment, still wearing last night’s dress, still smelling like Dante’s cologne.

Then she went upstairs, took a shower that lasted an hour, and tried to scrub away the evidence of her betrayal.

But she couldn’t scrub away the memory. The way Dante had looked at her. The way he’d touched her. The way he’d made her feel like she mattered.

Marcus had never made her feel like that. Not once in five years.

Elena wrapped herself in a towel and sat on the edge of the tub. Her phone buzzed—a text from Victoria.

So… did you have fun?

Elena stared at the text. Had she had fun? Was that the word for what happened?

No. It wasn’t fun. It was devastating. Because now she knew what she’d been missing. Now she knew what it felt like to be with someone who actually saw her.

And she had to go back to a man who never had.

Another text from Victoria:"You okay? You didn’t come back to the​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ gala. I’m assuming the hot guy in the mask was a good distraction?

Elena’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. She should tell Victoria everything. Should confess what she’d done, ask for advice, maybe even ask for forgiveness.

But the words wouldn’t come.

I’m fine, she typed instead. Just needed some air. Came home early.

Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. Finally: Liar. But I’ll let it slide. Call me if you need me. Love you.

Love you too.

Elena set down her phone and stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her hair was still damp, her skin flushed from the hot shower. She looked different somehow. Like something fundamental had shifted inside her.

She’d cheated on her husband.

The thought should have made her feel guilty. Should have made her hate herself.

But all she felt was a strange, hollow numbness.

Marcus was in Boston with Isabelle right now. Probably in bed with her, definitely planning how to “cleanly and permanently” end his marriage. He’d been betraying Elena for weeks, maybe months, maybe their entire marriage.

And Elena had spent one night with a stranger who’d shown her more genuine affection than Marcus had in five years.

Who was really the betrayer here?

Her phone rang, making her jump. Marcus’s name flashed on the screen.

Elena stared at it for three rings before answering.