Chapter 24 The gift
The morning air at the villa was still, heavy with salt and the faint echo of waves below the cliffs. Sienna stepped into the hallway carrying Dante’s therapy files, her mind already rehearsing the day ahead with mobility work, balance training, maybe a short walk on the terrace if he was in the mood. She needed him to cooperate. That was all that mattered, but she doubted that would ever happen especially after what happened the previous day.
She didn’t expect to see Luca again, since he left before dinner.
But there he was leaning against the marble pillar by the front door, dressed in the same careless elegance that made him look like he’d been born for sunlight. In his hands, a bouquet of wild lilies and a slim box wrapped in gold paper.
“Good morning, Doctor Hale,” he said with that easy grin. “I hope you’re not allergic to flowers or gratitude.”
Sienna blinked. “Luca. I didn’t know you were coming back.”
“I could say the same about you staying,” he replied, offering her the bouquet. “For someone who swore she’d last a week with my brother, you’re proving quite the survivor.”
She hesitated, glancing toward the hallway that led to Dante’s study. “You shouldn’t.”
“It’s just a thank you,” Luca said, pushing the bouquet gently into her hands. “And these.” He held out the box. “Imported from Zurich. My peace offering for whatever Dante’s put you through since you arrived here.”
Sienna shook her head. “That’s not necessary.”
“Necessary?” He tilted his head, pretending to think. “Maybe not. But polite.”
His charm was effortless and disarming. It made her feel off balance like she’d forgotten how to respond to kindness that didn’t come with rules attached.
She tried to give the gifts back, but he lifted his hand in mock surrender. “If you refuse, I’ll be forced to eat the chocolates myself. That would be tragic.”
“Fine,” she sighed, smiling despite herself. “But only because I don’t want to be responsible for that tragedy.”
“Ah, she smiles,” Luca said softly, as if the sound meant something. “Miracles do happen.”
When she carried the flowers into the main sitting room, Dante was already there in his wheelchair near the terrace doors, sunlight washing over him like a spotlight he didn’t want. He looked up briefly, then back at the open book in his lap.
“Morning,” she said carefully.
He nodded once. His eyes slid to the bouquet. “Busy morning?”
“They’re from your brother,” she said, setting them down on the low table. “He dropped them off just now.”
“Of course he did.” His tone was flat. “He’s always had excellent timing.”
Sienna waited for more, but there was nothing. Just the sound of pages turning and the faint crash of the sea outside.
She wanted to tell him the gifts meant nothing, that it was only politeness, nothing more but she knew it wouldn’t matter. He wouldn’t believe her, and she didn’t owe him an explanation anyway.
Still, the silence pressed at her ribs.
Their session that morning was painfully quiet. Dante followed every instruction without comment, but the rhythm between them was gone. Every touch of her hand on his shoulder felt like trespassing. Every word she said fell into the space between them and disappeared.
“Flex the knee,” she said softly.
He obeyed.
“Good. Now hold.”
He held.
Her voice caught when she added, “You’re improving.”
He didn’t answer.
She swallowed, trying to focus on the movement instead of the hollow feeling spreading through her chest. She’d been through difficult patients before arrogant ones, broken ones, angry ones. But this was different. This silence wasn’t just resistance. It was her punishment.
After the session, she found herself wandering into the kitchen, needing air, needing distance. She searched for the chocolate box, meaning to share it with the staff, but no one was around. The villa was quiet again.
By the time she returned to Dante’s room, the flowers were gone.
Her stomach sank. “Where are..”
He was on the terrace, his back to her, the wind tugging at his shirt. The bouquet lay in a trash bin beside him, the petals crushed, stems broken. The chocolate box sat on the railing, torn open, pieces scattered across the tiles like discarded evidence.
“What happened?” she asked carefully.
He didn’t turn around. “They smelled too sweet.”
“That’s not”
“Too sweet,” he repeated. “Fake. Like everything my brother touches.”
Sienna crossed her arms. “You didn’t have to destroy them.”
He gave a small, humorless laugh. “It’s my house. My trash.”
“You're insecure too?” The words slipped out before she could stop them.
His head jerked slightly not enough to face her, but enough to know she’d hit something raw. For a moment, neither spoke. The wind filled the silence, carrying the sharp scent of salt, chocolate and broken flowers.
Finally, he said. “He does this, you know. Every time. He finds something I might care about and tries to take it.”
Her throat tightened. “I’m not something.”
“No,” he said, still not turning. “You’re someone who doesn’t see it yet.”
She stepped closer, anger and confusion swirling together. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He turned his chair halfway toward her. His eyes were dark, unreadable. “You think you’re helping me, fixing me. But you don’t realize what you’re standing in the middle of.”
“And what’s that?”
He looked past her then, as if seeing something she couldn’t. “A war that started long before you got here.”
For a long moment, Sienna didn’t move. She wanted to tell him he was wrong, that this wasn’t a war, that she didn’t belong in whatever bitterness lived between him and his brother. But some part of her knew that he wasn’t entirely wrong. She had stepped into something complicated. She just didn’t understand it yet.
“I didn’t ask for his attention,” she said quietly.
“You didn’t have to,” Dante murmured. “You smiled, you laughed at his jokes. That’s all it takes.”
She took a slow breath, holding onto the last of her patience. “You’re being unfair.”
“Maybe.” He turned fully toward her now, his gaze pinning her in place. “Or maybe I’m the only one not pretending.”
“Pretending, about what?”
“That this doesn’t matter.”
Her heart gave a strange, painful thud. For a moment, the air between them felt charged not just with anger, but something that felt dangerously close to hurt. He was hurt. She too, maybe.
She shook her head, breaking eye contact. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Maybe that’s why you’re still here.”
That stopped her. She looked at him again, searching his face for some trace of the man she thought she understood, the one who hid his pain behind arrogance, and not jealousy.
But this wasn’t arrogance. It was something far more human, it was fear. The kind that came from wanting something you shouldn’t.
“Dante.”
He cut her off with a small movement of his hand, as if waving the thought away. “Forget it.”
“I won’t,” she said softly.
He gave a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You will.”
Later that evening, she walked past his study on her way to her room. The door was half open. Inside, Dante sat at his desk, staring at the broken box of chocolates. He reached for it, turned it over in his hands once, then dropped it back into the bin.
Something inside her wanted to go in, to ask why he was doing this to himself, to her but she stayed where she was. He wouldn’t let her in, not yet.
The next time she saw him, it was hours later, on the terrace again. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t speak. He just stared at the dark horizon, the sea folding over itself endlessly.
When she finally gathered the courage to ask. “Why did you do it?”
“You seem to enjoy being noticed,” he said without looking at her. “So consider it that I've just noticed you.”