Chapter 64 After the Gala
They walked toward the exit, the crowd parting like water. Flashbulbs exploded around them. Sienna ducked her head, hiding her face against Dante’s shoulder. Her heart thudded in her chest like it was trying to escape.
She heard whispers trail after them:
“Poor thing.”
“She asked for it.”
“He’ll regret this.”
Each one felt like another bruise she couldn’t see.
Dante didn’t look back. His jaw stayed locked, his grip steady but trembling. He guided her out into the night away from the gold and the glass and the eyes that devoured their pain like entertainment.
Outside, the night was cold. The sky stretched wide and empty above them. Sienna shivered. Dante pulled her closer, his hand pressing gently against her back.
“I should’ve never brought you here,” he said softly. His voice cracked on the last word.
Sienna lifted her head, her eyes glistening. “I told,” she whispered. “I knew this would happen.”
The car ride was silent. Not the calm kind, but the kind that pressed on the chest, heavy and tight.
Rain beat against the windshield, steady and hard, like cruel applause from ghosts who had watched it all. The wipers moved in rhythm, but nothing cleared the tension sitting between them.
Dante kept his eyes on the road. The lights of Monaco flickered past gold and cold, each reflection slicing across Sienna’s face. Her eyes stayed on the window, watching the city smear into color. She didn’t cry. She didn’t speak.
He wanted to reach for her hand. To say something. Anything. But the words stuck. Every sentence felt like it would make it worse. He could still hear Isabelle’s voice soft and poisonous ringing in his head.
His knuckles tightened around the steering wheel until they turned white. “You did this, his mind whispered. “You wanted to show her off. To prove something. And you hurt her instead.”
Sienna shifted slightly, pulling her hand away from where it rested near his. The movement was small but sharp. It told him everything.
He exhaled slowly. “Sienna.”
“Please,” she said quietly. “Not tonight.”
Her tone wasn’t angry. It was tired, the kind of tiredness that came from trying too hard and for long.
He nodded once and said nothing more.
By the time they reached the villa, the rain had softened. The driveway glistened under the dim lights. Sienna unbuckled her seatbelt, opened the door, and stepped out without waiting for him.
He called her name once. She didn’t turn around.
She walked inside, her gown brushing against the marble floor, her hair damp from the rain. Dante stayed behind, sitting in the driver’s seat, listening to the soft tick of the engine cooling.
The smell of her perfume still lingered in the car. It made his chest ache.
He leaned back, closing his eyes. The image of her face, the way she had looked at him in the ballroom played over and over again. That hurt more than anger ever could.
He had wanted to show the world she was his peace. Instead, he had dragged her into its chaos.
Hours passed.
Then the rain stopped. The house was dark. Sienna’s door stayed closed.
Dante sat alone in the living room, elbows on his knees, head bowed. He hadn’t taken off his suit. His tie hung loose around his neck. The silence in the villa felt alive like it was listening.
He thought of every time she’d laughed beside him. Every time she’d said it’s okay when it wasn’t. And now, for the first time, she hadn’t said it.
He leaned forward, pressing a hand over his eyes. His throat burned.
He whispered quietly, “I hurt her.”
It wasn’t a confession. It was a truth he couldn’t escape.
He didn’t know how to make it right. Not with words. Not with apologies that sounded hollow after what she’d endured.
But he knew one thing,and he couldn’t let that silence stay between them.
The next morning, the villa smelled faintly of rain and marble polish.
Dante stood in the kitchen, eyes half-open, hair a mess, holding a frying pan like a soldier holding a shield. There were eggs on the counter, bread, a jar of jam he didn’t remember buying.
He didn’t know what he was doing. He had never cooked for anyone before. But he had to do something.
Maybe a meal could say what his mouth couldn’t. I’m sorry. I was wrong. You didn’t deserve that.
The oil sizzled. The sound filled the kitchen, small and hopeful. He burned the first egg. Then, he tried again.
He thought about the night, the flash of cameras, Isabelle’s cruel smile, Sienna’s trembling hands. He thought about how she had followed him out, even when she could’ve walked away.
He couldn’t lose her. Not now.
The smell hit her first, it was sharp, smoky, and confusingly sweet.
Sienna stirred awake, the faint sting of something burnt creeping into her nose. She blinked, disoriented, her mind still thick with sleep. “Please don’t tell me the house is on fire,” she thought groggily, rubbing her eyes.
Then came the sound, a soft clatter, a hiss, and a very human curse.
Her stomach tightened. “Oh no. Dante.”
She pushed the blanket aside and slipped her feet into her slippers, padding toward the kitchen. The closer she got, the stronger the scent, something between burnt toast, overcooked eggs, and smoke from a pan that had seen better days.
When she reached the doorway, she stopped short and blinked.
There he was. Dante Varon.
The once flawless, composed, too proud man who usually had chefs to serve him meals was standing in his kitchen barefoot, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his hair a wild mess of dark curls, and an expression of fierce concentration on his face.
He was holding a spatula like a weapon.
And the poor pancakes on the pan were losing the battle.
The first one was half raw, half black. Another had landed upside down on the counter. And the floor, she swallowed a laugh, looked like a war zone of flour and batter.
He didn’t see her at first. He muttered something under his breath, then poked the pancake like it might attack him.
That was it.
She couldn’t help it. A small laugh slipped out before she could stop it.
He froze.
Slowly, he turned around, spatula still in hand, eyebrows raised in mock offense.
“Did you just laugh?”
Sienna pressed her lips together, trying and failing to look serious. “You’re actually burning the unburnable.”
Dante looked at the pan, then back at her, feigning innocence. “It’s not my fault. This pan is crooked.”
She laughed again, this time louder. “Crooked? It’s perfectly fine, Dante. You’re just.”
“Artistically challenged?” he offered, one brow lifting.
Her laughter came out in a quick burst. “Exactly that.”
He sighed dramatically, dropping the spatula onto the counter. “In my defense, I was trying to surprise you. Apparently, the universe didn’t approve.”
Sienna stepped closer, her smile softening. She could see the tiny streaks of flour on his cheek, the smudge on his forearm. He looked human. Not the man on magazine covers or behind cold marble walls, just a man trying too hard to make things right.
“Dante,” she said quietly, “you don’t have to do this.”
“I do,” he replied, meeting her gaze. “I messed up last night. I brought you there. I didn’t protect you the way I should’ve. The least I can do is make you breakfast.”
Her heart twisted at his tone carefully.
She walked to the stove and peeked at the half-cooked pancake, then picked up a fork. “Then let me be the judge.”
He stepped back, watching as she took a tiny bite. She chewed slowly, her face blank.
“Well?” he asked, anxious. “Is it that bad?”
Sienna swallowed and gave a small nod. “Half-cooked but edible. Kind of.”
Dante groaned. “Great. I can add failed chef to my list of talents.”
But when she laughed his shoulders eased. It was the first real sound of happiness that had filled the villa since the gala.
Her laughter faded softly as she leaned against the counter. “You didn’t have to go through all this trouble. You just had to talk to me.”
He looked down at the messy pan, then at her. “I didn’t know what to say. Every word in my head sounded wrong.” Then, quietly, “You looked at me like you were done and I couldn’t stand that.”
Sienna’s chest tightened. “I wasn’t done, Dante. I was just hurt.”
He nodded, the silence between them settling into something fragile.
For a moment, neither spoke. The only sound was the soft hum of the stove and the rain starting outside.
Then she said, voice low, “I dreamt about the accident again last night.”
Sienna looked up sharply. “What did you see?”
He hesitated. “I saw flashes, headlights. I heard shouting. Then, my brother’s voice but it felt wrong. Like he wasn’t supposed to be there.”
Her brows furrowed. “Luca?”
She nodded. “You’ve said before that you don’t remember much from that night. Did you hit your head?”