My sister always said she deserved the best of everything — the dresses, the diamonds, even the men. So when the letters came, sealed in white and black wax, she didn’t hesitate.

“The sweet one’s mine,” Seraphina declared, snatching the white envelope before I could speak. “You wouldn’t know what to do with kindness anyway.”

Her laughter lingered in the air long after she left the room — soft, cruel, and certain she’d won.

That night, I opened the black envelope. The wax cracked like thunder. Inside was a name that made even our father’s voice falter: Dante Morelli.

Now, weeks later, I sit across from him at a long, silent dinner table. The silverware glints under the chandelier’s light; the only sound is the slow rhythm of rain against the windows.

He doesn’t speak, and neither do I. But somehow, the quiet between us feels heavier than words — like a storm we both know is coming, yet neither of us dares to break.