INWY~40

Chapter 40

Reina! Please, get a hold of yourself! Oh heavens, Reina!

…It’s a misunderstanding… it’s not…

That night, Sharon had nursed her through fever and delirium, listening to nothing but incoherent mutterings. 

The memory still left her dizzy. She pressed her palm briefly to her forehead before shaking her head quickly.

Then she looked straight at Riena and spoke seriously.

“Falling sick like that out of nowhere… If you two fought, don’t you think it’s better to make peace as soon as possible?”

“We didn’t fight.”

Riena’s expression hardened at once, her denial firm.

Not a fight, huh…? Sharon wanted to drag her by the wrist straight to the resort then and there. 

But she swallowed it down and tried again, calm and coaxing.

“Then maybe there was a misunderstanding between you. All the more reason to talk it out before it grows worse.”

Her voice was gentle, like soothing a child. 

At last, Riena hesitated.

Got you! Sharon’s eyes lit up. 

She even faked a groan, acting as though she were at her wit’s end, and delivered the final blow.

“Please… I really can’t take this anymore.”

Her face was so close to tears that Riena gave a small, reluctant nod—only to shake her head violently the next instant.

What the—half yes, half no? 

Sharon blinked in confusion, trying to read her, when Riena’s lips moved at last.

“…I can’t see him.”

“What? Why not?”

“…”

Her mouth sealed shut again. 

Sharon nearly screamed in frustration. 

Yet what she saw wasn’t stubborn defiance—it was closer to quiet discouragement.

Good grief! What is this mess? 

Is it my fault? 

Should I never have—ugh! Sharon bit her tongue, forcing back the outburst that threatened to explode.

She took a steadying breath, then her face hardened with resolve. 

Seizing Riena’s arm, she pulled her firmly.

“We’re going.”

“…Sorry? Where?”

“Where else? To that blazing beacon of gold that shines even at night—the grandest resort on this island!”

She pointed. 

Their destination was absurdly close: the glittering La Floriena, completed just a week ago.

***

After the evening briefing and a bath, Dante left the master suite and wandered slowly into the small garden behind the annex.

Unlike the greenhouses open to any guest or the main garden, this space was private, reserved only for the resort’s master.

But calling it a garden was generous. 

Not a single flower grew here, only neatly trimmed shrubs and ornamentals.

Once, a gardener had suggested gently, Your Grace, perhaps some flowers? 

The climate here is mild, they bloom early and abundantly. 

Their fragrance would drift into your chambers with the wind…

Enough. This will do.

For Dante, the thought was unbearable.

He despised flowers. 

He still remembered too clearly how they had fallen, endlessly, over coffins and graves.

Not that it was the sole reason. 

To him, flowers were useless things. 

He had never once found them beautiful since that day, nor ever enjoyed their scent.

Every spring, when blossoms bloomed, he ordered the windows of his office and bedroom sealed. 

Servants would air the rooms only when he was gone, then burn candles to erase the lingering fragrance.

Yes—he hated flowers that much.

Now he stood in the barren garden’s center, cigar in hand.

Click.

The flame caught, and he drew in the first taste of smoke.

“…I said I can’t!”

A voice carried faintly from afar. 

Dante’s brow furrowed. 

No one should be here—La Floriena had not even opened yet.

Footsteps approached. 

He removed the cigar from his lips and turned toward the back entrance.

“Miss Sharon, let’s do this another time… please!”

The cigar slipped from his fingers. 

That voice—he’d heard it every day in his head, without fail, for weeks.

“There’s no next time! Keep putting it off and you’ll lose your chance forever!”

“It’s too late tonight—tomorrow, then…!”

And then, two figures stepped into view.

Dante stood, too stunned even to smirk.

“Tomorrow what?”

He crushed the fallen cigar under his heel and leaned at an angle, hands sliding into his pockets, eyes gleaming with cold incredulity.

The two froze. 

Then the shameless girl—Sharon—snapped her gaze between Dante and Riena, before blurting out:

“…G-good evening! We just happened to wander over! I’ll be off now. Reina! See you tomorrow!”

“Wait, Sharon—!”

But she bolted, vanishing into the night.

Dante narrowed his eyes and turned his gaze back. 

Only one remained.

Riena stood stiff as a board, staring blankly at the place Sharon had disappeared.

He waited. 

Patiently. 

Until she lifted her head. 

Until her eyes met his.

Instead of tapping his arm as he often did, Dante clasped his hands loosely behind his back and simply looked down at her.

She didn’t take long. 

Far quicker than he expected, she raised her face, her dark brown eyes rippling with conflicted emotion.

At once, she bit her lip, lowered her gaze, and bowed.

“…Forgive me, Your Grace, for disturbing you at this hour.”

She stepped back, slowly. 

Or rather, she tried to.

“That’s it?”

His voice was flat.

“Wasn’t it always the case that whenever you came at night, you brought some startling news with you?”

It wasn’t a sneer, not even scornful—just a baffled dryness.

Riena froze mid-step. 

Her lips moved, then stilled again. 

Words wouldn’t come.

Dante said nothing more, simply watching her bent head. 

His gaze drifted downward—then caught.

Her hand was once again wrapped in a thin bandage.

Irritation pricked at him, unbidden. 

His jaw clenched, tendons standing out.

Then she lifted her head, steady this time, and met his eyes.

“I came… to apologize.”

Apologize? Dante nearly laughed aloud, but forced it back. 

She had come after three silent weeks, in the dead of night—only to say sorry?

“And what is there for you to apologize for?” His voice turned sharp, lips twisting.

“Because I struck you, Your Grace. But… I don’t think I’m the only one who should apologize.”

“…What?”

“You were rude as well. So I believe we should both apologize, and both forgive each other.”

Her gaze stayed fixed on him, calm, unwavering.

“…That day, before so many people… I am sorry I slapped you, Your Grace.”

Strangely, she felt no bitterness. 

Not even regret—only a curious stillness in her chest.

“I should have said it right away, but I didn’t. So I’m sorry it’s so late.”

She bowed deeply. 

Her soft, earnest voice filled the desolate garden.

Dante clenched his fists behind his back. 

His thoughts churned. 

The memory of her late-night visits, always bearing some revelation, pressed sharply against him.

Slowly, he spoke.

“Fine.”

“…Does that mean you accept my apology?”

Her eyes brightened under the moonlight, locked unwaveringly on his. 

She would not look away until he answered.

And at last, Dante gave the smallest nod.

Relief eased her rigid face.

Now it was his turn. 

She knew he would not leave her words unanswered—not if her reasoning rang true. That was his way.

She waited, calm and patient.

Time stretched. 

Then, at last, Dante spoke again.

“Yes… I, too, lost control.”

He paused, then continued evenly.

“In front of all those people, I laid hands on the man you were seeing.”

“….”

“And I refused to even hear what you had to say.”

He hesitated. 

Her eyes flickered with hope.

“…I’m sorry.”

The words, low and heavy, drifted on the night air and filled the garden.