"I'm sorry, Liam I whispered", The words scrapping my throat raw. My hands brushed passed his, not taking it, finding the cold metal of the doorknob instead. "I have to go."
Liam's hand had lowered, not in defeat, but in a silent acknowledgment of the inevitable. His pale eyes held a complex tapestry: sorrow, resignation, and a stark, unflinching warning. "He'll pull you under, Danika," he breathed, the words barely audible over the muffled gala sounds. "He'll destroy you piece by piece, tonight proves it." Liam's voice was raw stripped of it's clinical calm. "He can't give you what you need, what you deserve."
"Maybe not," I admitted, pausing my hands on the cool brass knob. "but he needs me tonight. Truly needs me, not his manager, not his-girlfriend on display, Me". Liam didn't try to stop me again, he simply watched, his pale eyes holding a universe of unspoken warnings and a sorrow that cut deeper than any of Dante's accusations. "Be Careful," he murmured. Nodding, unable to speak past the lump in my throat, I pushed the door open and plunged back into the gala's dying energy. Whispers followed me like a toxic cloud as I navigated the thinning crowd, head held high, ignoring Susan Vega's sharp, disapproving gaze from across the room, Ignoring the lingering stares and hushed whispers that trailed me like toxic perfume, I navigated the crowded ballroom with single-minded purpose.
The night air hit me like a physical slap cool, damp, smelling of impending rain and exhaust. The city lights blurred into streaks of color through the sudden sheen of tears I hadn't realized were forming. Paparazzi, lingering like sharks scenting blood, surged forward.
"Danika!
"Danika! Over here!"
"Did Dante propose before he stormed out?"
"Is the engagement off?"
I shoved past them, hailing a taxi with a desperation that made my arm ache. "The Red Door Studio," I gasped, slamming the door on their shouted questions. "Hurry."
The familiar journey across town felt alien, the cityscape warped through the prism of panic and adrenaline. The Red Door wasn't Dante's primary studio; it was his sanctuary, the small, unassuming space where he wrote raw, unfiltered music away from label executives and producers. Where we had often hidden.
Rain began to lash against the taxi windows as we pulled into the industrial district. The studio, tucked
The studio, tucked beneath a railway arch, was marked only by the eponymous red door, peeling paint illuminated by a single, flickering security light. Music pulsed from within - not the heavy metal anthems of his band, Obsidian, but something raw, discordant, a guitar weeping under punishing fingers.
I paid the driver and stumbled out into the downpour. No security detail. Dante had clearly fled here alone. The heavy door was unlocked. I pushed it open.
The scent hit me first stale beer, ozone from vintage amps, and the sharp, acrid tang of weed. The small space was dimly lit, littered with discarded bottles and takeout containers. Dante stood silhouetted against the massive control room window, rain streaking the glass behind him like tears. His back was to me, shoulders hunched, head down. He was shirtless, lean muscle corded beneath intricate tattoos, fingers flying over the fretboard of his battered Stratocaster. The sound he wrung from it wasn't music; it was pure, unadulterated agony - screaming feedback, tortured bends, a rhythm that pounded like a failing heart.
He didn't turn. Didn't acknowledge me. Just played, lost in the self-inflicted tempest.
"Dante," I called, my voice swallowed by the sonic assault.
Nothing. The guitar screamed louder.
I walked forward, stepping over cables and a fallen mic stand. The raw power of his despair vibrated in the air, in the floorboards beneath my feet. I stopped a few feet behind him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin, to smell the whiskey and sweat mingling with the rain-damp air. "Dante. Stop."
His fingers stilled abruptly on the strings, leaving a dissonant hum, He flinched violently, the bass emitting a discordant shriek as his fingers slipped. He whirled around, his face pale and ravaged in the dim red light, eyes wide and wild. For a second, pure, unfiltered panic flashed across his features - fear that it was security, his mother, the police. Then recognition dawned, followed swiftly by a surge of defensive anger.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" he snarled, his voice hoarse from shouting and liquor. He slammed the bass down onto a stand, the sound jarring in the sudden silence. "Come to gloat?
"I came because you walked out looking like you were about to drive your car into the harbor."
He let out a harsh, humorless laugh, raking a hand through his already destroyed hair. "Wouldn't that just solve everyone's problems? The fuck-up finally removes himself. Neatly."
"Stop it," I said, my voice low but firm. I walked towards him, my heels clicking on the concrete floor. "That's not you talking. That's the whiskey and the self-pity."
"Self-pity?" He took a step towards me, invading my space, the heat and anger rolling off him in waves. The scent of bourbon was strong. "Try self-awareness, princesa. I saw your face. When Liam offered you his perfect, safe little hand. You wanted it.
"Dante. Stop it, please Just.... Stop."
"Why?" The single word scraped out, raw and shredded. "Why did you come here?"
"Because you walked out," she stated, her voice steadier than she felt. "Because you looked at me like I was poison." She took a tentative step closer, her hand hovering near the sweat-slicked plane of his shoulder blade. "Because that emptiness in your eyes… it terrified me."
He flinched violently at her proximity, a tremor running through him, but he didn't pull away. "You should be terrified," he rasped, still facing the rain-streaked glass. "You should be halfway to Skyline by now. Smart girls run from fires." He finally turned, slowly, the movement heavy with exhaustion and defeat. The sight stole her breath. The rockstar persona was obliterated. Bloodshot eyes, haunted and hollow, stared out from smudged black liner. Tear tracks, stark against his pallor, cut through the grime on his cheeks. His lips were bitten raw. "Beautiful things get burned, Danika. Especially by me."
This wasn't performative self-pity. This was the desolate, ugly core laid bare. The raw honesty was more disarming than any rage. "Stop," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Stop telling me what I should feel. Stop telling me what you destroy." She stepped fully into his space, her hands lifting, not to soothe, but to confront. Her palms pressed flat against his bare chest, feeling the frantic drumbeat of his heart beneath her touch. "Look at me."
His honesty was a blade, twisting. "It's not about deserving, Dante," she countered, her thumbs brushing over the hard planes of his pectorals, feeling the tension coiled beneath the skin. "It's not about choosing. Skyline… it's a path. A good one, I can't be 'Dante Vega's girlfriend' forever, I need something of my own. But you…" She searched his ravaged face, the familiar lines she knew by heart, now etched with despair. "You are the fucking wildfire, Dante. You burn everything down. You terrify me. You exhaust me. You make me want to rip my hair out. But you also…" Her voice dropped to a raw whisper. "You make me feel incandescent. Like safety is just another word for dead."
A choked sound escaped him, part sob, part gasp. He leaned into her touch, his forehead dropping to rest against hers. His breath hitched, warm and smelling of whiskey and despair. "I'm poison, Mireya," he breathed against her skin. "I'll ruin you. I ruin everything I touch."
"Then ruin me," she whispered back, the words reckless, terrifying, and utterly true. "But do it looking me in the eye. Don't push me away like I'm nothing. Don't walk out like I mean nothing."
He lifted his head, his eyes blazing with a sudden, desperate intensity. "Nothing? Nothing?" His hands shot up, tangling in her rain-damp hair, gripping almost painfully. "You are everything! You're the only fucking solid ground in this quicksand! The Skyline email… it felt like the ground opening up. Like you were already gone." His voice broke. "I can't lose you, Danika. I can't."
The raw plea shattered her last defenses. His mouth crashed down on hers, not with seduction, but with a feral, desperate hunger that was more apology than passion. It was a claiming born of terror, a plea for absolution written in the bruising pressure of his lips, the frantic sweep of his tongue. There was no tenderness, only a consuming need to erase the distance, the fear.
He backed her hard against the cold glass of the control room window. The shock of the chill against her back warred with the furnace heat of his body pressing against her front. His hands, calloused and strong, slid down her back, finding the zipper of the expensive velvet dress. With a rough, almost violent yank, he tore it down, the delicate fabric parting with a sickening rip. Cool air hit her exposed skin, followed instantly by the searing heat of his mouth as he bit down possessively on the tender juncture of her neck and shoulder. She cried out, the sound swallowed by his kiss, a mixture of pain and electric shock.
"Say it," he demanded against her skin, his voice a guttural rasp. His hands were everywhere, rough and demanding, mapping her body with bruising familiarity. He pushed the ruined dress off her shoulders, baring her to the waist. His mouth found a breast, his tongue lashing the peak before sucking hard, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh. It wasn't gentle worship; it was a branding. "Say you're still mine, Princesa. After this fucking mess. After everything."
His fingers hooked into the waistband of her lace underwear, tearing them aside with brutal efficiency. The cold glass against her bare backside was a stark counterpoint to the furnace heat of his palm as he cupped her, his fingers delving deep with no preamble, no gentleness. She gasped, arching against him, the friction sharp, almost painful, yet setting her nerves alight. He worked her ruthlessly, his gaze locked on her face, watching every flicker of pain and pleasure, his own need a palpable force radiating from him.
He fumbled with his own jeans, shoving them down just enough. There was no finesse, no careful preparation. He lifted her roughly, pinning her against the window with his weight, the rain hammering against the glass beside her cheek. With a guttural groan that sounded ripped from his soul, he thrust into her, hard and deep. The invasion was startling, intense, a claiming that bordered on punishment. She cried out again, nails digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders, anchoring herself as he set a punishing rhythm.
It was rough, almost brutal, a desperate collision of bodies seeking obliteration. The cold glass, the smell of rain and sex and desperation, the raw sounds torn from both their throats – it was a world away from the gala's sterile elegance. He drove into her with relentless force, each thrust a physical manifestation of his apology, his fear, his possessive need. He bit her shoulder again, sucked bruises onto her collarbone, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave marks, holding her in place for his onslaught. It wasn't just sex; it was a brutal reaffirmation of their bond, forged in chaos and desperation, a shared plummet into the abyss they both knew so well.
He pushed her relentlessly towards the edge, his own control fraying. When she shattered, it was with a ragged sob against his neck, her body clamping down on him in violent waves. His release followed instantly, a raw, broken shout muffled against her skin as he buried himself deep, his body shuddering violently against hers. He held her there, pinned against the glass, both of them gasping, sweat-slicked, trembling in the aftermath.
Slowly, the frantic energy bled away, leaving them clinging to each other in the dim, rain-lashed studio. The only sounds were their ragged breathing and the drumming rain. Dante's forehead rested against the cool glass beside her head, his breath fogging it in shallow bursts. He didn't move to withdraw, his body still pressed flush against hers, a heavy, possessive weight.
Minutes bled into each other. Eventually, he stirred, lifting his head. His eyes, when they met hers, were different. The raw panic was gone, replaced by a profound exhaustion and a startling clarity. He gently eased her down, his touch unexpectedly tender now. He stripped off his ruined vest and draped it around her shoulders, covering her nakedness. Then, without a word, he scooped her up and carried her to the worn leather couch tucked in a shadowed corner.
They lay tangled in silence, the leather cool against her heated skin. The vest smelled of him – leather, smoke, sweat. He traced idle patterns on her bare arm, his calloused fingertips a familiar rasp. The frantic desperation had subsided, leaving a fragile, almost disbelieving peace.
He shifted suddenly, propping himself up on one elbow. In the low light filtering through the rain-streaked window, his face was etched with a seriousness she rarely saw. "Danika."
Her heart, which had finally begun to slow, kicked against her ribs again. "Hmm?"
He didn't speak. Instead, he reached down beside the couch, rummaging in the pile of discarded clothes. His hand emerged clutching a small, unassuming black velvet box. He held it like it was both salvation and a live grenade.
Her breath froze. Every nerve ending screamed. "Dante…"
"Shh." He opened the box. Nestled inside wasn't a glittering diamond designed for red carpets. It was a ring that stole her breath: a band of dark, almost blackened platinum, twisted like ancient rope, holding a single, stunning pear-cut emerald. It looked primal, powerful, like something unearthed from a shipwreck. It pulsed with a deep, mysterious green light in the gloom.
"It belonged to my grandmother," he said, his voice low and rough with emotion. "Isabella Vega. They called her 'La Tempestad' – The Storm." He traced the dark, twisted band with a reverent finger. "Ran away at sixteen with a penniless musician. Defied her family. Built an empire from nothing… lost it all in a hurricane… rebuilt it from the wreckage." He lifted his eyes, locking onto hers with an intensity that felt like a physical touch. "She was fierce. Unbreakable. She loved like a hurricane and lived like she dared the sea to drown her." His thumb brushed the emerald. "She never apologized for being the storm. She commanded it." He swallowed hard. "She reminds me of you. The fire. The strength. The refusal to be tamed."
He took the ring from the box. His hand, usually so steady shredding guitar solos, trembled visibly. "I'm not Liam, Danika. I can't promise calm waters. I am the storm. Always will be. But I can promise you this: You are my only true north. My only harbor. The only reason I ever want to find the eye." He took a deep, shuddering breath, his gaze unwavering. "Marry me. Be my Tempest. Anchor me when the seas rage. Let me be the chaos that fuels your fire. Forever."
Silence roared louder than the vanished guitar. The emerald glowed like captured ocean depths. Skyline, the gala's judgment, Liam's quiet warning – they flashed through her mind like distant lightning. The ring wasn't a cage; it was a talisman. A challenge to embrace the tempest, not just survive it. To command it alongside him.
She looked from the impossible, ancient ring to Dante's face – stripped bare, vulnerable, offering his chaotic heart on a twisted band of platinum. The fear of losing him warred violently with the fear of losing herself within his whirlwind. Could she build her own empire within his storm? Could she be La Tempestad, not just his anchor?
Slowly, achingly slowly, she extended her left hand. Her fingers trembled, not with fear now, but with the weight of the precipice she stood upon. "Forever's a long time to weather a hurricane, Vega," she whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears and a terrifying thrill. "You sure you're ready for my storm?"
A ghost of his reckless, devastating grin touched his lips, relief flooding his haunted eyes like sunlight breaking through clouds. "With you, Tempest?" He slid the cool, heavy band onto her finger. It fit perfectly, a weight both alien and intrinsically right. "I wouldn't want any other kind of weather." He brought her knuckles to his lips, kissing the emerald, his eyes never leaving hers. "My Princesa. My Danika."