Erasing the Past

Kira’s POV:

Dante buttoned his suit lapel with a smooth, practiced motion and strode toward the heavy oak door of his office. His movements carried an effortless rhythm, the kind of easy grace born from a lifetime of expecting the world to bend to his will.

I scrambled to follow him. My heels clicked a frantic tempo against the polished marble floor. "Where are you going?"

He barely spared me a glance as he reached the hallway and pressed the elevator button. "You wanted to see your mother, didn't you?"

I blinked, my brain struggling to catch up with his relentless pace. "Yes, but—" I furrowed my brows, staring at his broad back. "You are coming with me? Don't you have work to do?"

I cast a quick look over my shoulder. His secretary sat at her desk, her eyes glued to her monitor as she pretended not to eavesdrop on our conversation.

Dante offered a faint smirk as the polished steel doors of the elevator slid open. "You know," he mused aloud, stepping into the confined space and waiting for me to follow. "There is a saying my late mother used to repeat. Family always comes first."

I hesitated. My shoes felt glued to the floor. I finally stepped inside, making sure to keep a careful, measured distance between us.

Family.

That specific word sat like a jagged stone in my chest. Everyone in Oakhaven knew the infamous details of the Kincaid family scandal. Decades ago, his father, Victor Kincaid, had paraded his blatant infidelity in front of high society. He brought his pregnant mistress straight into their home. That mistress happened to be Silas’s mother. The tragedy of Dante’s mother and her self-destructive choices was a well-documented piece of local gossip.

I gave Dante a sideways glance, unsure how to navigate the sudden shift in conversation.

He caught my look. His dark eyes locked onto mine in the mirrored reflection of the elevator doors. "Not that her philosophy helped her much in the end. Her choice in men was just as bad as yours."

My lips twitched. A spark of defiance flared in my chest. "Well, I am marrying you now, aren't I?"

He turned his head slowly. He gave me a dark, assessing look. His gaze dragged over my face, stripping away my bravado and making me feel foolish.

"Who ever said I was a good choice?" he murmured.

I squared my shoulders, refusing to back down. "Do you know how to cook?" I asked, recalling the sharp remarks he made back at the disastrous birthday party.

He raised a single brow. The question caught him off guard. "Of course I do. I am not an incompetent man."

"Do you manage your money well?"

He let out a dry scoff. "Would I be a billionaire if I didn't?"

"Competence does not equate to being a good man," I retorted sharply.

A shadow of a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "No. It doesn't."

I crossed my arms over my chest. I looked away, focusing on the changing floor numbers above the doors. "Well, on the bright side, you are only going to be my husband for one year. A strict business arrangement. It hardly matters to me whether you have morals or not."

From the corner of my eye, I saw him tilt his head. His gaze lingered on my profile. The silence stretched in the small space, thick and heavy, until he exhaled a quiet breath.

"Right."

The next hour manifested as an unstoppable storm of efficiency. Dante did not offer any more conversation. He simply acted.

We arrived at the hospital, and his mere presence parted the sea of chaos in the emergency ward. The exorbitant medical fees waiting at the billing counter? Handled effortlessly with a single swipe of a sleek black card. The complicated ward transfer? Managed without a single bureaucratic delay.

He secured an elite private room for my mother within minutes. A top-tier cardiovascular surgeon arrived shortly after. The doctor, an older man with steady hands and a kind face, offered me a professional nod.

"Rest assured, Mrs. Kincaid," the surgeon said, his tone carrying immense weight. "I will do my absolute best for your mother."

I let out a slow, trembling breath. The tight bands wrapped around my lungs finally loosened. The immediate relief felt staggering.

Then, the heavy operating room doors slid shut. The click of the lock echoed in the quiet corridor.

The storm of Dante's intervention passed, and the brutal reality of the situation crashed down on my shoulders. The sterile smell of antiseptic and bleach filled my nose. The harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The environment was agonizingly familiar.

It looked exactly like the corridor I paced just days prior. The day my adoptive father, Arthur, got into his accident. The day he never made it back out alive.

Arthur Redfern had been a tourist visiting Greyport City when he met my mother thirteen years ago. They married within a year. He became the best father I could have ever asked for. He stepped into a broken family and provided steady, unwavering love.

Miriam Sinclair saved me from a miserable orphanage when I was six years old. The memories of that bleak place were a hazy nightmare of cold grey walls and endless hunger. She pulled me from the dark. Arthur gave us a foundation. They were my safe haven.

Now, staring at the closed operating room doors, the foundation crumbled.

For the first time since I was a small child, neither of my protective parents stood beside me. The truth hit me with physical force. I was twenty-five years old. An adult by every legal definition. But standing in this freezing hospital hallway, I did not feel grown. I felt small. I felt like a terrified, helpless little girl reaching out into the dark, desperate for her mother's hand.

Please be okay.

My knees threatened to buckle. Spiraling panic tightened my throat. I could not survive losing them both in the same week.

"She will be okay."

A deep, grounding voice cut straight through the mounting static in my brain.

I blinked away the burning tears and turned my head. Dante stood right beside me. His usual mask of arrogant amusement was gone. His expression remained surprisingly solemn, steady, and focused entirely on me.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to stand taller. I looked at the man who had just vaporized an immense financial burden without a second thought. I owed him.

"Let's sign the contract tonight," I said. My voice sounded frail, but the resolve was there. "You should leave now. Go handle your business. I need some time to sort out my college leave and call my manager to cover my work shifts."

Dante frowned. His eyes narrowed slightly. "I assumed our marriage would inherently clear your remaining debts."

"They will be," I agreed quickly.

I looked away. I kept my darkest secret locked tight behind my teeth. I could not tell him the truth about my finances.

The original loan—the massive principal amount borrowed for my childhood heart transplant—had been paid off years ago. But the predatory interest rates never stopped growing. The numbers multiplied in the shadows. The crushing, ever-increasing debt generated endless stacks of threatening letters.

That specific stress worked Arthur to an early grave. A sixty-three-year-old man taking on extra labor, breaking his back under the pressure of keeping me alive. If I had been born healthy, if I never needed a new heart, he would not have worked himself to death. He would still be here.

I swallowed the heavy, bitter guilt lodged in my throat. My new heart beat a steady rhythm in my chest, bought and paid for with his life.

A sharp snap echoed in the quiet space.

"Earth to Kira."

I jolted out of my dark thoughts. Dante lowered his hand. He watched me with calculating eyes.

"I will send a driver to pick you up by seven this evening," he stated, his tone shifting back to the commanding CEO.

I nodded absentmindedly. "Alright."

He turned away. His expensive leather shoes carried him down the linoleum corridor. I watched his broad shoulders retreat, feeling a strange mix of dread and relief.

But then, his footsteps stopped.

He paused in the middle of the hallway. He turned around. Slowly, purposefully, he walked back toward me.

He stepped right into my personal space. The scent of cedar and expensive cologne overwhelmed the harsh hospital bleach. He reached out and firmly grasped my left hand. His long fingers wrapped around mine, his grip hot and unyielding.

I stared at him in confusion.

Then I felt the metal slide.

My breath hitched. He hooked his thumb and index finger around Silas's diamond engagement ring. With a deliberate, possessive pull, he slid the heavy stone off my finger.

I gasped. "What are you doing?"

Dante held the sparkling diamond up to the fluorescent lights. He smirked. A dangerous glint sparked in the depths of his dark eyes.

"I will be taking this now," he claimed. His voice dropped an octave, rough and commanding. "You have no use for it anymore."

I stood frozen. My mind short-circuited. I had no words to fight back against the sheer dominance radiating off him.

Then, he moved closer. He did something that made my newly transplanted heart nearly leap out of my ribcage.

Dante bent his head. He ignored the passing nurses and the distant chatter of the waiting room. He turned my bare hand over, exposing the vulnerable underside of my arm. He pressed his mouth directly against the sensitive skin of my inner wrist.

His lips were warm and firm. He left a soft, lingering kiss right over the blue veins. Right over my racing pulse.

The heat of his mouth sent a frantic jolt of electricity straight up my arm. He lifted his head. He looked down at me, his eyes dark with a promise I could not read.

"See you tonight, Birdie," he murmured huskily.

My face flushed with intense heat. My throat felt incredibly dry. "A—alright," I stammered.

He released my hand. He turned on his heel and strode down the corridor, disappearing around the corner without a single backward glance.

I remained planted in the middle of the hospital hallway. The sterile air felt too thin to breathe. I clutched my hand against my chest, left standing alone with a wildly racing pulse and a glaringly empty ring finger.