Danika's POV
Present Day – Ten Years Later
The limo door slams shut, sealing us away from the paparazzi's flashing cameras and shouted questions.
"Danika! Are you and Dante finally getting married?"
"Is that a baby bump or just a big lunch?"
I exhale, sinking into the leather seat. Five years with Dante Vega—rockstar, chaos incarnate, the man who pulled me out of hell—and I still haven't gotten used to the spotlight.
The other side of the limo dips as Dante collapses beside me, his dark hair mussed, leather jacket smelling like smoke and his signature cologne. He grabs a champagne bottle from the mini-fridge, twisting off the cap with his teeth before taking a long swig.
"Fucking paps," he mutters, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Like vultures circling roadkill."
I smirk. "Charming."
He nudges my knee with his. "You love it."
I roll my eyes, but he's not wrong. There's something thrilling about the way he doesn't give a damn—how he flips off the cameras, curses at reporters, and still has the world eating out of his palm.
My phone buzzes. A new email notification lights up the screen:
Skyline Agency – Interview Confirmation
Dante glances over, his dark eyes narrowing. "The fuck is this?"
I lock the screen. "Nothing."
He snatches the phone before I can stop him, scanning the email. His jaw tightens. "You're still chasing that PR job?"
"It's not chasing, Dante. It's a career."
He scoffs. "You have a career. Managing me."
"Managing your image," I correct. "And I want more."
The limo slows as we approach the museum, its glass facade glowing under the evening lights. Dante leans in, his voice dropping to that low, rough tone that still sends a shiver down my spine.
"You don't need more, Danika. You've got me."
For a second, I almost believe him.
Then the door opens, and reality floods back in.
**⊱ ────── {⋆☽⋆} ────── ⊰**
The red carpet is a gauntlet. Cameras flash, reporters shout, and Dante—true to form—grins like he's enjoying every second of it. He slings an arm around my waist, pulling me close as he raises his champagne bottle in a mock toast.
"Smile, princesa," he murmurs against my ear. "They eat that shit up."
I force a laugh, but my stomach twists at the whispers:
"Still no ring?"
"She's put on weight, hasn't she?"
A reporter shoves a mic in my face. "Danika, rumors say you're pregnant. Care to comment?"
Dante answers before I can. "If she was, you'd see a fucking diamond the size of her fist." He squeezes my hip. "Right, baby?"
I elbow him, but he just laughs, pressing a kiss to my temple.
Inside, the gala is a sea of polished smiles and clinking glasses. Dr. Susan Vega—Dante's mother—glides toward us, her designer gown immaculate, her surgeon's hands folded neatly in front of her.
"Finally" she sighs, air-kissing my cheeks before turning to Dante. "Must you dress like a motorcycle gang reject?"
Dante grins, unrepentant. "You love it, Mamá."
Susan's gaze flicks to my stomach. "So? When do I get grandchildren?"
Dante groans. "Jesus, not this again."
Susan ignores him, focusing on me. "You're not getting any younger, Danika."
I stiffen, but Dante steps in, his voice sharp. "Back off."
Susan raises a brow but doesn't push further.
Then I see him.
Liam Vega stands near the bar, his tailored suit hugging broad shoulders, his once-messy hair now neatly styled. He's talking to some corporate type, nodding politely, but his eyes—pale green, just like his mother's—find mine across the room.
A small, familiar smile tugs at his lips.
Dante's grip tightens on my waist. "Down, girl."
I shoot him a look. "What?"
"You're staring."
"I'm not."
He leans in, his breath warm against my ear. "Keep telling yourself that."
Before I can argue, Liam approaches, his smile widening. "You made it."
"Barely," I say, returning his hug. His arms are solid, comforting—like coming home after a long trip.
Dante clears his throat pointedly. "Congrats on the practice, Dr. Vega." The title is laced with sarcasm. "Guess someone had to follow Dad's footsteps."
Liam's expression doesn't falter. "You look good, Dante."
"High praise," Dante drawls, taking another swig of champagne.
The tension between them is thick enough to cut.
Liam turns to me. "You staying awhile?"
"She's leaving," Dante cuts in.
I frown. "No, I'm not."
Dante's jaw clenches. "Dani."
Liam steps forward, his voice calm but firm. "Let her decide."
For a second, Dante looks like he might argue. Then he exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Fine. Stay. But don't expect me to stick around for this bullshit."
He grabs my chin, tilting my face up to his. "You're mine," he murmurs, before pressing a rough kiss to my lips.
Then he's gone, disappearing into the crowd with his bottle raised in a mocking salute.
Liam watches him go, then turns to me. "You okay?"
I nod, but my fingers tighten around my phone—around the Skyline Agency email.
Because for the first time in years, I'm starting to wonder: Am I really his?
Or am I just too afraid to leave?