Chapter 77
Right now, Dante seemed… harmless. That was the only diagnosis Riena could make of him.
But what on earth was she supposed to say to that?
“If you hate it that much, just say so. Tell me not to come.”
“…Hm.”
Riena’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out. She only stared at him blankly, which made Dante’s irritation begin to rise.
“Why aren’t you saying anything? Answer me.”
Even when faced with the same forceful tone she used to despise, Riena remained silent and unyielding.
After a long few seconds, she did what she always did—she reached out and tapped the hand that wasn’t in his pocket.
At that small gesture, Dante flinched.
“Can you just wait quietly for me?”
Her voice was soft, steady.
And before Dante could even reply, she continued,
“I want to help with the preparations.”
She spoke calmly, trying to persuade him. This time, Dante said nothing—he simply listened.
Riena knew exactly how to handle this.
It wasn’t even that hard for her.
“You said you’re in pain, right? I’ll take a look at you later.”
“…When?”
“Once everything’s done here.”
“How am I supposed to believe that?”
His tone was a bit curt, and Riena squinted at him. The absurdity almost made her laugh—she’d said those exact same words to him countless times before.
And he knew perfectly well that she was really saying she wasn’t going to the ceremony afterward.
“Then don’t believe it, Your Grace of Venachert.”
Deliberately addressing him by his title, Riena clasped her hands behind her back and tilted her head.
Dante’s golden eyes flickered faintly. Even though the tables had turned, strangely, he didn’t feel displeased.
“…Well, I suppose there’s no harm in watching for a while.”
At that, Riena let out a quiet laugh.
She returned to the square, Dante following her a few steps behind like a large, gleaming shadow.
People glanced curiously at the petite woman leading a tall, golden-haired man through the crowd. But with the chaos of the preparations, no one wanted to stare for long.
Riena went back to her table and checked the dough she had covered earlier. The warm weather had helped it rise nicely—already twice its size.
She pulled it out and began dividing it into small portions.
Her task was to bake bread to serve with the stew.
Having baked cookies and bread before, her hands moved deftly, confidently.
Even as she worked, her eyes darted toward Dante now and then.
He was actually doing what she’d told him—standing quietly, simply watching.
She’d worried he’d hover over her, teasing or saying something ridiculous. But no—he was keeping his promise.
For some reason, she found that endearing.
Then she realized what she was thinking—and stifled a laugh at herself.
He’s five years older than me, and I’m treating him like a ten-year-old.
Have I lost my mind?
She shook her head, shaping the dough into neat rounds and setting them on a pan.
Once baked, they’d turn into golden, fluffy bread. That was her last task for the day.
Then she could leave. She’d originally planned to attend the ceremony too… but that plan was already ruined.
Maybe it was for the best.
Lieutenant Bailey would probably be there, and if he happened to meet Dante, things could get messy.
Dante wasn’t a fool. Even if he didn’t recognize Bailey right away, seeing him a few times would trigger his memory sooner or later.
And if Dante saw her talking to the man—someone he should have no connection to—he’d definitely start putting the pieces together.
Just as she lifted the pan of dough, Dante reached over and took it from her hands.
“Wait, I can—”
Before she could finish, his dry, calm voice came from above her head.
“Don’t do anything that could hurt your hands.”
He still remembered all the times she’d injured her hands before.
He raised an eyebrow, holding the pan high so it wouldn’t touch her.
“This time, you’ll have to take care of me.”
Riena’s face flushed bright red. She glanced around frantically—thankfully, no one seemed to have heard.
Still, that didn’t make it any better. They weren’t alone anymore; things were different now.
“Don’t say things like that. What if someone hears you…?”
Her whisper was urgent.
“Okay.”
Normally, Dante would have retorted coldly—Why should I care?—but instead, he simply nodded, lips twitching faintly in amusement.
He motioned for her to lead the way.
His reaction left her unsure what to say next.
Wearing a puzzled smile, Riena led him toward the oven.
There he was—a tall man in a tailored suit, golden hair gleaming under the sun—standing in front of the blazing oven while villagers bustled around with trays of food.
People sneaked curious glances at them.
Riena, shy and easily embarrassed, decided to ignore every single stare.
She put on her calmest expression and handed Dante a pair of gloves.
He took the pan back from her, slipping on the gloves, and glanced at her for guidance.
She pointed at the open oven.
“Just slide it in here. Careful—it’s hot.”
Her tone carried a hint of concern.
Dante smirked faintly. The same woman who’d been scolding him moments ago now sounded like she was worrying over a child.
But he didn’t comment. Quietly, he did as she said, pushing the pan carefully into the oven.
When he straightened again, he looked at her as if to ask, Is that it?
“Well… that’s it, I suppose,” Riena murmured—then suddenly burst out laughing.
Dante blinked.
There he was—dressed impeccably, wearing oven gloves, standing beside a rustic brick oven. The image was so absurd that she couldn’t stop giggling.
Her laughter lit up her whole face, her eyes crinkling into crescents.
Watching her, Dante’s brows twitched. Then realization dawned on him, and his lips curved too.
This woman… she can laugh at something as simple as this.
He’d never understood why people once compared him to the sun. But now, standing here, he understood perfectly—because she was exactly what they described.
She wasn’t a burning sun, though.
She was warm sunlight—gentle, bright, and quietly radiant.
The air around them shimmered with heat. His skin felt hot beneath the heavy suit, and even the tie at his neck suddenly felt suffocating.
He almost loosened it but stopped himself. Tilting his head slightly, he murmured,
“How long are you planning to keep laughing, Miss Bronte?”
His voice was low, meant only for her.
“Sorry,” she said between giggles. “It’s just—you look so out of place.”
Her laughter was soft and sweet.
“What exactly looks out of place?”
His tone was dry, but there was no trace of annoyance—if anything, it sounded almost tender.
“You, in that suit, wearing gloves and baking bread in this heat… Anyone would laugh.”
Still smiling, Riena tugged lightly at one of his gloves to help him take it off.
“It doesn’t suit you—but I don’t hate it.”
Just then, a warm breeze swept past, easing the summer heat.
It was a perfect day—one of those clear, golden days when summer had fully arrived.
