Chapter Six

Dante's Pov.

I'm calling her old number as I head out of the campus, a frantic, useless effort. I've already called someone to pick up the car before taking a cab back to my old apartment. She isn't answering. I don't know where her house is; I never got to visit because of how strict she said her parents were. She kept that part of her life separate, a boundary I respected. Now I curse myself for it.

I pray silently that she's at the apartment, the one I gave her. I told Reginald to check on her the next morning, so maybe he knows where she lives. The cab pulls up to the building, and I barely give the driver a second look as I throw some cash at him. I don't pay attention to the old neighbors who squint at me, their faces a mix of surprise and suspicion. I try to walk briskly, avoiding any potential paparazzi, and finally get upstairs.

Memories of her hit me like a physical blow. The way we messed up here, how I had kissed her on the staircase with her legs wrapped around my waist, right before we got to the apartment and I made love to her. Her squeals when I lifted her up abruptly or when we returned from shopping and she was ranting about how awful the customer service was. Every corner of this hallway holds a ghost of her laughter, her presence.

I shut my eyes, blinking away tears as I find Reginald's unit and knock. The door opens swiftly, revealing Reginald dressed in his underwear and holding a cigarette. His eyes widen as he sees me. “Dante?”

“Hey,” I greet, trying to catch my breath, my chest tight with a mix of anxiety and exhaustion.

He lets me inside. Nothing has changed in the apartment; his wife isn't in, probably on a morning shift. I make myself comfortable on the couch. He offers me coffee that I don't reject, but I can't drink it.

“I almost forgot to thank you for the renovation at the apartment,” he says, taking a seat on the couch opposite me. “It increased the value for the new tenant.”

“New tenant?” I ask, the words a cold lump in my throat.

“Yes... it's a couple, they recently got married.”

“Where is Imogen?” I ask him bluntly, not wanting to start another conversation. The thought of another person in our space, her space, makes me feel sick.

“I don't know... Dante, she moved out a few weeks ago.”

“She lived here?”

“I gave her an apartment downstairs, one of the old condos.”

“Wh-why?” I'm stuttering, my voice cracking. I'm f*cking stuttering because the look on his face already tells me that this wouldn't be good. I see the pity in his eyes and the frustration that I'm only now showing up.

“You didn't know?” He raises a brow, a mix of disbelief and anger in his expression.

“I haven't been in England for two years. I've shut out the media; I didn't want to get involved in it.”

“Dante…” He groans, putting out his cigarette. “You messed up big time. I thought you knew. I wondered why you could do something like that to her, especially since you were both in love.”

“What happened to Imogen?” My voice is low, a desperate demand for the truth.

“The day you left, the press came into your apartment while she was there. They took photos of her while she was still in bed, naked. The scandal spread in less than a day. They claimed she slept her way through school for grades, and her parents kicked her out once she got expelled from Oxford. She came here after you blocked the card you gave her.”

“I didn't block the card.”

“I had it checked in the bank the following morning,they said the card was invalid. I did my best to help, not until I found out that she was pregnant.”

“Pregnant?” I repeat, the word hitting me like a truck. I didn't expect this. I didn't plan this. This wasn't in the deal. She was supposed to get the money and the apartment; she was supposed to graduate and move on, hating me.

“Yes, Dante. Pregnant. She had a wonderful kid, Alessia, she has your eyes.”

I can't breathe. My lungs feel like they're collapsing. I loosen my tie, run my hands through my hair, and try to take deep breaths. The air feels too thick, too heavy. I try to imagine her pregnant, alone, shamed, and locked out of her home. She did all of this by herself, and I was in Italy, assuming I was paying enough by having insomnia. She's just twenty, barely an adult, and I ruined her life, her future. Everything I promised to protect, I destroyed.

“I... I had no idea this happened. I didn't—”

“You should've checked on her, Dante. You left her with a post-it note; she was so confused.”

“A post-it note? I didn't leave a post-it note; I don't even use those. I left her a letter.” My voice trails off, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place. I left her a letter; the envelope had the key to the apartment and a car parked in the garage.

There was only one person who used post-it notes, one devil dedicated to nasty scandals. My uncle, Mariano. He was the only one who knew about our relationship. He knew where the letter was. He was the one who blocked her cards. He made sure she received nothing from me, that she was left with absolutely nothing. He must have been the one to call the press too. It all makes a terrible, sickening kind of sense now.

“Where is she now?” I ask the pressing question, my voice a strained whisper.

“I don't know. The restaurant she worked in changed branches, and she said she was moving somewhere in Cambridge or Birmingham.”

“Do you have her phone number?”

“She doesn't have a phone... she sold it a few years back when she started showing.”

“How am I going to find her?” I let out a groan as more tears spill. This is what she does to me, the idea of her suffering is driving me insane. I've put her through so much, and now I can't even reach her. She's like a ghost, and it's all my fault.

“I could give you the address of a co-worker at her restaurant. We usually used him to reach her. Maybe that would help.”

“Thank you.”

“Please find her quickly and fix this... she deserves better than this.”

“I know.”

I’ve messed up badly, and she doesn't deserve me, not since we met and not now. I’ve broken her trust and let the wolves devour her, and that's something I have to fix.

I take another cab to the address of the coworker Reginald spoke of. After hours of banging on the door under the scorching sun, a neighbor steps out.

“Are you looking for Manuel? He moved.”

They won't tell me his new address, pretending they don't recognize me. The frustration is a physical ache in my chest. I call my chauffeur to take me back to the airport. Imogen was expelled, disgraced, and pregnant. It feels like a nightmare I can't wake up from. None of that would have happened if I didn't leave, if I didn't trust those bastards over what we had.

I scroll through the tabloids as the car drives away from the airport after we’ve landed in Italy. Every headline is a new blow.

[OXFORD STUDENT EXPELLED AFTER SCANDAL WITH PROFESSOR]

[15,000 PIONEERS OF TRUTH: HERE'S HOW A PETITION SET THE STANDARD AGAINST SEXUAL PRIVILEGES IN HIGHER EDUCATION]

[IMOGEN DARCY, DANTE'S SALVATORE MISTRESS OR MODERN DAY EXPRESSION OF A SEXUALLY DESPERATE STUDENT]

I see the photos they had taken, censored photos of her naked sprawled across old blogs. The body that I had worshipped the night before. I can see her fear. I find myself watching the video of her screaming and trying to cover up in tears and brewing rage. They violated her. They didn't hear her side of the story and believed a cooked-up narrative in under 24 hours.

Not unless someone empowered the whole procedure behind my back.

I let out a sigh as I drop the tablet and load my gun. Someone would pay dearly for this, and I know who.