Good Morning, Darling

Chapter One:

The penthouse was silent.

Not the peaceful kind of silence. The kind that felt like a held breath. Like a storm waiting to break.

Dante Moretti stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows, a cup of black coffee cooling in his hand, watching the city sprawl beneath him like a kingdom he already owned. The sky was still grey—dawn had barely cracked—but he'd been awake for hours. He always was. Sleep was a luxury he'd stopped affording himself years ago.

He was already dressed.

Dark charcoal suit. No tie. Sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing a watch that cost more than most people's cars. His jaw was sharp enough to cut glass, his hair pushed back from his forehead, and his eyes—cold, dark, unreadable—didn't move from the skyline.

He looked like a man who didn't need anyone.

He looked like a man who'd made peace with that.

His phone buzzed on the marble counter behind him. He didn't turn around.

A knock echoed from the doorway.

"Sir."

Dante didn't respond.

Marco—his head of security, a man who'd been with him for seven years and still didn't know how to relax—stepped into the room.

"Your parents are here. Along with your aunt and her daughter."

Dante's jaw tightened. Barely. The kind of movement most people would miss.

"I told them not to come."

"They insisted."

A pause.

"Of course they did."

Downstairs, the private elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and the Moretti family stepped out like they owned the place.

Which, technically, they did.

Vincent Moretti walked first. Tall. Grey at the temples. Cold as a winter grave. He wore a suit that fit him like a second skin and an expression that suggested he'd never smiled a day in his life.

Behind him—Elena Moretti. Elegant. Distant. Already scrolling through her phone like her son wasn't waiting a few feet away.

Then came Cecilia—Dante's aunt. Loud. Overdressed. Gold jewelry clinking with every step. She was already talking before she even fully entered the room, her voice bouncing off the marble floors like a bell.

"—and I told Camille, I said, 'sweetheart, you must wear something elegant, we're visiting your cousin, not a nightclub—'"

Beside her walked the cousin in question.

Camille.

Blonde. Pretty in a way that felt manufactured. Too much blush, too much lip gloss, a dress that was two inches too short for a family breakfast and three inches too tight for anyone with self-respect.

She smiled the moment she saw Dante.

It was the kind of smile that said I've been waiting for this my whole life.

Dante felt nothing.

He walked past all of them, pulled out his chair, and sat down without a word.

The table was set for six.

He hadn't touched a single plate.

The silence stretched.

Vincent finally cleared his throat.

"Good morning, son."

Dante didn't answer. He reached for his coffee and took a slow, deliberate sip.

Elena looked up from her phone. "We haven't seen you in weeks."

"I've been busy."

"Too busy for your own family?"

"Apparently."

Cecilia jumped in, her voice syrupy sweet. "Dante, you look so handsome. Doesn't he look handsome, Camille?"

Camille giggled. "He always does."

Dante set his cup down. He didn't look at either of them.

"Why are you here?"

Vincent's expression tightened. "We came to discuss the Westbrook project."

"There's nothing to discuss."

"We heard you're bidding against the Varela Group."

Dante's hand paused.

Just for a second.

Then he looked up, his eyes cold enough to freeze the coffee in his cup.

"Your information is outdated."

Elena frowned. "What do you mean?"

Before Dante could answer—

A loud, deep roar echoed from outside.

Not a car.

Not a bike.

Something angrier.

Something alive.

Dante's best friend, Kian, who had been silently watching the entire breakfast from the corner with a cup of tea, leaned back in his chair. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face.

Kian Rios was a contradiction wrapped in an expensive suit. One moment, he was the funniest person in the room—the one who made jokes, teased everyone, and diffused tension like it was his job. The next, his eyes would go cold, flat, and you'd remember exactly why he was Dante Moretti's best friend.

He had two personalities.

And both of them were dangerous.

"Here we go again," Kian murmured, just loud enough for Dante to hear.

The front door slammed open.

Hard.

Every head turned.

And she walked in.

Isla Varela.

She moved like a storm in heels—a cream-colored top tucked into blue jeans, a camel coat draped over her shoulders like a crown. Her dark hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail, sharp and clean, and her eyes—brilliant, furious, alive—scanned the room once before locking onto him.

She looked incredible.

And she knew it.

The room shifted.

Vincent's posture stiffened. Elena's phone went still. Cecilia's mouth fell open. Camille—poor, oblivious Camille—looked between Isla and Dante like she was watching a tennis match she didn't understand.

Isla didn't look at any of them.

She walked straight toward Dante.

Her heels clicked against the marble floor like a countdown.

Click.

She stopped in front of him.

SLAM.

A folded document hit the table in front of him.

"You did this on purpose," she said. Her voice was low. Dangerous. "Didn't you."

Dante looked up slowly.

His expression was unreadable.

Then—finally—his lips curved into a smirk.

The first real emotion he'd shown all morning.

"Good morning to you too, darling."

Her eyes narrowed. "Don't darling me."

"Would you prefer 'my love'?"

"I'd prefer an answer."

He leaned back in his chair. Perfectly relaxed. "Of course I did it on purpose. And I'd do it again."

She stared at him.

He stared back.

The whole room held its breath.

Then Isla leaned forward—both hands on the table, her face inches from his. Close enough that he could smell her perfume. Something expensive. Something that made him want to close the distance.

"You're going to lose the Westbrook project," she said softly. "And I'm going to take it from you in a very creative way."

She straightened up.

Turned to leave.

Then stopped.

Her eyes landed on his coffee.

She picked it up.

Took a slow, deliberate sip.

Dante raised an eyebrow. "What was that for?"

She lowered the cup, a smirk playing on her lips. "For making my throat dry."

And then—

She turned.

Her eyes swept over his family.