Chapter 70 Cold plates
The days began to blend together, the kind of days where silence says more than words ever could.
Sienna noticed it first in the smallest ways.
The way Dante no longer reached for her hand when they passed each other in the hall. The way he’d look away mid-conversation, as if her voice suddenly became background noise.
It wasn’t anger. It was an absence. And it was spreading slowly.
She told herself he was tired. That was still weighed down by the memories he had tried to remember, the endless questions, the reporters outside who wanted to know more about their relationship. It had shaken him. Anyone would need space after that.
But even space had limits. This felt like a distance he didn’t plan to close.
That morning, she waited for him in the therapy room, the sunlight pooling across the hardwood floor, his stretching mat rolled out neatly.
Her clipboard rested on her lap, filled with notes about his progress, about how well he’d been doing before things changed.
She wanted to remind him of that and to remind herself, too.
Minutes passed. Then an hour.
She stared at the empty mat until her chest ached. He wasn’t coming.
When she went to find him, she found his study door closed. Through the small crack, she could see the glow of his computer screen, his face lit faintly in blue.
He didn’t notice her. Or maybe he did and chose not to.
She didn’t knock. She turned away quietly, pretending it didn’t hurt.
Lunch time came and went.
She made a simple, warm pasta, the way he used to like it.
She brought the tray to his room and knocked softly. “Dante? You should eat something.”
There was no response. She was about to knock again when she heard movement inside the room
“I'm not hungry.” He replied flatly.
Her throat tightened. “You haven’t eaten all day.”
“I said I’m not hungry.”
The sound of typing followed, like someone was typing on a laptop. It was quiet, but it hit her harder than shouting.
She left the tray by the door. When she came back later, it was still there, untouched.
The pasta had gone cold. The steam that once rose from it now curled around nothing.
By the second day, she stopped knocking.
She’d leave his food at the door, just in case. Every plate returned to the kitchen exactly how she’d left it, full, neat and ignored.
That afternoon, she caught a glimpse of him walking down the hall. His posture was straight, distant, his expression unreadable. The same man she’d once held after nightmares, the same man who had professed his love publicly now walking past her like she was air.
Her lips parted to say something, but nothing came. He didn’t even glance at her.
She stood there long after he disappeared, her heart heavy, her fingers still curled around the thought of touching him.
What did I do? she thought. Why does it feel like I lost him without a fight?
By the third day, the villa felt colder than ever. The warmth they’d built, the laughter in the kitchen, quiet dinners by the fire all of it had vanished into some invisible fog she couldn’t chase.
When Sienna walked into the kitchen, she froze.
The counters were lined with paper bags and restaurant containers. Gourmet meals, fancy desserts. Fresh deliveries are still sealed.
Her eyes darted to the man, who was cleaning the counter quietly.
Who are you? She asked, her eyes darting to the paper bags. “Did someone send these?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
The chef hesitated. Then looked down. “Mr. Varon ordered them himself.”
Sienna's eyebrows shot up. “Oh, right.”
She didn’t ask anything else, she didn't ask the chef how he got into the house. She didn't need to, everything made sense to her. Her hands trembled slightly as she turned away.
She tried to smile, but it felt weak like a crack in glass pretending to be smooth.
When the chef left the room, she sat down at the small corner table. The one where she used to wait for Dante after his training.
She ladled some soup into a bowl, the one she’d made that morning for him. It was still warm, the steam rising in thin curls.
But when she took a spoonful, she couldn’t taste it. Her throat tightened, her chest heavy.
Tears slipped down her face, quiet and uninvited. They fell into the soup, rippling the surface until she couldn’t tell what was broth and what was heartbreak.
You’re being foolish, she told herself. He just needs time. But she knew better.
This wasn’t about the time, it was a retreat. He was withdrawing from her slowly.
And she was watching him disappear all over again.
She didn’t know about the envelope.
She didn’t know about the video, the note, or the quiet poison that had already seeped into his trust.
That evening, she found him outside near the balcony, leaning against the railing. The sunset painted him in gold, but his eyes were dark.
She stood at the doorway, unsure.
“Dante,” she said softly. “The air’s getting cold. You should come in.”
He didn’t look at her. “I like the cold.”
She swallowed. “You used to hate it.”
“Maybe I changed.”
The words landed like small stones.
No anger. Just a kind of tired finality.
She moved closer to him,. She wanted to reach out for him, to touch his arm, to pull him back toward warmth. But her hand stayed frozen at her side.
“I made dinner,” she said. “Would you at least sit with me?”
He exhaled slowly. “Not tonight.”
Her heart gave a small, breaking sound she didn’t let reach her lips. She nodded once and walked away before he could see her tears.
Later that night, she lay awake listening to the house breathe. The sound of the sea through the windows. The distant creak of floorboards. The faint echo of typing from his study.
She couldn’t sleep, not with all the questions pounding in her chest.
Why won’t he look at me? What did I do wrong?
He had even promised they'd be the only ones in the villa, but what happened? Why did he employ a chef? Was her cooking terrible?
She tried to remind herself that Dante loved her. That the man who once said she was his peace couldn’t just stop feeling it overnight
But the silence between them was heavy.
Too heavy for love to breathe.
When she couldn’t bear it anymore, she got up and padded down the hallway barefoot. The house was dark except for the sliver of light under his study door.
She hesitated, then pushed it open.
He was there sitting at his desk, the laptop open in front of him. His face was tense, eyes locked on the screen like he was staring at something he couldn’t look away from.
“Dante?” she whispered.
No answer.
She stepped closer. “It’s late. You should rest.”
There was no response.
Her eyes flicked to the screen she could see faint movement reflected on his face, like a video playing. Her heartbeat picked up. “What are you watching?”
Before she could get close enough to see, he slammed the laptop shut.
The sound was sharp, slicing through the quiet room.
Sienna jumped, startled. “Dante.”
He stood up quickly, his chair scraping back. “Don’t,” he said, voice low. “Don’t come in here again.”
Her breath caught. “What..why are you…”
“Just don’t, come in here again” he repeated, eyes hard, his jaw tight.
He brushed past her without looking back, the faint scent of his cologne trailing behind him, the same scent that once comforted her, now feeling like smoke.
She stood there, frozen, the silence closing in again.Her heart pounded, not from fear but from confusion that burned.
She looked at the desk, at the still-warm laptop. Something inside her told her that whatever he’d just hidden it wasn’t about work.