C119 Dante And Natasha

Annabelle’s descent down the stairs felt like walking into her own execution.

Her eyes, red-rimmed and puffy from the shameful cry she'd indulged in at dawn, caught her reflection in the glass of a nearby frame.

She winced.

If the universe had any mercy left for her, it would open up right now and swallow her whole.

But no such luck.

Instead, the tinkling sound of feminine laughter floated up the stairs, wrapping around her like a cruel invitation.

It drew her closer to the breakfast room, a place she would have given anything to avoid right now.

Her fingers trailed along the bannister as if to anchor herself.

But her feet moved forward in a traitorous march toward disaster.

Her heart sank the moment she reached the doorway.

There, at the head of the long, polished table, was Dante.

Seated across from him, draped in an array of bold, clashing colours that somehow worked, was the redhead Annabelle had seen before.

Her.

The one Annabelle had seen casually brushing something off Dante's collar that day.

She wore hoop earrings large enough to double as bracelets and had the kind of effortless charisma that made Annabelle feel like a faded shadow by comparison.

She was perched at the table like she owned the room, casually slicing into a stack of waffles drenched in honey and strawberries.

The sunlight pouring in through the tall windows seemed to love her, casting a golden glow over her fiery hair and tanned skin.

Annabelle felt the sting of inadequacy slice through her chest.

Natasha didn’t just belong in this world.

She thrived in it.

Not like Annabelle who was still fumbling around it.

The image burned itself into Annabelle’s mind, but what truly made her stomach twist was Dante.

He was relaxed, leaning slightly back in his chair with an air of amusement that sent a pang of jealousy spearing through her.

He was smiling.

He was actually smiling.

With his usual intensity softened into something infuriatingly charming.

And when the redhead stole a strawberry from his plate, he didn’t scowl or bark at her like Annabelle might have expected.

No.

He smirked.

Annabelle froze, her feet rooted to the spot.

Her first instinct was to turn and retreat to the safety of her room.

To lick her wounds and wallow in private.

But just as she was about to spin around, the redhead looked up.

“Oh! You must be Annabelle. Hi, I am Natasha,” Natasha said, her voice dripping with cheer.

“Even her name sounded exotic”, Annabelle thought grudgingly.

At Annabelle’s surprised look that she knew her name, she smiled brightly and said, “Dante has told me about his houseguest.”

Houseguest.

The word felt like a slap.

Annabelle cringed inwardly, her hands curling into fists at her sides.

Houseguest?

Was that all she was to him?

The casualness of it made her chest tighten as anger and humiliation warred for dominance.

She wanted to retort.

She wanted to ask if he had also told the woman that he was fucking his houseguest too?

Yes, let’s not forget about his lies that she was his woman also!

But she swallowed the bitter words and forced a tight, almost smile.

She wanted to leave so badly but as if she sensed that Natasha wasn’t deterred.

She gestured toward an empty seat as she said cheerily, “Come join us! I was just telling Dante how insatiable he is in the mornings. It’s exhausting trying to keep up with him.”

Annabelle stiffened.

Insatiable?

She couldn’t help but glance at Dante, hoping for some sort of denial.

But he only looked at her briefly before turning his attention back to his coffee, his expression unreadable.

“You know,” Natasha added with a conspiratorial wink, “The man has an appetite that’s impossible to satisfy.”

Annabelle’s cheeks burned with humiliation.

Her sudden anger bubbled dangerously close to the surface before she yanked it back.

Still, before she could stop herself, she blurted, “Is Dante your boyfriend?”

Dante’s head snapped up at the same time Natasha laughed, waving him off.

“What are we, ten?” she teased. “Boyfriend, girlfriend. Bleh, it’s all so… juvenile. We’re so much more than labels, aren’t we, Dante Dear?”

Annabelle’s heart shrivelled at the words.

So much more.

Was this what Dante wanted?

A woman like Natasha.

Bold, vibrant, and completely at ease in his world?

Annabelle suddenly felt foolish, like a child playing dress-up in a world she didn’t belong to.

Before she could crumble entirely, she scraped her chair back.

The screech of wood on marble sounded like a gong in her head as it cut through the air.

“Excuse me,” she muttered, her voice barely steady.

She didn’t look at Dante, didn’t dare meet his eyes as she stood. “I… need to go.”

“Oh, no! You’re leaving already?” Natasha pouted, her lips curving into an exaggerated frown. “I was hoping we could spend more time together.”

And Annabelle was certain she would drop dead if she stayed longer hearing Dante Dear and watching the little pats that Natasha was giving him!

She couldn’t muster a coherent response.

So she mumbled something nonsensical and hurried out of the room, her legs carrying her as fast as they could.

She didn’t care how she looked.

She didn’t even care that she’d probably left them both thinking she was a bumbling fool.

All she wanted was to get away from the suffocating atmosphere.

From Natasha’s too-bright presence and Dante’s maddening indifference.

The moment she rounded the corner and was out of sight, Annabelle let out a shaky breath.

Her hands trembled as she pressed them against the cool marble wall, her heart hammering painfully against her ribs.

Dante and Natasha.

The words echoed in her mind, each one a needle stabbing into her chest.

He’d moved on, clearly.

Or maybe he’d never really cared.

Maybe everything he’d said to her had been a lie.

A convenient excuse to keep her where he wanted her.

She thought of Natasha’s parting words, of her coy smile and flippant tone.

“So much more.”

The phrase twisted in Annabelle’s mind, feeding her insecurity.

Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them away, refusing to let herself break down.

Not here.

Not now.

She had survived worse, hadn’t she?

She would survive this, too.

But as she made her way back to her room, each step felt heavier, the weight of her emotions threatening to crush her.

Once inside, she locked the door and leaned against it, her breath hitching.

“You’re stronger than this,” she whispered to herself, her voice trembling. “You don’t need him. You don’t need anyone.”

But no matter how much she tried to convince herself, the ache in her chest refused to fade.