Chapter 12 The dinner deal
The morning light slanted through the villa’s glass walls, catching on dust that wasn’t there. Sienna moved through the kitchen in silence, sleeves rolled up, pulse loud in her ears. The events of the night before replayed in her mind like a loop, Dante’s drunken outburst, the crutch flying past her head, the look in his eyes afterward.
She’d seen plenty of broken men before. Soldiers, accident victims. The kind who built walls out of arrogance to hide the ruin underneath. But Dante Varon wasn’t just broken, he was angry about surviving.
And somehow, she was the easiest target in reach.
The coffee pot clicked off. She poured a cup and drank it black. Maybe the bitterness would wake her.
She’d barely swallowed when his voice came from behind her, low, rough from sleep. “You’re up early.”
Her shoulders stiffened. She hadn’t heard the wheels of his chair approach. She turned slowly. He sat just past the doorway, shirt unbuttoned halfway, a shadow of stubble across his jaw. The kind of disheveled that looked deliberate.
“You’re awake,” she said flatly.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Because of pain?”
“Restlessness.” His gaze moved over the counter, over the cup in her hand, then back to her. “Are you always this quiet after yelling at your boss?”
“My patient,” she corrected. “You’re not my boss.”
He smirked faintly. “You live in my house, breathe my air, cook in my kitchen. That sounds like an employment to me.”
She didn’t rise to it. “You should eat something.”
“Then, make me breakfast.”
“No.”
That earned her a flicker of amusement, then another look maybe curiosity. “Still angry about last night?”
“I don’t have the time to be angry,” she said. “I have a job.”
Dante leaned back in the chair, eyes half-lidded. “Then do it tonight.”
“What?”
“Dinner. You’ll make it.”
Sienna blinked. “Dinner?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Consider it my apology.”
“You don’t apologize.”
“I’m trying something new.”
“Through cooking?”
He gave a dry laugh. “Delegation.”
For a long moment, she studied him with the tilt of his mouth, the guarded gleam in his eyes. It wasn’t an olive branch. It was.a bait.
Still, she said yes. Because refusing would mean caring. And she refused to give him that.
“Fine,” she said. “Dinner.”
He nodded. “Seven sharp.”
Then he was gone, the sound of the wheels fading down the hall.
By late afternoon, Sienna had almost convinced herself it was just another task. Cooking, feeding and the routine. But her hands betrayed her, moving carefully as she sliced garlic, and stirring sauce like it mattered.
The villa’s kitchen felt quiet. Every small sound echoed: the knife hitting the board, the simmering water, the faint whisper of wind through the balcony doors.
She told herself she didn’t care how the dinner turned out. That it wasn’t for him.
But when she plated the food, grilled fish, lemon butter, and herbs, she adjusted the angle of the garnish twice.
He arrived right on time. He used his wheelchair, he got in slowly,his jaw tight with effort as he tried to make it inside the dining room. He didn’t announce himself, just sat there for a second, watching her from the doorway like he was assessing the scene before getting into it.
Sienna didn’t offer to help. She just said, “You’re late.”
“By two minutes,” he replied, taking his position at the end of the table. “That’s restraint, by my standards.”
“I’ll alert the press.”
“I think they’re already alert,” he murmured, and she caught the faintest edge of bitterness, a reminder of the article, of the camera flash outside the villa.
She forced her tone neutral. “Enjoy your dinner.”
After a few minutes, he said, “You can sit.”
“I prefer to stand.”
“That’s not true.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You think you know what I prefer?”
“I think you hate feeling watched.”
She opened her mouth to argue then shut it. Because he wasn’t wrong.
She sat down.
They ate in silence for a while. The silence between them wasn’t hostile this time. It was a waiting kind of silence.
Halfway through the meal, he spoke. “You’re not from Monaco.”
“Sharp observation.”
“Where then?”
“Nice.”
He nodded slightly. “Is your family there?”
“No.”
“You sound sure.”
She set down her fork. “Are you planning to psychoanalyze me now?”
He gave her that same infuriatingly calm look. “You make it sound like I haven’t been since the day you arrived.”
She frowned. “Why do you do that?”
“What?”
“Push people.”
“It’s the only way to see what they’re made of.”
“And when you find out?”
“It’s usually, disappointment.”
His words were just straight to the point.
She exhaled slowly. “Maybe you should stop looking for everyone’s worst parts.”
He met her eyes then, and something shifted in the air, not softer, not warmer, but more dangerous. “Maybe I already did.”
The words hung there between them, half a threat, half conclusion.
She looked away. “You should finish your meal.”
“I will. When you tell me about your brother,Liam.”
Her chest tightened. “What did you just say?”
“Your brother,” Dante said quietly. “He died, didn’t he?”
The sound of her name seemed to vanish from the room.
For a second, she couldn’t breathe. “How do you know that?”
He didn’t answer right away. He just studied her, like she was a puzzle he’d already solved. “You flinch every time someone mentions family. It wasn’t hard to guess.”
“That’s not guessing,” she said, voice low. “That’s intrusion.”
“I call it observation.”
“I call it cruelty.”
His jaw tensed. “You think you’re the only one who’s lost someone?”
“I think you use your pain as an excuse to hurt everyone else.”
Something flickered in his eyes, she swore she saw pain, maybe, or fury. He pushed the plate away. “You can go.”
“I’m not finished.”
“Neither am I,” he said sharply. “But I don’t owe you my therapy outside of your paid hours.”
She stood abruptly. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re predictable.”
That one landed. Her pulse jumped, a flush rising to her throat.
“Enjoy your dinner,” she said, voice shaking with effort.
She left before he could see how much he’d gotten to her.
Her room felt colder than usual. She sat on the bed, staring at her hands. They were trembling again.
She hadn’t talked about her brother in years. Not even to herself. It was a wound that had never quite scarred deeply and quietly.
And now this man, this stranger had reached into the dark and dragged it into the light like he owned it or knew about it.
She wanted to hate him. Truly hate him.
But beneath the fury was fear. Not of him, but of what he knew about her and her brother.
Because how could he know that name at all?
She hadn’t told anyone. Not even on the forms she’d signed.
She sat there, heart pounding, the weight of silence pressing down. Then, faintly, she heard Dante's voice down the hall.
He was on the phone again. The low murmur carried through the walls. She stood up, moving quietly to the door, not sure why she was listening.
His tone was different this time. Like he was being careful with his words and tone.
“No, she doesn’t remember him,” he said.
There was a pause.
Then,he spoke again, his tone was softer and almost sounded relieved.“Good.”
The line went dead a few seconds later.
Sienna didn’t move. She just stood there, fingers curled tight against the doorframe, pulse thudding in her throat.
She doesn’t remember him.
The words looped, again and again, until they didn’t sound like words anymore, just a warning she didn’t understand.
Who was he? Who had she forgotten?
And why did Dante Varon sound like he was glad she had? Was he even referring to her?