Chapter 21 The name
Sienna didn’t mention the letter. Not that night, not the next morning, not ever.
But the name Isabelle stayed lodged somewhere between her ribs. It came back in odd moments, when she handed him his medication, when she heard him moving in the hallway, when she caught the faint trace of cologne on his shirt that wasn’t hers to notice.
Every time, she told herself it meant nothing. He had a past.So did she.
They had simply never collided until now.
One evening, the villa felt quieter than usual. The storm that had rolled in off the coast hours earlier still lingered, low thunder rumbling like a heartbeat behind the sea. The wind rattled the glass panes. Somewhere downstairs, the old clock ticked loudly.
Dante hadn’t come down for dinner. That wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was the fact that she hadn’t checked on him yet.
She’d told herself she wouldn’t that his moods weren’t her problem outside of therapy hours. That if he wanted to lock himself away with whatever demons haunted him, fine.
But around midnight, when she passed his study and caught the faint smell of whiskey, she stopped.
The door was half open. The light inside was dim. Dante sat near the window, one hand resting on his wheelchair’s armrest, the other clutching a glass half full of amber liquid. His phone lay face-up on the desk, the screen still glowing.
He was staring at it, he was not reading, not scrolling. He was just staring. His expression was hard, hollow, the kind of look that made her stomach tighten even before he spoke.
“Don’t call me,” he muttered, his voice low and sharp. “I said don’t”
He cut himself off when he realized she was there.
The silence stretched. Only the rain filled it.
Sienna hesitated. “I didn’t mean to”
“Don’t,” he said flatly. “Don’t start.”
She stayed by the door. “You haven’t eaten all day.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“That’s not the point.”
He turned his head then slowly, like it took effort and fixed her with that look that had once terrified her, before she learned how to stand still in front of it.
“You think you can fix everything, don’t you?” His voice was low. “That’s what people like you do. You walk in with your charts and your calm tone and your goddamn empathy and you think the world bends to effort.”
She didn’t flinch. “No. I think effort is all we have.”
He laughed. “Then you’ve clearly never lost something you can’t buy back.”
The words hit her harder than they should have. She wanted to answer, but the fight wasn’t worth it. Not when he looked like this, his jaw was tight, eyes bloodshot, a man who’d already used all his strength just to sit upright.
So instead, she stepped closer, took the glass from his hand, and set it down on the desk.
He didn’t stop her. He didn’t thank her either.
“You shouldn’t drink while you’re on medication,” she said quietly.
“I shouldn’t do a lot of things,” he murmured, eyes distant.
She wanted to ask what was on the phone. Who he’d been talking to? And why he looked like someone had peeled back every layer of him and left the core exposed.
But she didn’t.Because she already knew the answer.Or at least, she knew the name.
Isabelle? The one who wrote him letters.
The one he couldn’t stop calling.
When she turned to leave, he spoke again.
“She’s not what you think,” he said, voice slurred but sharp enough to cut through the air.
Sienna froze. “I didn’t ask.”
“No,” he said. “But you read the letter.”
Her stomach dropped. For a second, all she could hear was the sound of rain hitting the windows.
“I…” she stammered
“It’s fine,” he said before she could lie. “You wanted to know what kind of man I am. Now you do.”
Her throat tightened. “You think that letter defines you?”
He leaned back, his eyes half-lidded, the faintest curve of a smirk ghosting across his face. “No. But it defines what I’ve lost.”
“Maybe stop chasing ghosts,” she said quietly.
He turned away. “Maybe stop pretending you don’t have your own.”
The words sank in deeply.
She didn’t answer. She simply left the room, shutting the door harder than she meant to. The sound echoed through the hall like something breaking that neither of them would name.
That night, she couldn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she heard his voice that low, bitter rasp, asking questions she didn’t want to answer.
You think you can fix everything, don’t you?Maybe she did. Maybe fixing others was easier than fixing herself.
She lay awake until the rain stopped, watching the ceiling fade from shadow to the first pale wash of dawn.
Somewhere below, she heard movement, the scrape of a chair, the faint clink of glass. She sat up, pulse quickening.
By the time she made it downstairs, the air smelled faintly of smoke.
Dante was outside on the terrace, still in his nightshirt, a blanket draped over his legs. The wind off the sea caught his hair, his jaw dark with stubble. He looked like someone who hadn’t slept in weeks which was probably true.
He was staring into the small outdoor fireplace, a faint orange glow flickering inside. A paper burned there, curling into ash.
“Dante”
He didn’t look at her. “It’s fine. Go back inside.”
“What are you burning?”
He let out a short laugh. “Something that shouldn’t have survived the night.”
She took a few steps closer, feeling the warmth of the fire on her face. The smell of singed paper hung heavy in the damp morning air. She could just make out a corner of handwriting before the flame ate through it completely.
Her chest tightened. “The letter.”
He didn’t deny it.
“Why?” she asked softly.
He turned his head then, eyes meeting hers raw, empty, resigned. “Because sometimes the only way to stop remembering is to destroy proof that it mattered.”
She swallowed hard. “That’s not how it works.”
“No,” he said. “But it’s a start.”
The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was full of all the things neither of them were saying, questions too dangerous to ask, truths neither was ready to face.
Finally, she said, “You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”
He gave a small, tired smile. “What makes you think I haven’t already done worse?”
And then he looked back at the fire, at the last shred of paper turning black and crumbling to dust. His hand twitched, like he wanted to reach for it, but he didn’t.
When she turned to go back inside, she caught her reflection in the glass door. She looked pale, tired, eyes rimmed with something too close to pity. She hated that look on herself.
He’s your patient, she reminded herself. That’s all.
But as she glanced back one last time at the man who burned his ghosts or past just to keep breathing she wasn’t sure she believed it anymore.
The last ember died, the smoke twisting into the cold dawn. Dante’s hand hovered above the ashes, trembling not from pain, but from restraint. Under his breath, barely audible, he whispered. “She’s gone… and I’m still here.
And Sienna, standing in the doorway, realized she wasn’t sure which one of them he was talking about.