Concession
1221 Words
The next day was the weekend—a rare day of rest. Dante usually spent his free time at the piano, and sometimes he’d drag Alessia along to watch a movie.
When Alessia woke up, the other side of the bed was empty, though the sheets still held a faint trace of warmth. He had been gone for a while.
She wasn’t surprised, nor did she rush to get up. A dull ache lingered in her body—marks from the night before. Not the pleasant exhaustion of intimacy, but the numb, lingering pain of a silent battle.
Slowly, she rose and pulled on her robe. The hallway was empty—no servants, no sign of Dante. But she knew where he would be. The piano was one of the few things he still allowed himself to rely on.
She made her way to the music room, her steps light but unable to mask the soreness deep in her bones.
The door was slightly ajar. She pushed it open, and a familiar melody poured out, like a gentle yet firm hand brushing against a distant memory.
Dante sat at the grand piano, his posture rigid, fingers moving over the keys with quiet precision. The piano was old, its polished black surface faintly engraved with the family crest and, carved years ago, her name in childish handwriting. Back then, she’d laughed and said, “Now, I’ll always be here.”
She lingered in the doorway, silent. The music stopped abruptly, as if he had sensed her presence. He turned his head slightly.
“You’re up early.” His voice was rough, but there was something soft in his gaze.
She took a few steps forward. He reached out and pulled her onto his lap. His grip wasn’t harsh, but it left no room for refusal.
His fingers traced the scar on her wrist—the one she’d given herself in a desperate moment, when shattered glass had sliced her skin and nearly severed her last hope for freedom.
She flinched, as if burned.
He noticed but didn’t let go. Instead, he tightened his hold, his voice barely above a sigh. “Does it still hurt?”
She lowered her eyes, refusing to answer.
That scar had nearly ruined her left hand. She hadn’t played piano since. What had once been her greatest passion was now just a reminder of her wounds.
After a long silence, she finally spoke. “You promised I could see my brother today.”
Dante’s expression flickered for just a second. He brushed his thumb over her hand, weighing his words.
“The doctor called this morning. His condition is unstable—not a good time for visitors.”
His tone was light, as if discussing something trivial. But his fingers tensed, as if bracing for her to shove him away and bolt for the door like before.
Alessia lifted her gaze, eyes cold and unreadable.
“It’s always something,” she murmured. “He needs rest, he’s not well enough... You’ve used every excuse.”
Dante watched her, caught between resignation and something darker. He knew the truth would come out eventually—but he couldn’t bring himself to tell her.
“Your emotions are volatile. I’m just trying to protect you.”
It sounded like concern, but even he wasn’t sure he believed it anymore.
She didn’t argue. Instead, she let out a quiet breath.
“Fine. If I can’t see him, then I can’t.”
Her voice held no resentment or disappointment—just the detached acceptance of a lost cause.
His thumb stilled over her scar. Then, barely audible, he said, “…Later. I’ll arrange it.”
Alessia went still. For a fraction of a second, something flickered in her eyes—but it was gone before he could read it. She didn’t thank him. Didn’t react at all. Just a soft, indifferent “Mm.”
As if it no longer mattered.
Dante’s chest tightened. He had waited too long, and now she had learned to stop caring. But even now, he couldn’t tell her the truth—about her “brother.”
His grip on her hand tightened almost imperceptibly.
Fine, he thought. If she wants to see him, I’ll let her.
Even if it has to be a lie.
Even if he has to recreate him from scratch.
For a moment, he couldn’t speak. He wanted to pull her closer, but the distance between them felt insurmountable. His possessiveness, his guilt—none of it seemed to reach her anymore.
His gaze drifted back to the piano.
“Remember how you used to play Chopin?” His voice was low, almost nostalgic. “Play something with me.”
She hesitated, then shook her head. “No.”
Her fingers trembled faintly as she pulled her hand from his, the scar stark against her skin—a jagged line between past and present.
“My hands shake now.”
Her tone was flat. Not a plea, not defiance. Just fact.
Dante stared at the barely perceptible tremor in her fingertips. His jaw clenched, but he didn’t reach for her again. His lips parted, as if to say something—but in the end, he just looked away.
Later that morning, after breakfast, the old housekeeper Jennifer arrived with a handful of maids carrying New Year’s decorations. She smiled warmly at Alessia, inviting her to help brighten the cold, empty villa.
Jennifer had served the Valtierri family for nearly forty years. She had watched Dante grow from a reckless boy into the hardened man he was now—and witnessed Alessia’s transformation from a bright-eyed heiress into this quiet, unyielding woman. Time had etched itself into Jennifer’s silver hair and the fine lines around her eyes, but her kindness remained unwavering.
Though snow fell silently outside, the villa slowly filled with warmth. Golden light spilled over red paper cuttings and festive ornaments, breathing life into the lonely halls.
Alessia remembered the early days of her captivity—the screaming matches, the venomous words hurled like knives. She had refused to eat, refused to speak, locking herself away like a fortress of ice.
Dante, at his wit’s end, had finally called for Jennifer. The old woman’s patience had been the only thing to chip through Alessia’s despair.
Now, Jennifer’s eyes held quiet sorrow as she spoke. “Madam, you must understand—when he hurts you, he’s hurting himself too. Don’t punish yourself for his sake. Eat. Rest. Don’t let your body waste away.”
Alessia leaned against the doorframe, her face impassive. But something inside ached.
“I’m not punishing anyone,” she said softly. “I just don’t belong here anymore.”
Jennifer sighed. “You and the young master… you were so close once. You used to laugh so freely. He wasn’t like this back then.”
Alessia’s smile was bitter. “That was a long time ago. I doubt he even remembers.”
Her voice grew cold. “He has his own love. And I have my own path.”
Jennifer bowed her head. “I’ve told him—begged him—not to keep you locked away. But he never listens.”
Alessia closed her eyes. “It doesn’t matter,” she whispered. “I’ve gotten used to it.”
- Writer
