CHAPTER FOUR

"You really don't have to get dressed," Dante's voice drifted from the king-sized bed, a note of amusement coloring his words.

I paused midway through buttoning my blouse, turning to face him. At 26, I'd learned to read men pretty well, and something in his tone made me hesitate. "I thought we were finished for the night," I said, trying to keep my voice light despite my exhaustion.

The sheets whispered against his skin as he shifted, propping himself up on one elbow. Even in the dim light of his penthouse bedroom, I could see his eyes tracking my movements. "Stay," he said simply, patting the space beside him. "I'll have a taxi take you home in the morning."

I'd been in this business long enough to know when a client was trying to get more than they'd paid for. But there was something different about Dante – maybe it was the way he'd actually listened when I spoke earlier, or how he'd laughed genuinely at my jokes. Still, I was skeptical.

"Why?" I asked, my fingers still on my buttons. "Need a midnight snack?"

He chuckled, the sound rich and warm in the quiet room. "You're warm, and the bed's too big for just me." A pause, then: "I promise I don't snore."

I weighed my options. The Beverly Wilshire's beds were certainly more comfortable than my own, and the thought of the long drive home at this hour was less than appealing. "If you snore, I'm out," I warned, already shrugging off my blouse.

"Deal," Dante said, pulling back the covers.

As I slipped between the sheets, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was breaking one of my cardinal rules. Never stay the night. Never let it get personal. But as Dante's breathing evened out beside me, I found myself drifting off, my usual vigilance dulled by exhaustion and the unexpected comfort of company.

I woke to sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows and the distant sound of a vacuum cleaner. For a moment, I was disoriented – my apartment didn't have views like this, and certainly not windows that reached toward the sky. Then I remembered: the Beverly Wilshire, Dante, staying the night.

Dante wasn't in bed, but I could hear his voice from the other room, sharp and frustrated. I sat up slowly, my body protesting the movement. Last night had been more vigorous than usual.

"I don't understand why this is so difficult, Amy," Dante's voice grew louder as he approached the bedroom. "We've had these plans for weeks."

I froze, unsure whether to make my presence known or pretend to be asleep. Before I could decide, Dante burst through the door, phone pressed to his ear, his face twisted in irritation. He was wearing silk pajamas that probably cost more than my monthly rent, a matching robe billowing behind him as he paced.

"A photoshoot? That's your excuse?" He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the perfectly styled strands. "No, you know what? Don't bother explaining. It's clear where your priorities lie."

I sat very still, feeling like an intruder in what was clearly a private moment. Dante seemed to have forgotten I was there entirely.

"Fine," he spat into the phone. "Have a great shoot. Don't expect me to be waiting when you're done playing model."

He ended the call with more force than necessary, tossing the phone onto a nearby chair. For a moment, he stood with his back to me, shoulders tense, hands braced against the windowsill as he looked out over the city.

I cleared my throat softly. "I should go."

Dante turned, and for a second, I saw something raw and vulnerable in his expression before he masked it with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Nonsense," he said, his voice forcedly cheerful. "Breakfast is being served. You must be hungry."

As if on cue, there was a knock at the door. Dante disappeared to answer it, returning moments later followed by a waiter pushing a cart laden with covered dishes. The smell of coffee and fresh pastries filled the room, making my stomach growl despite my discomfort.

Dante tipped the waiter generously and began uncovering dishes: eggs benedict, fresh fruit, croissants still warm from the oven. "Eat," he insisted, pouring two cups of coffee. "Please."

I knew I should leave. This wasn't part of our arrangement, and the morning-after breakfast with the angry phone call to the girlfriend was definitely not in my playbook. But as Dante handed me a cup of coffee – prepared exactly as I'd mentioned I liked it the night before – I found myself settling back against the headboard.

"So," I said, taking a sip of the perfectly made coffee, "Amy?"

Dante's jaw tightened slightly. "My girlfriend. Soon to be ex-girlfriend, apparently."

I nodded, trying to ignore the twist in my stomach. Of course he had a girlfriend. Men like Dante always did. "Trouble in paradise?"

He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Paradise? More like purgatory. She's..." he trailed off, seeming to remember who he was talking to. "I'm sorry. You don't need to hear about my relationship problems."

"Sometimes it's easier to talk to a stranger," I offered, surprising myself. This wasn't my role. I was supposed to be fantasy, escape – not therapist.

Dante looked at me thoughtfully, then reached for a croissant. As he tore it in half, steam escaped into the air between us. "Amy and I have been together for two years. She was a law student when we met – brilliant, ambitious, driven. Then she got scouted by a modeling agency, and suddenly law school was 'too restrictive.' She wanted to 'explore her options.'" He made air quotes with his fingers, scattering croissant flakes onto the expensive sheets.

I took a bite of fruit to avoid responding. This was dangerous territory.

"I supported her decision," Dante continued, more to himself than to me. "I thought it was a phase. But it's been a year, and now every conversation is about her next shoot, her next casting, her next big break. She's becoming someone I don't recognize."

"People change," I said softly, thinking of my own abandoned dreams of art school, of the life I'd imagined for myself before reality had other plans.

Dante's eyes snapped to mine, suddenly intense. "Yes, they do. But not always for the better." He set down his coffee cup with a decisive click. "What about you, Rosella? What changes have you seen?"

The question hung in the air between us, loaded with implications. I opened my mouth to deflect, to give him the practiced answer I gave all clients who got too curious, but something stopped me. Maybe it was the genuine interest in his eyes, or the lingering vulnerability from his phone call, or simply the surreal quality of eating breakfast in bed with a man who had paid for my company the night before.

"I wanted to be an artist," I found myself saying. "I used to dream in colors and shapes. Now I dream in dollar signs and survival."

The words felt like a confession, heavy and real in a way our encounter last night hadn't been. Dante leaned forward slightly, his expression unreadable. "Show me," he said.

"What?"

"Show me your art. Draw something for me."

I laughed nervously. "I haven't drawn anything in years."

He was already reaching for the hotel notepad and pen on the bedside table. "Art is like riding a bicycle, isn't it? You never really forget." He held them out to me, his eyes challenging.

My hand trembled slightly as I took the pen. The paper was thick, expensive – the kind that wouldn't bleed or tear easily. I stared at its blank surface, feeling the weight of Dante's gaze.

Slowly, hesitantly, I began to draw. Simple lines at first, then more confident strokes. I lost myself in the familiar motion, the world narrowing to the scratch of pen on paper and the image forming beneath my fingers.

I was so absorbed that I didn't notice Dante moving until his breath caught audibly. I looked up to find him staring at the drawing, his expression a mix of surprise and something else I couldn't quite identify.

"Rosella," he said softly, "this is..." He trailed off as his phone began to ring. Amy's name flashed on the screen.

Dante looked at the phone, then at me, then back at the phone. The air in the room seemed to thicken with tension. Finally, he reached for the device.

As his finger hovered over the answer button, he turned to me with an expression that made my heart skip a beat. "I have a proposition for you," he said, his voice low and serious. "One that could change everything."

The phone continued to ring, insistent and shrill, as I waited for him to continue, acutely aware that whatever came next would shatter the careful boundaries I'd built around my life.

Just as Dante opened his mouth to speak, there was a sudden, urgent knock at the door.