Chapter 5 The Termination Notice

The sound hit before she even reached the kitchen a sharp crash, glass against marble, followed by the unmistakable thud of a heavy plate shattering.

Sienna stopped in the doorway.

The chef stood stiffly by the counter, his apron stained, hands trembling slightly. On the floor, a plate of grilled chicken lay in ruins beside a pool of sauce. And in the middle of it all, Dante Varon sat in his wheelchair like a storm containing the kind that didn’t scream, but destroyed anyway.

“I said poached fish,” he hissed.

The chef’s face flushed. “You’ve changed the menu four times this week, sir. You didn’t specify for lunch.”

“Because I assumed,” Dante said, each word clipped and deliberate, “that my staff could manage basic comprehension.”

Sienna crossed her arms, leaning lightly against the doorframe. “Should I come back when the world stops ending over poultry?”

Dante turned his head slowly toward her. “Doctor Hale. Perfect timing.”

The chef looked from one to the other, eyes full of quiet desperation. “I’m done, Mr. Varon,” he said suddenly, voice trembling. “You can yell at the walls next time. I’m not staying another day.”

He ripped the apron from his neck and stormed past Sienna without another glance.

The silence that followed was thick enough for someone to hear the pin fall.

From somewhere deeper in the house, the cleaner’s voice floated out sharp, indignant, then the echo of a door slamming. One by one, the villa emptied.

Sienna exhaled slowly. “So. That’s lunch gone. Dinner’s not looking promising either.”

Dante’s mouth curved not a smile, but the suggestion of one. “I suppose you’ll have to be creative.”

“I’m a doctor, not a chef.”

“Adaptability,” he said smoothly, “is part of the healing process.”

She frowned. “For you or for me?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached for something on the counter, a single sheet of paper, folded once. He extended it toward her.

“Congratulations,” he said. “You’ve just been promoted.”

Sienna didn’t take it immediately. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m always serious.”

When she finally unfolded the paper, her stomach dropped. At the top, in Dante’s precise handwriting:

Household Management Schedule.

Below, a list.

Meal preparation: breakfast, lunch, dinner.

Laundry: weekly rotation, no outsourcing.

Grocery acquisition: minimum budget $10000/week.

Daily patient progress report.

Supervise villa maintenance and deliveries.

And at the very bottom, a final line written in darker ink:” Don’t touch my bedroom. Ever.”

Sienna raised her eyes slowly. “You’re joking.”

Dante tilted his head. “Do I look like I'm joking?”

“No,” she said flatly. “You look like you’re trying to make me quit.”

He said nothing, but the faint flicker in his expression told her she was right.

“Six weeks, wasn’t it?” he asked after a moment. “That’s what your contract says.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You read it.”

“I wrote it.”

The words landed hard. Of course he did. Every clause, every line designed to trap her.

Sienna folded the paper, sliding it back across the counter. “I’m your doctor, Dante. Not your maid.”

“You’re whatever keeps me functioning,” he said quietly. “The rest left. You didn’t.”

She hesitated, caught off guard by the honesty in his tone. “That’s not a compliment.”

“I didn’t sound like one.”

The silence between them stretched taut, fragile. Somewhere in that quietness, she saw it, the edge of something raw behind his cruelty. Not power, not pride, but survival.

She turned away first, collecting her composure with the practiced grace of someone used to difficult patients. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll cook. But if you throw another plate, I’ll prescribe you a new form of therapy. It involves duct tape.”

He almost smiled at that. Almost.

As she left the kitchen, paper still in hand, Dante’s gaze followed her not angry this time, but assessing her.

When the sound of her footsteps faded, he wheeled back toward the counter and stared at the shattered porcelain on the floor. The pieces reflected bits of his face fractured, and distorted.

He didn’t move to clean it.

Instead, he muttered under his breath, almost too quietly to hear, “She’ll touch it eventually.”

Later that night, Sienna sat at the small table by her room, studying the list again. The ink had smudged near the bottom, as if he’d written the last line in haste.

Don’t touch my bedroom. Ever.

Why was he so specific?

She thought of the way his tone had shifted, not commanding, not cruel, but defensive. A wall built fast, as if it hid something.

Her gaze drifted toward the hall that led to his private quarters, the only locked door in the villa’s east wing. She hadn’t been inside since the first day.

Now she wondered what she’d find if she tried.

The thought unsettled her not because she was afraid of him, but because a part of her wanted to know.

Somewhere, deep inside the villa, a door creaked.

Sienna froze, listening.

Then, she heard footsteps and it stopped.

Her pulse quickened. She held her breath, then she heard nothing. She walked towards the sound of the footsteps, there was no one in sight. Could it be Dante? Or was she just imagining things?

She quickly rushed to the study and glanced over the window, but there was no sign of anyone leaving the villa.

Sienna sat down slowly, deep in thoughts. She was alone with Dante,who could be the owner of the footsteps. She shook her head, and decided not to think about it too much.

But the next morning, when she stepped into the kitchen, she noticed something immediately: the folded paper from last night was gone.

And in its place, on the counter, lay a single photograph.

A car,twisted with fire in the background.

And a man’s hand gripping a steering wheel scarred exactly where Dante’s was.

Beneath it, written in someone's handwriting, maybe Dante’s handwriting.

“Do you still think I’m joking?”

The photograph was a proof of the crash, and an unspoken challenge. Why did he leave it for her to find? What does he want her to see?