Chapter Two

Imogen's Pov.

I call for him like a lost child, the single word leaving my lips a desperate whisper into the empty apartment. "Dante!"

My own echoes are all that greet me. He isn't here. A cold, hollow feeling settles in my stomach. No, this can't be real. My lips tremble as I quickly gather my hair into a messy bun, my hands shaking with a mixture of fear and confusion. I reach out, my fingers brushing against the soft cotton of his shirt from the night before, a small comfort I desperately cling to.

Just as my hand closes around the fabric, the front door of the apartment bursts open. A sudden flood of people storms in, their movements frantic and chaotic. I let out a scream, a raw sound of pure terror, as bright flashes of light erupt from every direction. Cameras. Why are there so many cameras? Reporters? Why are they here, in his apartment, with me? My mind races, trying to make sense of the scene, but the pieces won't fit.

"Miss, miss!" A woman with a harsh voice pushes through the crowd, her face a blur of professional intensity. I can't pick out a single voice, not one clear question, from the overwhelming clamor. They are all talking at once, a cacophony of accusations and inquiries that have me crying in shame, tears streaming down my cheeks as I stumble backward.

"Are you Mr. Salvatore's mistress?"

"Are you a prostitute?"

The words hit me like physical blows, each one a fresh stab of pain. How can they say such things? Who are these people? I am his girlfriend, his partner, not some secret, nameless woman. My breath hitches in my chest as I try to understand what's happening, but all that comes out is a pathetic gasp. Then another voice, louder, more insistent, cuts through the noise.

"What do you have to say about Mr. Salvatore succeeding over the Salvatore Group after years of exile?"

The question hangs in the air, a chilling revelation that makes the blood run cold in my veins. The Salvatore Group? Exile? It is a world I know nothing about, a life Dante has never shared with me. A life he has kept hidden. The note on the nightstand and his sudden disappearance now make a terrible, sickening kind of sense. He hasn't just left me; he has left our life behind.

Just then, a female reporter yanks the bedsheets from my body, exposing me to a flurry of flashing cameras. My skin feels bare, vulnerable. In a panic, I cling to the clothes scattered on the bed, my arm clutching a pillow to my chest like a shield. Hot tears stream down my cheeks, a silent waterfall of shame and confusion. What have I gotten myself into? The thought echoes in my mind, a frantic, desperate question with no answer.

A moment later, a thick, white fog fills the room, accompanied by the hiss of a fire extinguisher. “Get the f*** out of my property!” A deep, resonant voice cuts through the chaos. It is Mr. Reginald, the landlord. I'm not sure if I should feel relieved yet. I grab the sheets, wrapping them around my trembling body just as the horde of reporters and paparazzi scramble to leave the room. I don't dare move or open my eyes until I hear the sound of the door slamming shut.

“Imogen?” Mr. Reginald’s voice is softer now. He drops the fire extinguisher onto the floor with a thud and walks toward the window. I part my eyes just enough to see him pushing the sash open, letting the cool evening air rush in to clear the lingering fog. My lips tremble, but no words will come out. Dante's left me. Dante's left me. The phrase is a mantra in my mind, a devastating truth I can't escape.

I burst into fresh tears, hugging myself tightly, the sheets a flimsy barrier against the cold reality that is setting in.

“You have to leave,” he says, his voice tinged with urgency. “More of them will come, so I have to replace the lock. These bastards broke down the door.” He runs a hand through his hair, cursing under his breath.

“Did you know that he was leaving?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper. I reach for his discarded shirt from last night, pulling it over my head. The weight of his lingering scent is a cruel, beautiful punishment.

His eyes widen in genuine surprise. “He didn't tell you?”

“He just left, Mr. Reginald. He just left me here,” I finally break, the dam of my emotions giving way. I dissolve into heaving sobs, clutching the post-it note in my hand so tightly it crumples. Mr. Reginald doesn't say a word for a long moment, allowing me to cry—the ugly, messy kind of crying that feels like my insides are being torn apart.

“Dante paid upfront for four years when he first came here,” Mr. Reginald begins, his voice low and apologetic. “He recently got his job at Oxford, of course. Two years later, he met you and mentioned moving out soon. I thought he meant with you, Imogen. I'm really sorry. I don't know why he would do something like this.” Mr. Reginald's words are a second blow, hitting me hard as I sit alone at the back of the bus.

A simple breakup would be so much better than this. I notice people are looking at me, whispering to each other, but I don't care. I can’t bring myself to think of anything aside from him. I dial Dante’s number again, but it immediately forwards to voicemail. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I switch to texting him.

[Dante, please answer. I'm sorry, okay? If this is a prank, please stop. You're hurting me. You don't just have to leave this way.]

The message won’t send. He has blocked me.

A cold dread seeps into my fingers, turning them numb as the bus pulls to my stop. It takes every ounce of strength I have not to run out into the street and get hit by a vehicle. My chest feels heavy, and each breath is a struggle. Maybe it's my fault, a tiny voice whispers in my mind. Maybe it was that trip I wanted us to take. We have barely argued before; things have been fine. Everything was fine. Why did he leave?

I wipe the last of my tears away at my doorstep. My parents can’t see me like this, not when they don’t even know I have a boyfriend, let alone one who is my professor. The thought of their reaction is enough to send my anxiety into a full-blown panic.

I sniffle softly, then push the doorbell. My older brother, Henry, opens the door. The look he gives me isn’t one of concern or welcome. It is condescending, a look that sends a shiver of fear down my spine. Before I can say a word, I hear my mother and father’s voices from inside.

“Sent her to school and she has her legs wide open for that man... her bloody professor. I didn't want her to go in the first place, but you insisted!” My father’s voice is filled with a furious rage I haven’t heard in years.

My body tenses. I feel a familiar cold creeping up my spine, a feeling I haven't had since I was a little girl caught doing something wrong.

“I did what I did because I wanted to be a mother who’d give her anything,” my mother scoffs, her voice laced with disgust. “Who knew I was raising a slut.” She pauses, then calls out, “Henry, who’s at the door?”

My eyes dart to my brother. He scoffs, a sneer playing on his lips as he prepares to answer. My body starts to tremble again, the fear now mixed with a chilling, sickening dread. How did they know?