chapter six

Chapter Six

Unspoken Things

The days following her discovery of Dante’s room passed like fog.

Sienna kept her distance.

Damien did the same.

But something between them had shifted. Unspoken. Tense. Electric.

He avoided her eyes now.

Not like before—when he simply didn’t care to look at her.

Now, it was different.

He was afraid of what he might see if he did.

Sienna wandered the garden early one morning, her hands brushing through lavender and overgrown roses, trying to clear her mind.

That’s when she heard footsteps behind her.

She turned.

Damien.

Of course.

Hair slightly tousled, black shirt unbuttoned at the top, sleeves rolled up just enough to show the veins running down his forearms.

Effortlessly cruel-looking.

“I thought you didn’t do mornings,” she said, folding her arms.

“I don’t.” His voice was clipped. Cold. Like always.

But he didn’t walk away.

Instead, he walked past her and stood beside the roses. “You’re watering them wrong.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“They’re too drowned. The roots will rot.”

“I didn’t know you cared about flowers.”

“I don’t.” He reached down and brushed dirt from a petal, then added quietly, “They were Dante’s.”

Sienna swallowed. “You miss him.”

Damien didn’t answer. His eyes remained locked on the flowers like they were the only things keeping him from falling apart.

She hesitated, then softly said, “Why did you tell me about the room?”

“I didn’t,” he muttered. “You went looking.”

“You could’ve stopped me.”

“I should’ve.”

Silence fell between them.

Then—his voice again, low and unreadable. “Do you regret marrying me?”

The question came out of nowhere.

Her heart stalled.

“Yes,” she said softly. “But not for the reasons you think.”

That made him look at her. Finally.

There was something raw in his expression. Something unguarded.

He took a step toward her. She didn’t move. His fingers twitched at his sides, like he was debating whether to touch her.

Then—

“Damien!”

Eleanor’s voice cut through the garden like a blade.

He blinked, stepping back so fast it felt like a slap.

“Your mother calls,” Sienna said coolly, turning away.

She didn’t see the way he clenched his jaw.

Or the way his eyes stayed on her, long after she was gone.

---

Later that night…

Sienna sat on the edge of her bed, brushing her hair out in front of the mirror. The bedroom was quiet. Too quiet.

Then, a knock.

She turned. “Come in.”

Damien stepped in, eyes unreadable, a glass of something dark in his hand.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he muttered.

“You didn’t.”

He hesitated. Then walked to the balcony and stood there in silence.

“I can’t sleep,” he said after a long pause.

She watched him. “Why are you here, Damien?”

He didn’t look at her. “I don’t know.”

He took a long sip from the glass, then whispered something she barely heard.

“…I keep dreaming she’s still here.”

Sienna rose, slowly approaching. “Who?”

He finally looked at her.

“The girl I was supposed to marry.”

Eleanor’s pawn. The one promised to him… until Dante fell in love with her first.

Sienna didn’t speak. She just stood beside him, shoulder almost brushing his.

“And you know the worst part?” he added, almost laughing. “I didn’t even like her. I didn’t want her. But the moment she chose Dante, it felt like something was ripped out of me. Not because I loved her… but because he won.”

She understood then.

Damien’s entire life was shaped by jealousy.

Resentment.

Loss.

“You hate me because I remind you of your failures,” she said quietly.

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t deny it either.

She turned to walk away—but he caught her wrist.

His grip wasn’t rough. Just tight enough to make her stop.

“I don’t hate you, Sienna,” he whispered.

When she turned, he was inches away.

Their faces were too close. The night air too still.

He stared at her lips, then her eyes.

Then—

He released her wrist. Just like that.

Back to cold.

“You should sleep,” he said, stepping back. “We have dinner with the board tomorrow. Don’t embarrass me.”

The door shut behind him.

And Sienna stood there, heart pounding, skin burning, lips untouched.

But not unremembered.

---

Somewhere else in the mansion…

A phone buzzed.

Eleanor Westwood answered.

“Yes?”

“She found Dante’s room,” the voice on the other end said.

Eleanor’s expression didn’t change.

“Keep an eye on her,” she replied. “And if she gets too close to the truth…”

She stirred her tea.

“…remind Damien why we never let maids become wives.”