Chapter 4: Breaking the Ice
Aria sat at the far end of the massive dining room table, feeling entirely out of place. The table could comfortably seat twenty people, yet it was just her and Dante, separated by a sea of polished mahogany and silver candelabras. It was their first official dinner together. For a week, they had only shared passing glances in the hallways.
The private chef had prepared a lavish spread—roasted duck, truffle risotto, and expensive wine. Aria mechanically moved her fork around her plate, her appetite non-existent. She was acutely aware of Dante’s presence at the other end. He ate quietly, but his gaze occasionally flicked toward her, analytical and sharp.
"The chef will change the menu if you don't like it," Dante said suddenly, breaking the heavy silence.
Aria jumped slightly, her fork clinking against the porcelain plate. "No, it's fine. The food is wonderful. I'm just... not very hungry."
Dante set his cutlery down and wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. "You haven't eaten a full meal since you arrived. You're surviving on coffee and half-eaten apples." He didn't say it like an accusation, merely a statement of fact. "If you’re uncomfortable eating with me, you can take your meals in your room."
"I'm not!" Aria said, a little too quickly. She flushed, embarrassed by her sudden outburst. "I mean... I'm not uncomfortable. Just unused to this."
"Unused to what? Quiet dinners?"
"Unused to people noticing if I eat or not," she admitted softly, looking down at her hands.
Before Dante could respond, a sudden crash echoed from the kitchen—a server had accidentally dropped a stack of heavy ceramic plates. The sharp, violent sound shattered the quiet room.
Instinct overrode logic. Aria flinched violently, her shoulders hiking up to her ears as she curled inward, bringing her arms up to shield her face. She squeezed her eyes shut, her breathing instantly turning shallow and erratic. She braced for the yelling, for the heavy footsteps, for the inevitable punishment that always followed loud noises in her childhood home.
Seconds ticked by. Nothing happened.
"Aria."
The voice was low, incredibly gentle, and completely steady. She slowly opened her eyes. Dante hadn't yelled. He hadn't even stood up. He remained seated at the end of the table, his hands resting visibly on the wood so she could see he wasn't making any sudden movements.
"It was just a broken plate," he said softly, holding her panicked gaze. "An accident. No one is angry. No one is coming in here to hurt you. Breathe."
Aria lowered her arms, her chest heaving as the adrenaline slowly drained from her system. A deep, humiliating blush crept up her neck. She hated that he had seen her like that. She hated how broken she was.
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"I'm sorry," she whispered, fighting back tears.
"Never apologize to me for surviving, Aria," Dante replied. For the first time, a fracture of real emotion showed in his dark eyes—a profound, devastating sadness. "But I promise you, in this house, you never have to brace for a hit again."
