Chapter 30 Never happened
The next morning came wrapped in silence.
Not the usual stillness of the villa, but a heavy, unnatural quietness like the house itself was holding its breath.
Sienna woke up before dawn, her body still remembering the warmth of last night, the soft press of his hand, the hesitation in his breath, the way his voice trembled when he said, “Don’t.”
Her fingers brushed her lips. She told herself it was only a moment, a slip of emotion, a human mistake. But no matter how many times she repeated it, her heart didn’t believe her.
When she finally stepped out of her room, the smell of coffee drifted faintly through the hall. She followed it, half hoping, half dreading to see him.
But the kitchen was empty. Only the faint sound of waves outside and a cup already poured, black coffee and untouched sitting on the counter.
Her chest tightened.
He’d made coffee. For himself? For her? She didn’t know. But he wasn’t there.
She carried her cup to the terrace. The morning was pale and cold, the sea restless. Below, the garden was still damp with dew, the marble paths shining faintly in the weak light. It should have been peaceful. Instead, it felt hollow like the quietness after something breaks.
She sipped slowly, forcing her thoughts into order. It was a kiss, she told herself. Just a little, meaningless kiss. Except it hadn’t felt like just anything. It had felt like a confession neither of them meant to make.
She saw him later that morning.
He was in the gym, already in his chair, already moving through the routine as usual deliberately, mechanical, and cold. His shirt clung to his back, his face unreadable. The only sound was the hum of the treadmill and his labored breathing.
“You started without me,” she said quietly.
“I couldn't wait.” His voice was flat.
“You shouldn’t push that joint without supervision.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not”
“I said I’m fine.”
The words hit harder than they should have. He didn’t even look up. He just kept going, pushing, jaw clenched with sweat dripping down his temple. He looked like a man trying to outrun himself.
“Dante”
“Let’s just work,” he said.
She hesitated. Every instinct in her told her to stop him, to make him rest, to reach for him the way she did last night but that was gone now. He’d built the wall back up overnight.
So she stood back, watching in silence as he pushed through the exercises, every movement too sharp, too fast. The tension in his body wasn’t just physical. It was guilt. And she could feel it, pulsing between them.
After twenty minutes, she said softly, “You’re overstraining.”
He didn’t answer.
“Dante”
He stopped suddenly, the crutch slipping slightly. She rushed forward before he could fall, her hands on his arms, steadying him.
The contact was brief, but enough. His muscles tensed under her touch. He looked up and for a second, their eyes met.
There it was again. That flicker of something he was trying so hard to bury.
She let go first.
“Be careful,” she said quietly.
He nodded once. “You can go. I’ll finish alone.”
Her chest ached. “That’s not how therapy works.”
“It’s how I work,” he said, turning away.
So she did what she swore she wouldn’t. she left.
The rest of the day passed in fragments.
She checked on him twice. Each time, he was somewhere else, on the phone, in his study, always busy, always unavailable.
At dinner, his seat was empty.
The domestic staff had prepared a meal, but she barely touched it. The villa, once so suffocating with sound and tension, now felt worse and empty.
She sat at the table alone, staring at the untouched plate opposite her.
It was ridiculous how much that empty chair could hurt.
Later that night, she found him in the library. He was reading a book, or at least pretending to. A glass of whiskey sat beside the book, untouched. His crutch leaned against the chair, his posture was straight and cold.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” she said.
He didn’t look up. “I’ve been working.”
“You call this working?”
“I call it peace.”
Her voice was quiet. “That’s not what it feels like.”
He sighed, closing the book. “What do you want me to say, Sienna?”
“I want you to stop pretending last night didn’t happen.”
That made him look up.
His eyes were shadowed. “It shouldn’t have happened.”
“But it did.”
“Then forget it.”
Her throat tightened. “You think it’s that simple?”
“It has to be.”
“Why?” she demanded. “Because you’re afraid it meant something?”
“Because it did,” he said sharply. “And that’s exactly why we can’t talk about it.”
The words struck her like cold water.
He looked away, jaw tense. “You’re my therapist, Sienna. I’m your patient. There’s nothing else to say.”
She took a step closer. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Hide behind rules when what you’re really afraid of is feeling something.”
He gave a low, bitter laugh. “You think I’m afraid of feeling? No. I’m afraid of breaking the one person who doesn’t already hate me.”
The air between them grew heavy. She stared at him, heart pounding. “You’re not going to break me.”
“You don’t know that,” he said. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”
“I know you’re human.”
He flinched slightly as if the word itself hurt.
“I’m trying,” he said after a long pause. “To do this right. To get better. But if I keep you too close” He stopped, swallowing hard. “You’ll just be another thing I destroy.”
Her voice was a whisper. “Maybe I’m not as breakable as you think.”
He looked up then, really looked at her. For a second, she thought he might say something, just anything to close the space between them again. But then he leaned back, his expression hardening.
“You should go,” he said quietly.
“Dante”
“Please.”
It wasn’t anger this time. It was desperation.And that, somehow, hurt more.
She left before her voice could betray her.
Back in her room, she sat on the edge of her bed, hands clasped tightly in her lap.
Her chest felt too small for everything inside it with confusion, guilt and longing. She thought of the way he’d looked when he said “You’ll just be another thing I destroy.” It wasn’t cruelty. It was fear.
And somehow, that fear made her ache for him even more.
She lay back, staring at the ceiling. The house creaked softly around her, the sound of an old place breathing through its loneliness.
Through the wall, faintly, she thought she heard him moving. The scrape of his chair. The distant click of a door closing.
She imagined him sitting in the dark somewhere, whiskey untouched, the same melody from the night before haunting his mind.
And she couldn’t stop the thought that slipped quietly, painfully through her mind.
What if he’s not avoiding her because he regrets it? What if he’s avoiding her because it meant too much?