"The Home of Shadows"

The following days were a true test for Selene.

After the violent escape, she was forced to remain in Dante's house—a dark place where the man's coldness manifested in every detail and every gesture. Upon entering the immense mansion, Selene quickly realized it wasn't a home for feelings, but a fortress built to enforce the control and rigidity of the fate that had been forced upon her.

On the first day, while trying to recover from recent events, she noticed the maids treated her with thinly veiled disdain. Cold stares and discreet whispers followed her every step through marble corridors and shadow-laced rooms. One of the servants, with a harsh tone, muttered:

— "The Valtieri girl is different. There's no room for sentimental delays here, girl."

Selene kept her eyes on the floor, the humiliation corroding her pride like poison. But the greatest insult was yet to come. That very afternoon, as she passed through the main hall, the doors burst open—and as if she owned the place, Elowen Acheron stepped inside. Dressed in garments that exuded both elegance and arrogance, Elowen paraded down the corridor flanked by several maids from her rival clan—clearly sent to reaffirm her family's superiority.

— "Well, well, if it isn't the princess of shadows, lost in her own delusions," Elowen mocked with a scornful smile, stopping just a few steps from Selene.

Selene raised her gaze, meeting her rival with a calm expression that barely veiled the fury within.

— "Don't think your presence here changes anything, Elowen. Dante chose this house, and in it, there's room only for those who serve him."

Her tone was dry, the words sharpened by a cold glare that made the room still. Elowen's maids giggled quietly, while others, aligned with Dante's household, remained indifferent. The tension thickened, casting a shadow over the dinner that was yet to come.

---

That evening, the meal was soaked in intrigue. In the grand dining room, a long dark oak table was set with silver cutlery and crystal glasses. Around it sat Dante, Selene, and—much to her humiliation—Elowen, positioned at Dante's right, surrounded by her loyal attendants. The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows on their tense faces, turning the dinner into a scene worthy of a Greek tragedy.

Dante, ever controlled, began the meal with ritualistic calm. Selene, seated to his left, sat straight-backed, her silence a shield. With every word from Elowen, her tension deepened. Then, Elowen, wearing a mocking smile, dared to break the silence:

— "They say Dante's heart is as cold as his skin. But they also say I was the first to melt that frost."

Murmurs spread among the servants. Selene pressed her lips together, fury swelling beneath the surface. Her voice, when it came, was like ice:

— "Don't delude yourself, Elowen. A heart of stone doesn't melt with fleeting touches—or with false memories."

The tension cracked like glass. Dante, eyes fixed on Selene, tilted his head but remained silent. Elowen continued, unshaken:

— "Oh, darling, I wish I could say it was by choice. But you know well—everything touched by Dante ends up marked. Perhaps I was his first, but now he belongs to me. Some prefer the taste of something real."

Her words sliced through Selene's pride. Unable to endure more venom, Selene abruptly rose. The nearby servants stepped back, Dante visibly tense. But Selene no longer cared for composure.

With a silent gesture, she summoned her dark gifts. Shadows pulsed in her eyes, and the room's light seemed to collapse around her. In an instant, a wave of dark energy spread across the table—candles flickered, plates trembled. Elowen was struck, a silent but devastating blow.

— "Shut your mouth, Elowen! I won't let your poison stain what I represent!"

Selene's voice boomed, echoing through the chamber, making everyone shudder.

Dante raised a hand to stop her, but it was too late. As he moved to shield Elowen, his force clashed with Selene's magic, accidentally slicing her arm in the process—a deep gash bloomed where his power collided with hers.

A heavy silence followed, thick with shock and betrayal. Selene, eyes burning with pain and disbelief, stared at the man fate had tied her to—yet who stood defending her rival once again. Without a word, she turned and left the room, ignoring the gasps and stares behind her.

She didn't look back.

---

Night blanketed the city as Selene fled through the darkened streets, her steps hurried, pain radiating from her wounded arm. Alone, she found refuge in the quiet company of Baltazar—her confidant, the only one who had never demanded more than what she could give.

In a secluded corner of a modest inn, Selene finally let go—not of tears, but of words soaked in pride and sorrow. She spoke of humiliation, of betrayal, of the gnawing void in her chest.

— "I don't know what's happening to me. All I feel is emptiness… and a rage I can't control."

Baltazar stepped closer, placing a steady hand on her shoulder.

— "Sometimes fate takes us through twisted roads. We don't always get to choose who walks them with us. But pain… pain can be a blade or a shield, depending on how you wield it."

Selene exhaled, his words sinking into the silence.

— "I don't know if I can. Dante… he'll always be there. With his coldness. His obsession. And Elowen… she came just to prove that no matter what I do, I'm still just a pawn."

Baltazar's tone softened, yet held strength:

— "You're not a pawn, Selene. You're a storm. But you have to decide what you want. Not what they've forced you to become."

She said nothing. The truth was there—gnawing, whispering. But what she felt for Dante remained locked away, sealed by a war between hatred and a desire she feared to name.

As the night deepened, Selene fell silent, consumed by her thoughts. The wind outside whispered like a ghost—echoing a destiny written in shadows, yet still fragile enough to rewrite.

---

In the days that followed, Dante's presence grew increasingly invasive. He sent messengers. Appeared in unexpected places. His voice—soft, cold, commanding—cut through the distance like a dagger.

One evening, as Selene sat alone in her inn room, bandaged and bruised, he appeared without warning, his golden eyes burning.

— "You can't run from us, Selene. Not from me."

She clenched her fists, the ache in her arm a reminder—but her voice held firm.

— "I'm not yours, Dante. I never will be."

He stepped closer, fury and sorrow clashing in his gaze.

— "Say what you want, but you're only lying to yourself. I'm here to protect you, even if you can't see it. This… this is your fate."

She flinched—whether from pain or from his presence, she didn't know. Her voice cracked, but she didn't falter.

— "I want to go home, Dante. Somewhere I don't feel like a prisoner."

— "This is your home now. A new beginning."

His tone turned cold again, unyielding. And for a heartbeat, she almost believed him—if not for the fire rising in her chest.

The silence stretched. He turned to leave, but not before delivering one last warning:

— "Don't make foolish choices, Selene. Running will only bring more pain."

As his words echoed in the room, Selene finally stood. She stepped out of the inn into the night, not as a prisoner—but as a woman chasing freedom, even if she had to carve it from the darkness with her own hands.