Chapter 7 —Seen

Nina pov

The store smells like new fabric and money that hasn’t been spent yet.

It’s bright without being harsh, mirrors placed carefully so no one ever sees themselves from just one angle. Mannequins stand in quiet confidence, draped in clothes meant for lives that move easily through rooms.

Mariela walks ahead of me like she belongs here—which she does. She touches fabrics between her fingers, assessing, already building something in her head. Her movements are efficient but not rushed. She doesn’t glance back to check if I’m keeping up. She knows I am.

Dante stays farther back.

Not distant in the way Ricky used to drift—bored, impatient—but intentional. He watches without hovering, leaning lightly against a pillar near the entrance, arms folded loosely, expression unreadable. He looks like he’s guarding the space rather than the people in it.

I feel his eyes anyway.

Not constant. Not heavy. Flickers.

I’m aware of them the way you’re aware of heat from the sun even when clouds pass over it.

Mariela stops at a rack of soft knits. “Start here,” she says, handing me a sweater in a neutral tone that doesn’t ask anything of me. “Everyday things first.”

I nod, grateful.

I gravitate toward simple pieces—shirts that breathe, pants that sit comfortably at my waist, dresses that fall without clinging. Clothes that don’t demand explanation. Clothes I could disappear into if I needed to.

Mariela hums approvingly. “You know yourself.”

“I know what works,” I correct quietly.

She smiles at that, sharp and knowing. “That too.”

I catch my reflection in a mirror as I hold a dress up against myself. The fabric skims my curves instead of fighting them. I don’t hate what I see—but I don’t trust it either.

I glance toward Dante without meaning to.

He’s watching Mariela now, listening to something she says as she gestures toward another section of the store. His face is composed, cool, but I notice the flicker behind his eyes when his gaze briefly returns to me.

Something thoughtful. Something restrained.

It unsettles me.

I bring the dress to Mariela. “This is enough,” I say.

She takes it from me, looks at it, then looks back at me. “For groceries,” she says. “For walking. For mornings.”

Then she reaches for another rack—silk this time. Structured lines. Deep colors.

“And for rooms that expect more,” she adds.

“I don’t—” I start.

“You don’t have to wear them,” she cuts in gently. “You just have to own them.”

She pulls two dresses free. Then another. Hands them to me along with the first.

“Try,” she says. “That’s all.”

The fitting rooms are tucked away behind a soft curtain. I step inside the one she points to and hang the dresses carefully, heart beating a little faster than it should.

I start with the simplest one. It fits easily. Comfortably. I exhale.

The second dress is different.

The fabric is heavier, smoother, falling in a way that makes me more aware of myself—my waist, my hips, the line of my back. It isn’t tight. It doesn’t hide either.

I turn to look in the mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back.

She looks… present.

The zipper is halfway up when it stops.

I twist, try again. It won’t budge.

“Mariela?” I call, keeping my voice low.

No answer.

I wait. Call again, a little louder. Still nothing.

The curtain shifts.

Dante’s voice comes through, calm, careful. “She stepped away. May I?”

My breath catches.

“I—I just need help with the zipper,” I say quickly.

There’s a pause. Long enough to feel deliberate.

“I won’t touch you unless you ask,” he says. “And you can change your mind at any time.”

My fingers tighten around the fabric at my chest.

“Okay,” I say, surprising myself with how steady it comes out. “You can.”

He steps inside just enough for the curtain to fall closed again, giving me privacy from the rest of the store without invading the space.

Up close, he smells faintly of clean soap and something darker underneath. He keeps his hands visible, waits.

“Tell me when,” he says.

“Now,” I reply.

His fingers find the zipper. Gentle. Precise. He moves slowly, deliberately, like he’s aware of every inch of space between us.

The sound of the zipper sliding up my back is soft, intimate.

When he’s done, his hands fall away immediately.

I turn slightly, unsure where to put my eyes.

He looks at me—not at my body like it’s a problem to solve or a thing to judge. He takes me in the way you take in a view that demands respect.

“That dress was made for you,” he says simply.

No qualifiers. No conditions.

The words land quietly, and somehow that makes them louder than anything Ricky ever said.

My chest tightens.

A memory flashes—Ricky standing behind me in a mirror, tugging at a dress, scoffing. It’d look better if you lost some weight. The way my reflection had shrunk under his voice.

The memory dissolves as quickly as it came.

This moment holds.

“Thank you,” I say, my voice soft but real.

Dante nods once, like the exchange is complete, then steps back and opens the curtain.

“I’ll wait outside,” he says.

When the curtain falls closed again, I press my hand flat against my stomach and breathe.

I don’t feel smaller.

I feel… seen.

And that’s new enough to be terrifying.

The bags rustle softly as we leave the store.

Mariela walks a step ahead of me, already scanning the street like she’s counting exits without thinking about it. Dante is behind us again, the distance restored—but it feels different now. Charged. Like a line drawn deliberately, not out of avoidance.

I’m still aware of my body in the new dress folded carefully in the bag. The way it fit. The way it didn’t ask me to disappear. The way his voice sounded when he said it was made for me—like an observation, not an opinion.

We turn onto a quieter street, storefronts thinning, afternoon light stretching long and low. The city feels less polished here. More honest.

That’s when I notice the man across the street.

He’s leaning against a black sedan, posture loose, eyes sharp. He doesn’t look at me or Mariela. His attention is fixed on Dante, open and unapologetic, like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.

Dante stops.

So does everything else.

Mariela slows but doesn’t turn around. She knows. Of course she does.

The man pushes off the car and smiles. It’s not friendly. It’s the kind of smile that expects something to be returned.

“Didn’t think you’d show your face out here,” he says.

Dante steps forward just enough to put himself slightly in front of us. Not shielding. Positioning.

“Move,” Dante says quietly.

The man laughs. “Still the same. Always in a hurry.”

I can feel the shift in Dante without seeing his face. The air around him tightens, sharpens. Whatever calm he carries folds inward, replaced by something colder. Older.

“You owe me a conversation,” the man continues. “You can’t just—”

Dante doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to.

“I don’t owe you anything,” he says. “And you’re standing too close to people who aren’t part of this.”

The man’s gaze flicks past him then—lands on me.

I feel it like a hand at my throat.

He looks me over quickly, assessing, dismissive, the way men do when they think they understand what they’re seeing.

“New acquisitions?” he asks lightly.

Something in Dante snaps.

It’s subtle. A tightening of his jaw. A step closer that cuts the space down to nothing.

“You don’t look at her,” Dante says.

The man raises his hands slightly, mock-placating. “Relax. I’m just—”

Dante moves.

Not fast. Not slow. Precise.

His hand comes up and grips the man’s collar, slamming him back against the car with enough force to rattle metal. The sound is loud in the narrow street. Final.

I suck in a breath.

Dante’s face is close to the man’s now, voice low enough that I almost miss it.

“You will forget what you saw,” he says. “You will forget what you thought you could say. And you will leave.”

The man’s smile is gone. His eyes flick sideways, calculating, then back to Dante. He nods once, sharp.

“This isn’t over,” he mutters.

Dante releases him like he’s nothing.

“It is for today,” Dante replies.

The man doesn’t look at me again. He gets in his car and drives off too fast, tires scraping the curb.

Silence settles back over the street.

My heart is pounding. Not from fear alone—something else, darker, heavier. The reminder lands fully now.

This is who he is.

Not just the man who asked for permission. Not just the one who watched and waited and spoke carefully.

The dangerous one. The one people step away from when he tells them to.

Dante turns back to us.

For a split second, his eyes meet mine—and I see the calculation there. The question he doesn’t ask: Did you see too much?

“Yes,” I say quietly, answering anyway.

His gaze softens—not disappears, just… reorients.

“We’re leaving,” he says.

Mariela nods and resumes walking like nothing happened.

We follow.

As we move, Dante slows his pace until he’s beside me—not touching, not crowding.

“You okay?” he asks.

The question is real. It surprises me.

“I think so,” I say. Then, after a beat, “I know who you are.”

He doesn’t argue.

“And?” he asks.

“And you didn’t pretend to be someone else,” I say. “That matters.”

His mouth tightens, not quite a smile.

We keep walking.

The bags feel heavier now—not with clothes, but with the weight of knowing. Of seeing both sides of him in the same afternoon.

The gentleness.

The danger.

And the fact that he chose—very deliberately—not to let either one erase the other.