Chapter 58
A full day had passed. When the sky outside the suite windows darkened once again, Dante summoned Callis.
“Bring the doctor.”
“Yes, Your Grace! I’ll fetch him at once. Please hold on a little longer!”
Callis’s face twisted with worry as he looked at the Grand Duchess, still unconscious and flushed with fever, before quickly hurrying out of the room.
Dante’s expression faltered, the unease in his eyes betraying a disquiet he had never shown before.
Even after the sun had risen, Riena had not woken. The fever hadn’t broken either.
He had expected this, at least in part, so he had given her the high-dose antipyretic just as the doctor instructed. Since then, he had cooled her body with cold compresses and ensured she drank water at the right times to prevent dehydration.
So by afternoon, she should have stirred. Even if her fever lingered, at the very least, she should have regained consciousness.
But as night fell, that expectation had crumbled. Unable to suppress his anxiety, Dante had shaken her, calling her name, trying to rouse her.
Yet no matter what he called, no matter how he lifted her, Riena did not open her eyes. Dante’s heart once again thudded out of rhythm, wild and uneven.
Holding her limp body against him, he found himself powerless. All he could do was rub her frail arms and legs, desperate to coax warmth and life back into them.
Her skin, once burning hot, now felt lukewarm to his touch. The fever had eased, but still—she wouldn’t wake.
Grinding his teeth against a rising sense of helplessness, Dante looked up as Callis burst back in with the doctor.
The physician checked her pulse, opening her gown only slightly, then drew back with a troubled frown.
“The fever has broken, yes. But as for why she still hasn’t regained consciousness… I cannot say.”
“You’re telling me the doctor doesn’t know why the patient is ill?”
Dante’s voice sliced the air, cold and sharp.
The physician bowed his head. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but… there is little more I can do here. It may be due to exhaustion, compounded by stress. For now, continue the cold compress and let her rest. She should not need further antipyretics.”
Dante’s brow creased with irritation, but the physician continued firmly.
“If she does awaken, start her on something very light—thin porridge, perhaps a clear broth. Once she regains strength, call me again.”
It was the truth, as useless as it sounded. To argue further would yield nothing.
Dante gave a reluctant nod, and the doctor departed with Callis.
The room fell silent once more. Dante brushed a weary hand over his own drawn face, then turned his gaze back to her.
As always, his hand drifted to her cheek. The searing heat had cooled; her skin now carried only a faint, natural warmth.
Her breathing, once shallow and strained, was steady again. Each even rise and fall of her chest eased the storm inside him, if only a little.
“The patient is unusually frail.”
He already knew. He had always known—but until the physician repeated it, he had let himself forget.
A year ago, just before she demanded a divorce, Riena had heard the same words from a doctor.
She had never been strong. As depression hollowed her, she wasted away before his eyes, until she seemed ready to die at his side.
And yet when they met again, she looked fine—laughing, talking, moving about as though she were no different from anyone else.
He had thought she was better. He had assumed so easily.
She had survived a catastrophic accident, even faked her own death. How could someone so fragile endure that? It didn’t make sense. He had judged her wrongly.
And now, all it took was a little rain. She had collapsed, burned with fever for a day and night, and now lay unconscious.
Dante gave a bitter, hollow laugh. The truth was clear: this was his fault.
No matter what words had been exchanged, no matter the anger between them, he should never have let it come to this.
Even if she had rejected him, even if she had glared with hate, he should have forced her to shelter—dragged her from the rain, if he had to. At the very least, he should have let her keep the umbrella.
If he had… she would not be lying here now, senseless. The argument could have waited.
The sound of movement drew him back. He lowered his hand from his face and blinked against the ache in his eyes.
“…Why.”
“Your Grace, you must eat something.”
It was Callis. The form of address had slipped easily back to what was familiar.
“Leave.”
“…Forgive me, Your Grace. But—a telegram has arrived from Behern Palace.”
Dante’s tired gaze flicked to him.
“His Excellency the Chancellor has personally invited you to attend the Winfield estate’s regular gathering.”
Dante’s golden eyes sharpened like blades.
“When.”
“The luncheon, two days from now.”
“Which means we must depart by tomorrow evening.”
A faint, crooked smile tugged at Dante’s lips.
“Then pray, Callis. Pray that the Grand Duchess wakes before then.”
His words dripped with mockery, but Callis only closed his eyes and swallowed a sigh.
Because he understood what Dante truly meant—he would not move a step until Riena opened her eyes.
***
The clink of coins falling into her palm. That was when Riena knew.
This was a dream. A cruel dream of that bitter winter long ago.
She looked up. The world was blurred from the cold, and the man’s figure was hazy.
But his posture, his formal attire, his composure—and the way he dropped several gold coins into her hands without hesitation—marked him as a gentleman.
“Th-thank you, sir.”
“You needn’t thank me. These coins come from someone else.”
The little girl in the dream, trembling in the snow, bowed deeply.
Behind the man stood a carriage—not grand, but respectable. Through its window, golden hair glimmered in the dim light.
Hair is more beautiful than pure gold.
With such a radiant crown, surely its owner was someone noble. Surely someone kind.
Riena’s small body bent again in gratitude. Her chapped skin stung with every movement, but she ignored it.
“Thank you.”
The gentleman only turned away. From behind the carriage window, there was no reply.
Moments later, the carriage rolled out of Behern Square as though nothing had happened.
That night, clutching the gold coins, Riena returned home to her father’s smile—bright, warm, and rare.
Her supper was waiting, still hot, with real morsels of meat. She ate slowly, savoring every drop.
That night she lay beneath a rough but warm blanket, the first comfort in months.
It was the winter of her ninth year.
When Riena slowly opened her eyes, moonlight flooded through the vast windows, filling the room with a silver glow.
She blinked, her vision sluggish to focus. When it cleared, she frowned at the unfamiliar room.
Unfamiliar, yes—but at the same time… not entirely strange.
She stilled, remembering.
“Cry until you’re satisfied, Riena.”
“So you were worth this much after all.”
The storm. The rain. The kiss.
The Duke.
Her brow furrowed at the memory. She pushed herself up cautiously.
Her movements were slow, but the world still spun. She squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to faint again.
When the dizziness passed, she looked around. Lavish furniture filled the suite, each piece too fine to mistake.
The Duke’s resort.
Her gaze fell lower. A heavy white robe draped her body. Not her own clothes.
Her lips pressed thin as she exhaled. She could imagine the rest well enough.
He must have brought her here when she collapsed, changed her clothes, and laid her in his bed.
But then—where was he?
She glanced about. Then, across the moonlit shadows, to her left.
“…Ah.”
The breath slipped from her lips.
There he was. Dante. His shirt undone, his posture disheveled, slumped in a chair pulled right to her bedside—fast asleep.
