He knew.
He knew I was there the whole time.
My face burns as I step out, smoothing my nightgown like that'll somehow make this less humiliating.
"I'm sorry," I say quickly. "I didn't mean to?—"
“I told you not to apologize." He turns now, and his eyes find mine. Dark. Intent. "You're not a prisoner here. You can go wherever you want."
"Oh."
"But if you're going to eavesdrop," he adds, the corner of his mouth quirking just slightly, "you might as well hear the whole conversation over breakfast."
He walks past me toward the stairs, and I follow, my pulse racing.
The kitchen is enormous—all gleaming marble and stainless steel.
Dante gestures to one of the stools at the island. "Sit."
I perch on the edge, hands folded in my lap, while he moves around the kitchen with surprising ease. He's changed since last night—dark jeans, a black T-shirt that clings to his shoulders in a way that makes my mouth water.
He opens the fridge and peers inside. "What would you like for breakfast?"
The question catches me off guard. "I'll eat whatever you allow."
He goes very still. Then he closes the fridge and turns to face me, his expression unreadable.
"I'm asking what you want."
My stomach twists. I don't understand what kind of answer he's looking for. There must be a right one, but I can't figure it out.
"Whatever you'd like me to eat."
His jaw tightens. He braces both hands on the counter across from me, and I can see him choosing his words carefully.
"Polina. I'm not going to tell you what to eat. You’ll have to decide for yourself. What do you want?"
Is this a test?
"I don't—" My voice comes out too small. "I don't know."
"Eggs?" he offers. "Pancakes? Bacon, sausage, fruit, cereal?"
Papa never let me choose. He dictated everything—what I wore, where I went, what I ate.
"Whatever you want me to eat," I repeat, desperate now. "Really. I'm not picky."
Dante exhales slowly through his nose. He rounds the island and crouches in front of my stool so we're eye level.
"Hey." His voice is softer now. Gentler. "This isn't a trick. There's no wrong answer. I just want to know what you like."
What I like.
My throat tightens. "I...I don't..."
"Take your time. Think about it.”
I bite my lip, fighting back the stupid, embarrassing tears threatening to spill. He must think I’m a child. He's being so kind, and I'm ruining it by being difficult.
