Chapter 57
“The fever is far too high. I’ve administered a strong dose of antipyretics for now, but if it continues like this, dehydration may set in. In that case, you must wake the patient and force her to drink water.”
With a heavy sigh, Florian’s physician rose from his seat. He gathered his medical bag, then hesitated. His gaze lingered on Dante, still drenched in his soaked suit.
“The patient seems unusually frail. Please, do whatever you can to keep her from overexerting herself.”
He left it at that. Speaking only what needed to be said, the physician followed Callis’s lead and departed the room.
Silence fell once more.
Only two remained. Dante lowered his gaze to Riena, watching the shallow rise and fall of her chest.
Even with her breathing before his eyes, it felt strangely unreal—like his mind refused to truly comprehend it.
Abruptly, anxiety seized him. Dante pressed a finger to the corner of her lips.
Faint, hot breaths brushed his skin. Alive. For a moment he stayed there, then slowly withdrew his hand.
Her face, pale as parchment and burning with fever, drew his eyes. He realized then that his own heart was racing wildly.
Thud. Thud-thud-thud-thud.
There was no rhythm—only frantic, erratic beats.
And he remembered, dimly, this feeling.
Fear.
The fear of losing someone completely.
Dante’s brows knit. No, it wasn’t that. Surely it was nothing more than shock at seeing someone collapse so suddenly before him.
He could not even brush away the strands of hair clinging to her cheek. He only stared. Then footsteps echoed closer.
“…Your Grace, I’ve secured silence. I doubt anyone knows who she really is.”
Callis’s expression was a mix of gravity, confusion, and disbelief.
Dante gave the slightest nod. Callis hesitated before continuing.
“…That woman—isn’t she the Grand Duchess?”
The words quivered as they left him. The Grand Duchess. A title erased from record. With the annulment of Dante’s marriage, even the memory of it had been struck from the archives.
But Callis had known her face. He had exchanged greetings with her, passing by in the corridors. There was no mistaking it.
When he had finally glimpsed her properly as the physician examined her, Callis had nearly fainted. How could he not? The woman carried into the suite was supposed to have died in an accident last year.
Yet here she lay, alive.
He was certain it was her. Still, he needed Dante’s own confirmation.
A heavy silence stretched before Dante finally spoke.
“…No one must know Riena is here. That is our highest priority. Not me.”
Priority. The word was clear. In matters of secrecy, what required their utmost protection was not the Archduke’s hidden presence in Florian, but the survival of the Grand Duchess.
Callis bowed, conflicted. He placed the bundle he had carried on the bedside table.
“Yes, understood. These are clothes I secured from the manager. I also brought a winter robe, just in case. I spoke no further than necessary.”
Dante gave a short nod. Callis had grown sharper, quicker since they’d arrived here.
Even after finishing his task, Callis did not leave at once. He lingered, watching Dante in silence.
“…Why.”
“Do you intend to keep Her Grace’s survival hidden forever?”
Again, silence. Longer this time.
At last, Dante turned his golden eyes on him.
“When the time comes.”
Not now.
Understanding, Callis lowered his head and withdrew without another word.
Even as dawn neared, Dante remained by her side, a soft lamp casting pale light over them.
He had shed his drenched vest, tie, and watch, leaving only a loosened shirt and trousers.
Every so often, his hand brushed across her brow, her cheek, checking her heat. The fever still burned like fire. His jaw tightened.
The doctor’s warning echoed in his mind. If the fever did not break, he would have to wake her, force her to drink.
He reached for the water Callis had set nearby. Tilting the bottle, he drank—then leaned down to press his lips to hers.
Parting her lips, he passed the water slowly into her mouth.
Again and again, he repeated the process until he was certain she had swallowed enough.
Then he drew back, wiping the water from her lips and chin with his hand.
It would stave off dehydration for now. By morning, if she still had not woken, he would administer the high-dose medicine the physician had left.
Satisfied, Dante rose briefly, then returned with a silver basin of cold water and a clean towel. He sat at her side, this time by her waist, and untied the robe he had clothed her in.
He had done this already—once when changing her clothes, again two hours ago, then an hour passed. It was time once more.
Soaked the cloth, wrung it out until cool but not dripping, and gently pressed it to her heated skin. From her neck downward, wiping carefully.
The cold water turned warm almost instantly against her burning body. Again and again, he cooled the cloth, wiping her down, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
He knew it wasn’t necessary for him to do this himself.
But the thought of entrusting her body to another’s hands filled him with violent anger.
This was simpler. Better.
He would tend her himself.
Once finished, he retied the robe at her waist with slow, deliberate fingers, forming a neat bow.
Leaning back, Dante exhaled softly.
Looking at her, lying there, tended by no one but him—he finally felt she was his.
Only his hands. Only his eyes.
His golden gaze darkened, steeped once more in possessive hunger. He did not look away from her, not even for a moment.
***
Meanwhile, far away—
“Is that true?”
“Yes, my lord. His Grace himself seized me by the collar, and the acquaintance who arranged the meeting seemed to hesitate, as if he recognized the title. I believe it beyond doubt.”
Norman’s eyes gleamed. At last—at long last, he had found something.
“And where did you say that? Florian?”
“Yes, my lord. A small city in the south, smaller than Sermaar, far from the capital. None of the locals recognized him for who he was.”
“A resort… The Archduke was never granted such development rights. Then it must be under a false name.”
Since when? His lips curled with tension as he bit down in thought.
“The crown won’t know. Nor will the nobles.”
“No, my lord.”
Norman laughed aloud, booming, triumphant. Perfect.
The proud Archduke of Venachert, brought low by a secret only he now possessed.
“Good. And no one else must learn of this. Secrets are worth more the fewer who hold them.”
His sinister voice filled the study.
The Winfield butler bowed deeply, understanding.
“Yes, my lord. As for Noel Chester, you need not worry. I’ll see how he deals with it.”
“Excellent. Now send men to Florian at once. I want to know when the resort opens, who the market believes owns it, which official signed the permits. Everything.”
