Chapter 45 The morning after
The morning light crept through the cracks of the shutters, brushing against Sienna’s face. For a moment, she didn’t remember where she was, only the sound of the sea, the faint scent of rain, and the warmth that lingered in her chest.
Then it came back, she recalled the storm, the darkness and their little intimate game.
Her breath caught.
Across the room, Dante was awake, sitting near the window with a blanket over his shoulders. His hair was damp and messy from the night before. He looked out at the ocean like it held all the answers he didn’t want to give.
When he turned, their eyes met just for a second and everything that had happened between them pressed against the silence.
Neither spoke.
Sienna pushed herself up, the floor cool beneath her feet. “The power’s still out.”
He nodded. “I’ll check the generator.”
She almost said don’t, but stopped herself. The man who’d once needed her to move was already halfway to standing. He reached for the edge of the table, steadying himself.
And then, he rose up slowly and carefully. Without the help of his cane or wheelchair.
Just him.
Sienna froze, her mouth falling open.
He took one step. Then another. His left leg trembled slightly, but he kept going across the small space between them, breath sharp with effort.
When he reached her, she laughed, a sound that filled the tiny guesthouse, bright and trembling with disbelief.
“You’re doing it,” she whispered. “Dante, you’re… you’re walking.”
He smiled not his usual half-smirk, not the bitter curve she’d come to expect, but something rare. Something genuine and soft. “Maybe I just needed the right reason.”
Sienna felt heat rise to her cheeks. She tried to look away but couldn’t.
“Sit before you fall,” she said, voice barely steady.
He sat, still smiling. “You don’t think I can handle a few steps?”
“Not when you look like you fought a war.”
“Maybe I did.” His eyes softened. “Maybe I won.”
They found breakfast in the small kitchen, half loaf of bread, a few eggs, and instant coffee. The generator hummed weakly to life after Dante fussed with it. The lights flickered back on.
Sienna cooked while he sat nearby, watching.
“I didn’t know you could cook,” he said, amusement in his tone.
“I can survive.” She glanced back at him. “That’s what med school teaches you.” She knew he was teasing her.
He chuckled. “That and how to tell people they’re dying.”
She rolled her eyes. “And how to stop people from being idiots.”
He grinned, leaning back. “So you’re saying I’m one of your more difficult cases?”
She didn’t answer, just handed him a plate. Their fingers brushed.
The touch lingered quick but electric.
They ate near the window, and the sea was calm again. The storm had left behind a fragile kind of peace.
For a while, neither said much. It was comfortable silence, the kind that feels earned.
Then Dante asked quietly, “Why physiotherapy? Of all things?”
Sienna looked down at her coffee. “Because I liked the idea of helping people move again. When you lose something like movement, control, freedom it changes everything. And I… I know what that feels like.”
He watched her closely. “You’re talking about your father and brother.”
She nodded. “After they died, I couldn’t move for weeks. Not physically, I just stopped. People think grief is heavy, but it’s not. It’s hollow. Like you’re floating and sinking at the same time.”
Her voice trembled, but she smiled faintly. “So I help people learn how to move again. Maybe it’s my way of learning too.”
Dante’s expression softened. “You do more than help people move, Sienna. You make them want to.”
She looked up, startled. He said it so simply, like he didn’t realize it was the kindest thing anyone had ever said to her.
She swallowed hard. “And you? Why racing?”
He hesitated. “Because I was good at it.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He smiled, almost shyly. “Maybe because it was the only place I felt in control. The car, the speed, it was the one thing that was mine. My father had his company, his legacy. I just wanted the road or mine.”
Sienna tilted her head. “And now?”
He looked at her for a long time before saying, “Now I want something that doesn’t disappear when I stop moving.”
Her heart stuttered.
For a second, she didn’t know what to say. So she said nothing, she just smiled faintly and stood up to clear the dishes.
The quiet between them wasn’t awkward anymore. It was something else, delicate, unspoken, full of what they were both too afraid to name.
Sienna dried her hands on a towel and turned to find him watching her.
“Why do you do that?” she asked softly.
“What?”
“Push people away when they care.”
He leaned back, eyes unreadable. “Because people leave. And it hurts less when I’m the one who ends it.”
Sienna’s chest tightened. “That’s not living, Dante. That’s surviving.”
“Maybe that’s all I was ever meant to do.”
She shook her head. “You’re wrong.”
“Then what am I meant for?”
Her voice was quiet, but certain. “To prove to yourself that you can still be more than what happened to you.”
For the first time, he didn’t look away. “You really believe that?”
“Yes,” she said. “Because you already are.”
They left the guesthouse later that evening. The air smelled of salt and wet earth. The road wound back toward the city, back toward reality.
The reality neither wanted to go back.
But when they reached the villa gates, a line of cars waited, cars of journalists, photographers with flashing lights.
Dante’s hands tightened on the wheel. “She did this.”
Sienna didn’t need to ask who. He quickly drove off using the back entrance.
Inside the villa, the silence was suffocating. Every screen, every phone, every sound seemed louder.
Sienna walked into the living room and froze.
The TV was on.
Her own face filled the screen, a picture of her at breakfast that morning, standing close to Dante, smiling.
The headline across the bottom read.
“Therapist or lover? Dante Varon’s secret affair exposed.”
Her heart dropped.
The photo was taken through the guesthouse window. Someone had been there, watching them.
Her hands shook. “Dante…”
He stared at the screen, his face pale, fury flickering just beneath the surface. “She was there. Isabelle.”
Sienna could barely breathe. “How did she do it?”
He turned toward her, his voice rough. “Because she doesn’t lose. Not until she’s destroyed everything I touch.”
Sienna pressed her hand to her chest. Her pulse was racing. Fear and shame tangled inside her, sharp and breathless.
The photo changed to another shot. His hand on hers, she laughed and he smiled.
Their private moments were stolen and turned into scandals.
Outside, the cameras were already waiting.
And somewhere, Sienna imagined Isabelle watching with a glass of wine in hand, that perfect cruel smile curving her lips.