Chapter 4 The Scar
Sienna arrived earlier than usual, the villa still heavy with sleep. The halls carried the faint echo of the sea, that endless rhythm that seemed to mirror Dante Varon’s moods: calm at a distance, and violent up close.
The maid barely met her eyes as she passed. No one liked to linger near his wing. They moved around him the way people skirted the edges of grief, quietly, cautiously, and pretending not to see it.
When she reached the gym room, she stopped in the doorway.
Dante was awake. Awake and shirtless, the early light spilling across his shoulders. His wheelchair was positioned near the window, angled toward the horizon. He didn’t move when she entered, only drew a slow finger down the jagged line that ran from his ribs to his hip, the scar that marked both his survival and his rage.
“They call this one the lucky mark,” he said without looking up.
His voice was low. Not sharp, not cold, just heavy, like a truth he didn’t want to remember.
Sienna stepped forward carefully. “Lucky because you survived?”
He let out a short, humorless breath. “Lucky because I didn’t die fast enough.”
The words landed like a bruise. She stood behind him, unsure if he even wanted her there. He’s not just angry. He’s haunted.
Her tone softened. “You shouldn’t be awake yet. We don’t start until nine.”
“I don’t sleep much,” he said. “Nightmares don’t keep to schedules.”
That was the closest he’d come to honesty since she’d arrived. She wanted to ask what do you see? but she didn’t. He wasn’t ready for sympathy, and she wasn’t offering it.
She moved to the table and set down her bag, keeping her movements calm and deliberate. “We’ll continue the assessment today,” she said, professional tone intact. “No pressure. Just a slow range of motion test.”
Dante gave a faint snort, still facing the window. “You’re not good at reading rooms, are you, Doctor?”
“I read pain,” she replied. “Yours is loud enough.”
That earned her the faintest flicker of something, a glance, brief and sharp, over his shoulder. He said nothing more, but didn’t stop her when she wheeled the therapy bench closer.
The session began in silence. Sienna knelt beside him, lifting his arm gently to test mobility. His muscles flexed under her touch, tense, and coiled. Every movement was measured, deliberate.
“You’re improving,” she said, adjusting her hold.
“Or hiding it better,” he muttered.
She looked up at him. “Hiding what?”
He didn’t answer. His gaze was fixed on the reflection in the glass, the faint outline of a man who looked like a stranger in his own skin.
When she reached lower, tracing along the ribs, he didn’t move. But when her fingers brushed the side of his abdomen the edge of the scar’s deepest point he flinched.
“Don’t touch that,” he said sharply.
Sienna paused, her hand hovering inches from him. “That area’s critical to your mobility. If we can’t work through..”
“I said don’t.”
The steel in his voice sliced the quiet.
She lowered her hand slowly, forcing her own voice to stay level. “You’re reacting from trauma sensitivity, not defiance. There’s a difference.”
“Don’t diagnose me.”
“Then tell me what I’m missing.”
He turned his head at that, meeting her eyes for the first time since she entered. His expression was hard, but his eyes looked tired. There was a tremor there, a hesitation she’d never seen before.
“You want to fix me,” he said finally. “But you don’t even know what’s broken.”
“I know what the body can survive,” she said quietly. “I’m still waiting to see if you do.”
His throat tightened. For a second, she thought he might laugh. Instead, he leaned forward, bracing his palms against his knees. His voice was low, almost a whisper. “I shouldn’t have survived that night.”
The admission slipped out before he could stop it.
Sienna caught her breath. “What happened that night?”
But he was already pulling his shirt on, the shutters slamming down behind his eyes. “Session’s over.”
“You’re running again.”
He stopped halfway through buttoning his shirt. “You think I can run?”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.
When she left the room, she could still feel the weight of his silence pressing against her back, heavy, unspoken, and unfinished.
By afternoon, she was in the study, surrounded by papers and glowing laptop screens. Her mind wouldn’t let it go that hesitation in his voice, the flash of fear behind his anger.
His medical records were immaculate. Too immaculate. The lab reports, scans, and therapy notes were arranged by date until they weren’t. The file jumped straight from the incident reported to the patient discharged for rehabilitation.
No emergency report. No surgery documentation. No physician’s signature.
Her pulse quickened. He didn’t lose them. Someone removed them.
She tried accessing the hospital’s digital archive. A login prompt appeared, then a red line of text: ACCESS RESTRICTED PRIVATE AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED.
Her stomach dropped. Private authorization usually meant the patient had sealed their own records.
Sienna sat back in the chair, staring at the screen. Why hide something about your own crash?
It wasn’t just physical pain keeping him locked in that chair. It was guilt or fear. Maybe both.
Evening came heavy and gold, spilling over the marble floors of the villa. When Sienna entered his study, the air smelled faintly of whiskey and salt.
Dante was there, as always behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, papers scattered. His face was caught in the glow of the desk lamp, half-lit, half-shadow.
She cleared her throat. “We need to talk about your medical file.”
He didn’t turn. “Do we?”
“There’s a gap,” she said, stepping closer. “From the day of the accident. The reports are missing.”
Now he turned, slowly. His chair pivoted with the faintest squeak of wheels. He didn’t look angry. He looked resigned.
“Ask one more question about that crash,” he said quietly, “and you’re fired.”
Sienna’s jaw tightened. “You can’t threaten me into silence.”
“I’m not threatening you.” He leaned forward, eyes dark. “I’m protecting you.”
She frowned. “From what?”
He smiled then a thin, humorless thing. “From the truth.”
The words made her stomach twist. “You think I scare easily?”
“I think you don’t know what you’ve walked into.”
He turned the chair slightly, as if to end the conversation, but something on the desk caught her eye, a small, burned key half-hidden under a folder. The metal was twisted, and the edges blackened.
Her gaze snapped back to him. “That from the crash?”
He followed her eyes, then reached casually across the desk. The key disappeared into his hand, and she heard the faint click of a drawer locking.
Her pulse jumped.
“Why hide it?” she asked.
He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was so calm it chilled her. “Because some things didn’t crash by accident.”
The silence that followed was heavy enough to feel.
Sienna swallowed. “You said you shouldn’t have survived that night. What did you mean?”
Dante’s eyes flickered a small, unguarded flicker. For an instant, he looked less like the unbreakable billionaire and more like a man running from ghosts.
Then his jaw set again. “You should go.”
“Dante”
“Go.”
His voice wasn’t loud, but it hit her like a wall.
Sienna hesitated, watching him as he turned back toward the window. The last of the light caught his reflection, the faint glimmer of the scar down his side, and something darker in his eyes.
As she left, she could still hear the faint metallic sound of the drawer lock settling into place.
She stopped at the doorway, glancing once more over her shoulder. Dante hadn’t moved. But his hand rested on the desk, not on the files, not on the whiskey glass on the locked drawer.
And for a moment, she thought she heard him whisper something under his breath. A single name.
Then silence swallowed the room again.
Whatever he was hiding, she'd find out about it. She can't let him stay broken forever.
