Page 7 of Ivory Crown

“Predictable outcomes,” I read aloud to myself, comforted by the reliability of science.

Hours slipped by unnoticed as I pieced together the molecular puzzle before me, seeking answers that felt much bigger than what was happening to me.

At some point, he came in, put a paper bag with a sandwich and a pastry next to me, and brought me a giant gallon of water.

He didn’t give me a chance to say anything as he left.

But it didn’t matter, I was busy, I was losing myself in the work until night started to fall. The room had an ensuite and I didn’t need to go anywhere or do anything but work—which allowed me to forget some of the situation I had found myself in.

At some point, the door creaked open, splintering the silence without warning. Dante stood there, his frame filling the doorway, a box of takeout in hand. “You need to eat,” he said simply, his voice low and oddly considerate for a man of his stature.

“I’ll be finished soon,” I replied without looking up, my gaze fixed on the screen. The data wouldn’t run itself, and every second was precious. But I could feel him there, just beyond the reach of my peripheral vision, an unrelenting force that refused to be ignored.

He didn’t move, nor did he speak again, but his presence enveloped me like a heavy cloak. It was a curious thing, how this man, who dealt in threats and power struggles, seemed to stand guard over me. I was an asset, I knew—a commodity in his family’s empire.

And…the baby. Of course, the baby. I’d turned it over in my head. I had been so blind. I had been so enamored with the idea that a man like Dante could want me and not my research.

When my research was the only special thing about me.

Yet, he watched me with a protective intensity that suggested possession more personal than professional.

My fingers paused above the keyboard, tension coiling tightly within me. This was no longer just my sanctuary; it had become a silent battlefield. My will to maintain independence clashed against Dante’s unspoken claim over me. Each keystroke was a defiance, a reminder that I wasn’t just another one of his conquests.

Despite everything, a treacherous part of me couldn’t help but find comfort in his watchful gaze.

“Jade,” he finally said, breaking the standoff, “work can wait. You can’t. The baby can’t.”

I stood reluctantly, feeling the weight of his expectation press down upon me. There was no escaping the gravity of Dante Moretti—not here, not anywhere.

Reluctantly, I turned to face him, acknowledging the truth in his statement. “Just give me a minute,” I conceded, my resolve softening despite my best efforts.

“Take all the time you need,” Dante replied, his tone leaving no room for argument, yet laced with an odd gentleness. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And neither, it seemed, was I.

“Sit down,” he said. “Let’s eat.”

“Where?”

“Well, we could do it in the dining room but I have a feeling you’d try to make a run for it, and I don’t want to hurt you. So how does the floor sound?”

I glanced at the cold, sterile tiles beneath our feet, then back up at him.

“The floor?” I echoed incredulously. This whole scenario felt surreal. One moment I was immersed in my research, the next I was being asked to share a meal on the floor with a mafia boss.

Dante simply shrugged, unbothered by my surprise. With a slight smirk playing on his lips, he lowered himself onto the ground and began unpacking the takeout box.

“I’ve had meals in far less comfortable places,” he said casually, pulling out containers packed with steaming food. The tantalizing aroma wafted up to me, reminding me of how long I’d been working without a break.

I swallowed hard, my stomach betraying me with a growl. Dante’s smirk broadened into a full-fledged smile at the sound. “Come on, Dr. Bentley,” he coaxed, holding out a pair of chopsticks towards me. “It won’t kill you to take a break.”

“Chinese food?” I asked.

“Your favorite,” he said. “It’s sweet and sour chicken with fried rice. And egg rolls, too.”

I was torn between hesitation and hunger, my body swaying towards the latter. He was right; I’d been working for hours and had forgotten to take care of myself. Nodding slowly, I sat down across from him, taking the offered chopsticks.

I watched as he picked up a piece of chicken with his chopsticks and brought it to his mouth. His actions were deliberate, almost graceful, and for a moment I felt a pang of envy at his ease in our unusual dining situation.

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