A week later, Mia was back in her bedroom—a sprawling suite of pink and gold. Clara had been moved into the adjoining room, a space larger and more luxurious than any apartment she had ever rented.

That morning, a woman with a measuring tape around her neck was ushered into the suite. Dante followed closely behind.

"Madame Celine," Dante said. "Measure Miss Hayes for a new wardrobe."

Clara flushed crimson. "Mr. Thorne, that isn't necessary. I can buy my own clothes."

"You are representing the Thorne family now," Dante replied, stepping closer. His eyes drifted over her worn, ill-fitting jeans and oversized sweater. "You shouldn't hide yourself, Clara. You saved my world. You should dress like it."

Madame Celine tried to hide a grimace as she approached Clara. "Of course. Let's see what we can do with this... shape."

Dante’s hand shot out, gripping the tailor’s wrist with bone-crushing force. "You will speak to her with the utmost respect," Dante hissed, his eyes dead and cold. "If you make her feel anything less than beautiful, I will cut out your tongue."

The tailor went pale and nodded frantically. Clara looked at Dante, her heart doing a strange, fluttering rhythm. No man had ever defended her honor.