Chapter 11
1166 Words
The mansion was silent except for the rhythmic ticking of the clock and the soft hum of the oxygen machine. Rain had not stopped since Millia’s collapse as if the sky itself refused to move on.
Dante stood by her bedside, sleeves rolled up, his usually steady hands clenched at his sides. Millia looked fragile beneath the white sheets; the once radiant woman who charmed rooms now seemed smaller, her breath shallow but steady. Her illness had finally stopped pretending.
The doctor’s words echoed in his mind like a curse:
“Her condition has advanced. She’ll need constant monitoring, rest, and care. Avoid emotional stress.”
Dante had nodded, thanked him, and sent him away. Now the weight of those words pressed against his chest.
Behind him, he heard the soft shuffle of footsteps. He didn’t need to turn to know it was Aria.
“Is she… is she going to be okay?” Her voice cracked halfway through.
“She’s stable,” Dante said quietly, still watching Millia. “But the doctor said she needs rest. No arguments, no stress.”
Aria nodded slowly, stepping beside him. Her eyes lingered on her mother, glassy and distant. “She never told me it was this bad.”
“She didn’t want you to worry,” Dante said.
Aria looked up at him, a tear slipping down her cheek. “Did you know?”
The question cut through the air.
Dante didn’t flinch. “Yes.”
Her breath caught. “For how long?”
“Since before the wedding.”
She stared at him like she was seeing him for the first time. “So the marriage”
“Was her idea,” he finished softly. “But it was also mine. She wanted stability for you, for herself. I wanted to make sure she had peace. And you” he stopped himself, the words choking in his throat.
“And me?” Aria pressed.
Dante looked down at her at the hurt, the disbelief, the faint tremor in her voice that told him she wasn’t just angry. She was afraid.
“You deserved protection,” he said finally. “Even if you don’t understand it yet.”
Her eyes glistened. “You think marrying my mother was protecting me?”
He took a slow breath. “Yes.”
She turned away, walking toward the window where rain streaked down the glass like silver threads. “You’re impossible, Dante.”
He almost smiled almost. “So I’ve been told.”
Silence settled again. The steady beeping from the heart monitor filled the gaps between them.
After a while, Aria spoke again, her voice quieter now. “She loved you, you know.”
Dante froze. “What?”
“My mother. She said you reminded her that she was still alive. That even when she was tired, you made her laugh. I thought it was strange you don’t laugh much.”
He turned toward the bed. “She did that on purpose,” he said softly. “She made me laugh so she wouldn’t have to think about dying.”
The words slipped out before he could stop them. Aria’s eyes widened, and something in her expression softened grief, understanding, and something more beneath it can’t be put to words.
“She always knew,” she whispered.
He nodded. “She didn’t want pity. She wanted to live until she couldn’t.”
Aria moved closer, until she was standing beside him again, so close that her shoulder brushed his arm. The touch was accidental, but neither pulled away.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” she admitted.
Dante’s voice was barely above a whisper. “You sit with her. You talk. You love her while you still can.”
Her lips trembled. “And when she’s gone?”
He finally looked at her, really looked at her and in that moment, she saw it. The grief he carried long before it began.
“When that time comes,” he said, “you let yourself break. And then you start again.”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she leaned against him, her forehead pressing against his shoulder, and for the first time, Dante didn’t step back.
He let her.
His hand rose hesitantly before settling at her back a silent promise, not of love yet, but of something deeper. Protection. Presence. Understanding.
For a long time, they stayed like that, two people tied together by a woman who was fading away but had somehow created something between them that neither could name nor resist.
The days blurred into weeks. Millia’s strength waned, but her spirit refused to dim completely. She still insisted on sitting by the window when the sun rose, still asked Dante for tea she rarely drank, still smiled whenever Aria read aloud.
Dante became her anchor silent, constant, devoted.
Aria watched him more than she realized. Watched the way he adjusted her mother’s blanket, the tenderness in his tone when he thought no one was listening, the exhaustion that lined his face when the house finally fell quiet at night.
One evening, she found him in the study, head in his hands, glass of untouched whiskey beside him.
“You’re going to drive yourself insane,” she said softly.
He looked up, weary eyes catching hers. “It’s already happening.”
She smiled faintly. “You’re doing too much.”
“I’m doing what I promised.”
Aria stepped closer. “And what about what you need?”
He gave a quiet laugh humorless. “What I need doesn’t matter anymore.”
Aria frowned. “That’s not true.”
He looked at her then, and something unspoken passed between them, sharp and magnetic.
Before either could speak again, Millia’s soft voice drifted from the hall.
“Aria?”
They both turned. Millia stood in the doorway, fragile but smiling. “You two should get some rest. You look exhausted.”
Dante rose immediately, moving to her side. “You shouldn’t be walking around.”
“I’m not made of glass,” she teased, though her voice was thin.
Aria rushed forward. “Come on, Mom, let’s get you back to bed.”
Millia nodded but lingered for a moment, her eyes sweeping between the two of them. A faint, knowing look passed over her face the kind of look only a woman who’d lived long enough to recognize forbidden feelings could wear.
As Dante guided her down the hall, her hand brushed his. “Take care of her,” she murmured.
“I will,” he said quietly.
She smiled faintly. “I know.”
When they reached her room, she paused at the door, glancing back once more. Aria stood a few steps behind, unaware of the silent exchange.
Millia looked at Dante, and for a fleeting moment, the sadness in her eyes softened into peace as though she’d made her peace with what was coming.
And with who would be left behind.
- Writer
