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.
