It was a pungent, earthy smell that clung to the heavy velvet curtains and seeped into my hair, a stark contrast to the sterile, expensive fragrance of white lilies that usually permeated the rest of the estate.

I was drinking the last dregs of the fertility tonic my grandmother used to swear by, a dark viscous sludge meant to protect the life I was trying to cultivate inside me.

The door clicked open.

I didn't flinch. I just set the cup down on the nightstand with a deliberate calmness.

Luca stood in the doorway.

He shouldn't be here. It was Friday. Fridays were for the club, for business, for Sofia.

"You smell like an apothecary," he said, walking into the room.

He looked worn down. The top button of his shirt was undone, his tie hanging loose like a noose around his neck.

"It's for my health," I said, wiping a stray drop from my mouth.

He walked over to the bed, looming over me. He studied my face, searching for something-a crack, a flinch, a sign of weakness.

"Sofia asked me to stay with her tonight," he said.

"And yet, here you are."

"I told her no."

He said it like he expected a round of applause. Like he had conquered a nation just by sleeping in his own bed instead of a mistress's sheets.

"Okay," I said.

He frowned. My lack of reaction bothered him; it always did. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, heavy object wrapped in velvet.

He tossed it onto the duvet.

"I found this in the storage unit at the old house. I was going to throw it out, but I remembered you like this junk."

I reached for it.

My fingers trembled violently as I unwrapped the fabric.

It was a small, abstract sculpture of a bird taking flight, carved from dark walnut wood.

The wing was chipped.

I ran my thumb over the curve of the wood. I knew every groove. I knew the exact moment the chisel had slipped and scarred the base.

Dante made this.

He had carved it during our second year of university, sitting on the grass while I read poetry to him.

"It's ugly," Luca said, watching me closely. "But you have weird taste."

"Thank you," I whispered.

I clutched it to my chest, pressing the hard edges against my heart.

Luca's expression softened, just a fraction. A dangerous, arrogant softness.

"You're easy to please tonight," he said. "Is that all it takes? A piece of wood?"

He sat on the edge of the bed.

"I see the way you look at me, Elena. You play cold, but you keep my things. You drink that sludge to make yourself strong for me."

He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on my neck.

"You're obsessed."

I didn't correct him. I couldn't.

I just held the bird tighter, letting the wood dig into my skin until it hurt.

"Go to sleep, Luca," I said.

He smirked, satisfied with his conquest, and went to the bathroom.

Hours later, the house was silent.

I slipped out of bed.

I went downstairs to the kitchen, the marble floor cold against my bare feet.

I pulled a small cake out of the back of the fridge. It was a simple vanilla sponge with white frosting.

I stuck two candles in the top. Two and six.

Twenty-six.

Dante would have been twenty-six today.

I didn't light them. I just sat in the dark, staring at the wax numbers, letting the grief wash over me like a cold, suffocating tide.

"What are you doing?"

The light flicked on, blindingly bright.

I jumped, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Luca was standing by the fridge, holding a bottle of water. He was shirtless, his chest defined and scarred.

He looked at the cake. He looked at the candles.

He looked at the date on the calendar on the wall.

"It's my birthday," he said slowly.

Technically, yes. They were twins.

"I thought you forgot," he said, walking closer. His voice was thick with sleep and surprise. "Sofia didn't even remember. She just wanted a diamond bracelet."

He looked at the pathetic little cake sitting on the granite island.

"You sat up alone to celebrate me?"

He picked up my phone, which was lying face up on the counter.

I tried to grab it, but he was faster.

He swiped the screen. The gallery was open.

Hundreds of photos.

Photos of a man laughing. Photos of a man sleeping. Photos of a man carving wood.

"Jesus, Elena," he muttered, scrolling. "You have thousands of pictures of me."

They were all Dante. Every single one.

But to him, looking into the mirror of his own face, he only saw himself. He didn't see the gentleness in the eyes, the softness of the smile that he had never once worn.

"I..." I couldn't speak.

"You're terrifying," he said, but there was no bite in it. His ego was preening. He was basking in the glow of a devotion that wasn't his.

He put the phone down and leaned over the counter.

"Light them."

"What?"

"The candles. Light them. Sing."

My hands shook as I struck the match.

The flame flared, illuminating his face.

For a second, in the flickering orange light, the hardness in his eyes seemed to soften. For a second, he looked like Dante.

I opened my mouth.

"Happy birthday to you," I sang softly.

I looked right at him, but I wasn't seeing him. I was seeing the ghost standing behind him.

"Happy birthday, dear..."

I couldn't say the name. The name died in my throat.

"Happy birthday to you."

Luca blew out the candles. Smoke curled into the air between us.

"Make a wish," he commanded.

I already had.

I wished for him to rot, and for me to be free.

"I wish for the future," I said.

Luca smiled. He cut a slice of cake and ate it with his fingers.

"The future," he agreed. "With me."

He had no idea he was consuming a dead man's offering.

Chapter 6

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