Chapter 8 Breakfast war
“Your eggs are overcooked.”
Sienna blinked, still halfway through pouring her coffee. “Good morning to you too,” she said, keeping her tone flat.
Dante sat at the end of the massive oak table, his wheelchair angled away from the sunlight. His plate sat untouched. He lifted a fork, poked at the food once, and frowned. The sound of the metal against porcelain was soft but sharp enough to sting her nerves.
“They’re rubbery,” he said finally. “You boiled the soul out of them.”
She set the coffee pot down and exhaled through her nose. “They’re exactly the way you requested yesterday. Three minutes on the stove, no butter, no cream, soft toast, half-cut.”
“Then you clearly didn’t listen,” he said, tone was smooth and dismissive.
Sienna folded her arms. “I’m beginning to think you don’t actually want breakfast.”
“Wrong,” Dante replied without looking at her. “I just want something edible.”
Her patience wavered. “You could always make them yourself.”
That got his attention. His gaze lifted slowly, those ice-blue eyes narrowing. “You’re here to assist,” he said. “So assist.”
Sienna’s jaw tightened. Don’t rise to it, she told herself. He feeds on conflict. Don’t give him the satisfaction.
Still, her hands itched. “Fine,” she said, gathering the plate. “What will it be this time?”
“Poached,” he said.
“They were poached yesterday.”
“Then scrambled.”
“You said scrambled gives you nausea.”
“Then boiled.” A faint, mocking smile played on his mouth. “Maybe you’ll manage not to ruin the water.”
She turned away before he could see her roll her eyes. The kitchen was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and the hiss of the stove. She cracked the eggs into boiling water. She’d worked with trauma patients, athletes who screamed and threw things in pain. But somehow, Dante Varon,one man, one ruined leg, and an ego larger than his villa had managed to make all of them look saintly.
She plated the eggs, toast, and fruit carefully, wiped the edge of the plate clean, and carried it out like ammunition.
Dante examined the meal as if it were a failed experiment. He took one bite, then another, then set the fork down.
“It’s too bland,” he said.
Her laugh came out brittle. “You banned salt.”
“I also banned incompetence.”
She tilted her head. “Then maybe stop giving me conflicting instructions.”
“Or maybe,” he said, leaning back, “learn to anticipate.”
Sienna felt something inside her snap, a quiet, invisible thing that she had held since day one. “Anticipate?” she echoed. “You want a mind reader, not a doctor.”
His mouth twitched. “Finally, you understand your limits.”
She stared at him, half in disbelief, half in fury. He’s baiting her, she thought. He’s doing it on purpose. But she couldn’t stop the words. “You’ve fired three chefs, one assistant, and two cleaners in less than four months. Maybe the problem isn’t breakfast.”
Dante’s smile didn’t fade, but something in his eyes did. The taunt hit somewhere deep. For a fleeting moment, she saw a man cracking under his own armor. But then, with a blink, it was gone.
“You’re getting bold,” he murmured.
“I’m getting tired.”
“Then leave.”
“I can’t,” she said, crossing her arms. “Your contract doesn’t allow it.”
The quietness that followed was suffocating. The sea murmured faintly beyond the windows. Dante’s hand tightened around his fork, knuckles white. Then, very deliberately, he pushed the plate away.
“Make it again,” he said.
Her eyes widened. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”
By the time she brought out the third plate, her patience had evaporated entirely. She set it down harder than necessary, the fork clinking against the edge.
“Your majesty’s meal,” she said dryly.
He ignored the jab, slicing into the eggs with infuriating calm. “You’re learning sarcasm,” he said. “You’re making progress.”
“Progress would be you finishing one meal without a complaint.”
He took a bite, chewed, swallowed. “The yolk’s uneven.”
Sienna exhaled. “You are impossible.”
He gave her a faint, deliberate smile. “You should have realized that before signing your contract.”
She leaned on the table, meeting his gaze head-on. “And yet here I am.”
For a second, neither looked away. His expression shifted from irritation giving way to something more complicated. Curiosity, maybe. Or challenge. Then he looked down again.
“Eat your breakfast, Doctor,” he said. “Before you hurt yourself on your pride.”
Her lips pressed together. “Therapy starts in twenty minutes.”
“I won’t be joining.”
“You will.”
“I won’t.”
Sienna straightened, holding his stare. “You can sit here all day, Dante. But the longer you stay angry, the harder it’ll be to walk again.”
He gave a sharp, mirthless laugh. “You think that scares me? I’ve already lost everything that matters.”
Her stomach tightened. There it is again, she thought. The edge beneath the arrogance. She didn’t respond. She just gathered the plates and walked out, her heart thudding harder than it should have.
Therapy was worse.
He didn’t refuse outright this time he just made her regret insisting.
Dante positioned himself in the middle of the training room, every motion was done mechanically, every command ignored. Sienna tried patience first, then firmness, then silence. None worked.
“Straighten your spine,” she said.
He slouched further.
“Put weight on your left leg.”
He let it buckle.
“Again,” she said.
“Why?” he shot back.
“Because it’s recovery.”
“No,” he said, eyes dark. “It’s humiliating.”
Her jaw clenched. “You think pain makes you weak. It doesn’t.”
He met her gaze, breathing hard. “Pain makes me aware.”
She stepped closer, voice low. “And what are you aware of right now?”
He hesitated. His hand flexed on the side rail. “That you don’t quit easily.”
“It’s called occupational hazard.”
Their eyes met, the air was thick between them. Then, suddenly, he shifted his weight, forcing his good leg to take more strain than it could. The move was deliberate and reckless.
“Dante, stop,” she warned.
He didn’t. He straightened halfway, face twisted with effort. Sweat slid down his temple. Then, just as quickly, his knee gave out. The sound of the metal crutch hitting the floor rang through the room.
Sienna lunged forward. He hit the mat with a sharp grunt, his breath catching.
For a heartbeat, neither spoke. Then he cursed under his breath, low and ragged. “Don’t touch me.”
She ignored him, crouching beside him. “You could’ve dislocated something..”
“I said don’t..”
“Grow up, Dante.”
The words came out sharper than she meant. Her hands slid beneath his arm, steadying him. His muscles were tense, trembling from the shock.
“I warned you,” she muttered. “You think you’re proving a point, but all you’re doing is hurting yourself.”
He tried to push her away, but his strength faltered. “I don’t need your help.”
“Yes, you do,” she said quietly.
His breath hitched not from pain this time, but something else. For a moment, he just stared at her. And in his eyes, she saw the thing he never said, the truth beneath all the cruelty.
He was terrified.
She swallowed hard, fighting the sudden wave of pity. “You can’t do this alone, Dante. No one can.”
His jaw clenched, eyes glassy but defiant. “You think I haven’t tried?”
“I think you keep trying the wrong way.”
Her words hung in the air. For a second, he looked like he might break like the truth might finally slip through. But then, just as quickly, he turned his face away.
“Get me up,” he said. His voice was hoarse, and quieter now.
She nodded, looping her arm beneath his shoulders. The effort was heavy, awkward, his weight pressing against her, her breath was uneven. His fingers brushed her wrist, tightening briefly, more reflex than choice.
When he was finally seated back in the chair, he stayed silent. His chest rose and fell in slow, controlled breaths. Sienna crouched in front of him, watching for signs of pain.
“You okay?” she asked.
No response.
“Dante.”
He looked down at her, not angry, not cruel. Just a look of confusion.
“I used to fly,” he said finally, voice raw. “Now I can’t even stand.”
The words cut through her like a blade.
He didn’t mean planes. He meant motion, freedom, and control.
Sienna opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came out. What comfort could she possibly offer to a man who believed his entire identity had died on the road that day?
He looked away first, his tone flattening again, as if ashamed of what he’d said. “That’ll be all for today, Doctor.”
Sienna rose slowly, brushing off her palms. “Same time tomorrow?”
He gave a humorless smile. “If you insist.”
She didn’t reply. She turned and walked out, forcing her steps to stay steady. But the words lingered behind her that confession of loss, it was so fragile it barely felt real.
That night, she sat awake in her room, staring at the villa’s security lights flickering along the cliffs. The air outside was heavy with salt and sea mist. Somewhere down the hall, she thought she heard his chair move the faint, rhythmic squeak of wheels turning in the dark.
She wondered if he slept at all.
“I used to fly.” The words echoed in her mind like a warning and a promise.
And for the first time, Sienna realized she wasn’t sure who was more trapped, the man in the chair, or the woman who refused to walk away.