Page 6 of Ivory Crown

So, I typed out the message, each word a stone in my stomach. ‘Dragged into an unexpected project by Dr. Prakesh. Going radio silent for a bit. Don’t worry.’ My thumb hovered over the send button before pressing down with resignation. The lie settled into the air between us like smoke, thick and choking.

“Good,” Dante said, and the simple approval in his voice stirred a dangerous warmth in my chest. Then his brow furrowed. “Who’s Dr. Prakesh?”

“She’s Dr. White’s boss,” I said. “She doesn’t really come into the lab, but Ellie could just ask Dr. White why I’m not around. Dr. Prakesh is in charge of all our publications and things like that. You said to make it believable.”

I did hope Ellie would ask Dr. White about this order from Dr. Prakesh. She almost never gave us orders. But hopefully, Dante wouldn’t know.

He thought about it for a second. “Good,” Dante said, and the simple approval in his voice stirred a dangerous warmth in my chest.

“Is that all?” I asked, aware of how close we stood, of the tension that was anything but academic.

“For now,” he replied, a promise or a threat, I couldn’t tell which. “Give me your phone.”

I tried to swallow down the knot in my throat, handing the phone to him.

As he pocketed my phone, Dante’s expression shifted, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before he turned away. “Wait here,” he said curtly and disappeared.

Minutes passed like hours, my thoughts racing with the possibilities of what this man could want from me. When he returned, his arms were laden with a box that was large enough to pique my curiosity but he carried as though it weighed nothing.

“Here,” he said, setting the box down with surprising gentleness. “I stopped by your apartment.”

My breath hitched, a silent alarm bell ringing in my head. “You what?”

“Relax. I didn’t snoop,” he assured, but the smirk playing on his lips suggested he found the notion amusing. “Just grabbed what was in the laundry basket. But honestly, Jade,” he paused, opening the lid to reveal the contents, “you didn’t have that many good clothes.”

“Rude,” I said. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”

“Nothing,” he replied, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “They just don’t do you justice.”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smile creeping onto my lips. Despite the situation, despite who he was and what was happening, Dante Moretti had an uncanny ability to catch me off-guard.

The box overflowed with fabrics, rich colors, and sleek designs—a treasure trove of garments that no doubt cost more than I made in a month.

“Is this supposed to impress me?” I asked, even as my fingers itched to touch the silk blouse that lay on top.

“Maybe,” he replied, watching me closely. “But they’re yours regardless.”

“Mine?” The word felt foreign on my tongue.

“They’ll remain in our shared closet,” Dante explained, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to provide me with an entirely new wardrobe. “Use them when and how you like.”

The offer was overwhelming, too generous, and yet another thread in the web I felt trapped in. “Why are you doing this?” I managed, finally looking up at him.

“Because I can,” he said simply, and there was a truth in those words that both alarmed and intrigued me. “Because you need clothes.”

“Thanks,” I murmured, unsure whether gratitude or suspicion should be the dominant emotion.

“Thank me by doing what you do best,” Dante replied, his voice low and encouraging. “Keep working on your research.”

I glanced around the lab, my gaze sweeping over the array of equipment that Dante had provided. It was more than I’d ever dreamed of having at my disposal. This place looked fucking expensive. The centrifuges hummed quietly, the digital displays of pipettes illuminated in standby mode, and every surface gleamed under the stark fluorescent lights. Reagents in their small vials stood at attention like soldiers on parade, and data charts fanned out across my workstation, each one a puzzle waiting to be solved.

It was all meticulously arranged, a scientist’s haven, yet as I looked back to the doorway where Dante stood—a dark silhouette framed by the hall light—I couldn’t shake the feeling of confinement.

I turned away from him, focusing on the genetic sequences displayed on my computer screen. Here, in the digital representation of DNA, I found an escape. Each nucleotide was a building block in an ordered world I could understand, a world governed by the predictability of base pairs and the rules of replication.

“Good,” Dante said, his presence at the doorway lingering like a shadow I could feel rather than see. “I’ll leave you to it then.”

The click of the door signaled his departure, but it did nothing to lighten the sense of surveillance that clung to the room. Alone now, with only the hum of machines as company, I dove into my work. I typed on the keyboard clumsily as I tried to get used to it, annotating segments, comparing structures—every action a deliberate effort to assert control over my little kingdom of research.

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