Dante stood in the center of Anastasia's bedroom, his eyes scanning every inch of the space with sharp observation. Everything in the room screamed of the life she used to have—lavish, innocent, untouched by betrayal. The pale wallpaper was lined with childhood photos: a younger Anastasia in ballet shoes, her arms raised in perfect form; her laughter frozen in time on a carousel; an old stuffed bunny tucked in the corner of her neatly made bed.
But it was the framed photo on her bedside table that made him pause.
His eyes narrowed.
It was a family picture—her, her mother, and a man with blue eyes and a warm smile. Her father. The infamous Laurent patriarch who had died and left nothing behind except shadows. Dante's face softened as he studied the family of three.
Dante didn't dwell on it. He turned away, pulled off his watch, and lay back on the bed with a sigh. The mattress dipped under his weight, and he stared at the ceiling, letting the silence of the room wrap around him. It was strange… being here, in her space. Her scent lingered everywhere—and he inhaled it , her sweet innocent smell that could intoxicat him in the past .
But that didn't matter.
He reminded himself this marriage wasn't built on sentiment. This was a payback for what she had done , daring to break up with him when he had given her his all.
He reached for the lamp switch and turned off the light.
---
Across the hall, Anastasia tossed on the guest room bed, tension simmering just beneath her skin. She had tried to calm herself, to let it go, but she couldn't stop thinking about all the pieces of her life still left behind in that room—pictures, her journals, reminders of a past she was no longer allowed to live in.
She sat up sharply.
That man was sleeping in her room. Her room. With her memories on full display like he had the right to witness them.
With clenched fists, she stormed down the hallway, her feet moving on their own. She didn't knock. She pushed the door open in one swift motion, ready to demand her space back.
And then she stopped.
Dante was fast asleep, his tall frame stretched across her bed, his dark hair tousled and his chest rising in quiet rhythm. He had changed into silk navy pajamas—clearly something he had brought from his estate. He looked peaceful in a way that unsettled her, his usual cold, brooding expression replaced by something younger… vulnerable, even.
But Anastasia refused to let her heart be fooled. This wasn't a fairy tale.
She stepped back, her eyes lingering for one more beat than she meant to. Then she turned, walked away, and slammed the door shut behind her.
---
The next morning, the peace was shattered.
A loud knock startled Anastasia from sleep, but she didn't move. She had no plans, nowhere to be, and certainly no one she wanted to see.
The door creaked open.
"Get up."
She groaned, not opening her eyes.
The next second, her duvet was yanked away in one swift motion, and the morning chill rushed in like ice.
"What the hell—" she bolted upright, her eyes flaring open.
Dante stood at the doorway, freshly dressed in a tailored black suit, his expression carved from stone. "It's five-thirty. You have thirty minutes."
Anastasia blinked in confusion. "Thirty minutes for what?"
"To be at work. Today is your first day."
She scoffed. "You're joking. We just signed that stupid contract two days ago."
"No," he said without emotion. "You're my secretary now. You work at my schedule. The contract states you report to me by six. Get moving."
"You didn't even give me a week to adjust," she muttered, swinging her legs off the bed with frustration. "A honeymoon period would've been nice, you know, for your wife."
He ignored her sarcasm. "Ten minutes. Don't make me come back in here."
Anastasia gritted her teeth as he walked out. She pulled open her closet, her lips curled into a smirk. If he wanted her at work, fine.
But she'd go on her terms.
---
Downstairs, the breakfast table was already set.
Genevieve sat at the head, sipping her tea with slow, controlled movements, her sharp eyes on Dante who had joined them alone.
"You should have asked for a share in the company," she said coolly. "Not her hand."
Dante didn't respond immediately. He calmly smeared butter over his toast, then took a slow bite.
"I do what I want," he said, his voice composed but carrying a dangerous undertone. "And what I wanted was Anastasia."
Genevieve's face cracked, just slightly.
She didn't argue—not because she accepted it, but because she had no leverage. She'd watched her empire crumble under his grip, and now he sat at her table like he owned everything.
Because he did.
Just then, Anastasia descended the stairs.
Genevieve looked up, only to freeze.
She wore a fitted crimson dress—elegant, luxurious… and entirely inappropriate for an office. Her heels clicked against the marble floor with purpose, her makeup flawless, her expression unreadable.
Dante rose from his seat, his eyes meeting hers, but his face gave away nothing.
She walked toward the table, ignoring him, pulling out a chair.
But before she could sit, his voice cut through the silence.
"We're leaving."
She raised an eyebrow. "I haven't had breakfast."
"You should've gotten up earlier."
She glared at him. "You can't treat me like this in my own home."
He leaned closer, so only she could hear. "This isn't your home anymore. It was."
Her jaw clenched, but she stood, brushing past him without another word. She didn't look back at her mother.
Genevieve didn't call after her.
Because she couldn't stop what was already done.
---
The ride to the office was silent.
Dante drove the sleek black car himself, his hands steady on the wheel, eyes fixed ahead. Anastasia sat beside him, arms crossed, eyes narrowed as she stared out the window.
She didn't speak.
But she didn't need to.
Her silence was its own protest.
Dante noticed the dress—of course, he did. It clung to her body in ways that were entirely unprofessional. She knew it. He knew it.
He didn't say a word.
But then he glanced sideways, his voice low. "If this is your way of pushing back, it's childish."
She didn't look at him. "If treating me like a piece of furniture is your idea of professionalism, then maybe I'm not the only child in the car."
His grip on the steering wheel tightened.
"You're my wife and my employee now. Learn to act like it."
She met his cold gaze for the first time that morning, fire flickering in hers. "Then maybe you should learn to treat me like a human being and not a pawn."
He didn't reply.
But a muscle in his jaw twitched.
He knew Anastasia was stubborn but he up for it .