Chapter 109
For the next few days, everything stayed quiet. Strangely quiet—almost like the stillness before a storm.
Anaista, who seemed ready to cause trouble at any moment, must have been shaken too; she didn’t go looking for Dante. The royal family and the nobles also showed no particular movement.
But the quietest of all… was Riena.
And to Dante, that was the strangest part.
Yes, she had always been gentle by nature—but she was never someone who gave up this easily. She endured well, waited well… yet when something didn’t suit her, she knew how to show her anger.
But this time was different. Even though Dante had kept her here for over a week without letting her return home.
Recently, Riena had been unnervingly silent. She didn’t even utter something as natural as, “Please let me go home.”
During meals, during the nights they slept in the same room—she never truly met his eyes, and she barely spoke at all.
His thumbnail kept flicking the rough edge of his thumb. Only when a sharp sting shot up his finger did Dante finally stop.
He let out a shallow breath. This pathetic little habit wasn’t something he used to have. But somewhere along the way… he had begun doing it without thinking.
And he knew exactly what emotion it came from.
Which only made him more irritated.
But he had no solution. And so the displeasure festered for days without an outlet.
Click.
The office door opened carefully, as it always did, and Callis stepped inside.
Dante glanced irritably at the faint smear of blood beside his thumbnail. His brow twitched as he wiped it away with his forefinger.
“Has it finally arrived?”
He had already seen what Callis was holding.
Callis nodded, tension written plainly on his face as he handed the letters over.
“Yes, Your Grace. The telegram just arrived.”
“Took them long enough. I told them to look into it ages ago.”
There were two letters in total.
Clicking his tongue, Dante picked up both envelopes—each with a different texture and color, each with a different sender.
One from Harold Carpenter.
And one from Evan Reims.
***
Riena stared at the envelope Callis had handed her. She wasn’t trembling, but if she claimed she hadn’t worried that no letter might come at all… that would be a lie.
She gave Callis a quick, silent nod of gratitude as she took the letter from him. Moving calmly—at least on the outside—she went straight to the bedroom and locked the door behind her.
She knew perfectly well Dante wouldn’t come at this hour—yet her heart thudded anxiously. Just having received a letter made her unreasonably nervous.
Riena exhaled softly and looked at the envelope.
To Ms. Rena, from Sharon.
Both names were written clearly.
It seemed Sharon had done exactly as she had asked. Riena was grateful.
She wanted to thank her immediately… but that would have to wait.
What mattered now was the contents inside.
The lightly sealed flap opened with the smallest touch. But instead of a letter, there was another envelope inside.
She had requested this as well—not because she distrusted Sharon enough to think she’d pry, but because opening a letter naturally made one glance at the contents. Better not to tempt fate.
To the child from Behern’s back alley.
Her tense hands loosened, and Riena let out a soft, breathy laugh.
Benjamin had hidden her identity with that humorous little title. Another sign of his concern.
It warmed her.
Had it been anything else, the old helplessness might have swallowed her again.
She swallowed hard and unfolded the letter.
“As I told you before, the records regarding your illness within this kingdom end with what I already shared. The fact that you are no longer coughing blood means the condition has progressed. I won’t know how far unless I examine you myself.
I cannot say how much time you have left. No matter how I searched, there were no more records here. And from what I found, most patients did not last long.
I’m sorry I can’t be of more help. But please remember this: Riena, avoid strain. Avoid anger. Especially avoid excitement. A weakened heart does not respond well to sudden shocks. Your comfort comes first.
I’ll continue searching elsewhere. If I find anything new, I’ll send word. I wasn’t sure how to reach you again… but since you wrote first, that solves the problem.
There is so much I want to say, but I will end the letter here for now. I want nothing more than to see your face immediately… but I’m sure you have complicated circumstances you can’t explain. When we meet again someday, let’s talk for a long, long time.”
By the time she reached the final paragraph, a tear slipped down Riena’s cheek.
He had been the one warm adult in her harsh childhood. She had always wanted to repay him someday… yet here she was, indebted to him once again.
Biting her lip hard, Riena blinked through her tears and checked inside the envelope. When she tilted it, something small and solid rolled out.
A tiny glass vial.
Barely the length of her pinky, filled with a clear liquid.
And she already knew what it was—because she had asked for it.
Riena slowly unwrapped the small note tied around the vial’s neck.
“I’m sending the medicine you requested. If your heart pounds too violently, place only a tiny drop on your tongue. It will slow the heartbeat temporarily.
You know the risks. Use it sparingly. It is, after all, a narcotic.”
It was the drug he used to prescribe to patients in unbearable pain.
Ophir.
A medicine that could quiet pain and ease breathing.
And also—a medicine that, in high enough doses, stopped the heart and breath within seconds.
Riena rolled the vial gently in her hand, her gaze calm.
It was a small amount, enough to fit in her palm.
But if she drank it all at once, she would stop breathing within moments.
Even so, Benjamin had trusted her enough to send it. He understood her letter—short, desperate, without any embellishment. He understood everything.
Another tear fell onto the vial.
“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry, sir…”
Her trembling voice was too small, too soft to fill the bedroom.
After composing herself, Riena carefully placed the vial deep inside one of the unused bedside drawers—hidden where Dante would never look.
She didn’t intend to take it now. It was only for an emergency.
She wiped her damp cheeks.
She had always known she could die at any time. She had never held hope about her illness. She only wished she might know when it would happen—but with Benjamin unable to tell her that, even that small wish had faded.
A dull heaviness settled in her chest.
But at least she could still contact Benjamin. Even if she’d had to use her heart condition as an excuse—she had a final lifeline now.
Riena bit her lip.
Now she could die anytime.
And because of that, she had to leave Dante more than ever.
Not simply because she didn’t want him to witness her dying again.
Not simply because she feared breaking him.
It was because she no longer wanted to give him anything of herself. Not even in death.
When Dante had threatened her using Henry, she had finally felt something inside her snap for good.
It wasn’t just guilt or fondness for Henry.
She was sick of Dante acting like he knew everything.
Sick to her bones.
He never listened.
He controlled people as if he owned them.
He held everything—acted like the whole world sat in his hand.
Once, she had thought that dazzling.
Now it horrified her.
She didn’t want to stay with him anymore.
Ironically, that arrogance of his worked in her favor now. Because there were things he still didn’t know.
Yes. Whatever else you think you know about me… at least you don’t know that I’m dying—
Still holding the letter, Riena picked up the spare lighter he’d left behind and walked to the window. She opened it, lit the flame, and held it to the edge of the page.
The fire crawled upward, eating the paper. The acrid smell of burning drifted past her nose.
When the flame neared her fingers, she blew it out, letting the ash scatter into the faint breeze outside. Then she closed the window.
Her dark brown eyes blinked slowly.
Dante would never know.
Not her illness.
Not the reason she left him.
Not her death.
