CHAPTER 56: OVERWHELMING GUILT

The sofa was far too comfortable. Ilaria could not even recall the moment sleep had stolen her.

After Marion brought her dinner last night, the warmth of the meal had settled deep in her stomach, heavy and drowsy, and she had only meant to rest for a while. But now, with the light of morning brushing through the curtains, she realized she had surrendered the entire night to slumber.

"Hhh...mmm...morning..." she yawned.

Ilaria stirred slowly, her lashes fluttering against the light that crept through the curtains. For a moment she did not know where she was, only that the air was quiet and heavy and that something warm brushed near her forehead.

When her eyes finally opened, the sight in front of her stole the breath from her chest. There, just inches away from her face, was her husband’s, his cheek resting against the cushion like he had simply collapsed there.

His dark hair fell across his brow, his features softened in sleep, stripped of the iron and command he always carried. She blinked, once, twice, almost afraid that the vision would dissolve if she moved too suddenly.

For a heartbeat she simply stared, unable to reconcile this quiet image with the man who had sent her away with his words like blades. Her violet eyes were circled wide as she tried so hard not to breath too loudly.

He was so close...

"..."

She lowered her gaze to his closed eyes, his nose, his lips...

He looked...tired.

Not in the way weariness dragged down servants after a long day, but bone-deep, the kind of exhaustion that spoke of years instead of hours.

Her fingers twitched on the cushion. An instinctive impulse told her to reach out and smooth the strands of hair from his face, to touch him to assure herself that he was really here with her. But her hand stilled at the last minute.

He did come back...

But why was he here instead of his sleeping chamber? At what hour had he returned?

Her brows knit faintly as she studied him, the question stirring more worry than relief. Had he stayed here the whole night, slumped uncomfortably against the sofa? The thought made her chest ache. She shifted ever so slightly, careful not to wake him, afraid even her breath might disturb his rare and fragile rest.

He was on the floor too...

Had he wanted to talk to her but unable to do so because she had fallen asleep? Up close, she could see the shadows beneath his eyes and the weary set of his mouth even in sleep. He looked as if the weight of the world had been carved into him.

Ilaria panicked a little. How should she make him comfortable? If she touched him, he might wake, and if he woke, he might be angry.

So she slowly rose from her position, pressing her hands into the cushion to lift herself. Her movements were clumsy with restraint, every shift a held breath. Then she sat there for a moment and think.

What should I do? What should I do?

He looked so uncomfortable, slumped awkwardly against the sofa. He needed a blanket. A pillow. Something. Her heart quickened as she darted her gaze around the chamber, desperate for a way to ease him without disturbing his rest.

But there was no blanket within reach, no pillow close enough. Her hands trembled uselessly before she wrung them together, chewing her lip in helplessness.

Her eyes then came to rest on the low table beside the sofa, making her haste halt. The cloth was still there, neatly folded, but the bun she had left untouched...was gone. Not even a crumb left to stain the table like it was licked clean instead of being eaten.

Ilaria was stunned. Her lips parted as heat suddenly rushed to her cheeks, her heart skipping when realization sank in.

He ate it. He came back, and he ate it.

...But it was already cold?!

Her gaze snapped back to him, wide and frantic.

What if his stomach hurts after eating something that sat out all night? What if he wakes up with a stomachache?

Her hands fluttered uselessly in front of her as though she might conjure a remedy out of thin air. For one absurd moment, she even considered shaking him awake just to ask if he was feeling ill. But then another thought zapped into her mind.

She clasped both hands over her mouth.

...Did he faint after eating the bun?!

Her eyes grew impossibly wider, darting between him and the empty cloth on the table.

Oh no. Oh no. What if he was poisoned? What if it was my fault?!

The more she thought about it, the worse it became, until her heart was racing so fast she thought it might be louder than her breathing.

Just as she was about to overthink again, Levan moved. His shoulders shifted, a low sound catching in his throat like sleep was fighting to hold him.

Ilaria quickly looked at him, her hands still clamped over her mouth. Then his head turned slightly, the fall of his hair brushing against the cushion, making her panic burst out before she could stop it.

"Are you okay?!" she blurted, leaning forward in a rush.

Her voice was soft, but the urgency laced through it made the words trip over themselves. "You— you ate the bun, didn’t you? Is your stomach— do you feel sick? Does it hurt anywhere?"

She was already leaning too close, her wide eyes scanning his face as if she could diagnose him just by looking. Her heart thundered with such concern that she did not even realize how ridiculous she sounded.

Levan stirred, lashes heavy, the fog of sleep clinging stubbornly to him. Her soft voice was the first thing he heard. He blinked until his vision clearing just enough to find her hovering above him with her eyes wide and anxious, and her hands fluttering like she had been caught in the act of some crime.

The immediate concern laced in her voice and on her expression was so absurd that it made him close his eyes again and sighed. She was looking at him like nothing else in the world mattered more than his well-being. He had spent the whole night thinking about her reaction and it felt like a nightmare came true.

Levan was not sure if he wanted to fall back to sleep or storm out of the chamber. In the end, though, he only inclined his head properly and cracked his neck. The hours he spent slumping there had caused his body to stiffen, but he made no attempt to rise from the floor yet.

"...I just woke up and the first thing you do is worry over me?" His voice was hoarse when he spoke, his eyes accusing when he looked at her.

Ilaria blinked, startled so completely that her mind went blank. He had just woken up, and he was already angry? For a moment she could only stare, caught between confusion and disbelief. His hair was tousled, the faint drowsiness still softening his features, making him look younger, almost boyish, if not for the irritation clouding his face.

"...Then what should I do?" Confused, she found herself asking.

"Curse me," he blurted out of nowhere. "Spit at me. Be furious. Saints, throw something at me if you must."

Huh?!

Her lips parted, baffled by his sudden order. "W-why would I do that?"

"Because I left you," he said bluntly, his eyes dark and unflinching even through the exhaustion. "Because I promised to bring you to the banquet and left; and because I made you wait until you fell asleep. Any woman with sense would have my head for it."

She stared at him in dismay, her hands fluttering like they could not decide whether to reach for him or fold in her lap. "...What are you talking about? A-are you angry at me?"

"I’m not," he spat.

Ilaria frowned. "Well, if you’re not, then— what you just asked me to do is ridiculous."

"Ridiculous?" He grated. "No, ridiculous is you looking at me like that as if I deserve your concern—"

"Because you do," she interrupted, the words spilling before she could think. Her cheeks burned, her voice small but fierce. "You’re my husband. If I can’t worry for you, then who else should?"

He stilled at that, throat working. For a brief second, silence pressed between them, broken only by the faint hitch of her breath. Levan dragged a hand through his hair and deflated slightly, leaning his face against his propped palm as though he regretted every word he just said. He should have known she would answer like that.

For a long while, he simply sat there on the floor, disoriented and silent, the golden wash of morning catching the hard lines of his face, making Ilaria stiffened and wonder if something had happened the night before for him to wake up irritated. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet and muted,

"...You’re not mad?"

"...Mad?" She asked cautiously.

"Yes." His gaze deliberately slid to hers, sharp but weighted with something heavier. "After everything that night."

She hesitated, then managed a shook of her head. "...It’s just a banquet."

"You were already prepared and dressed." He searched her face as if daring her to lie. "You even came here looking for me."

Her throat tightened, wondering how did he even knew that, but still she stubbornly clarified, "Well...there’s a tear in my dress. If I had gone, everyone would have seen it and I would just humiliate myself. It’s...it’s a good thing I stayed."

Levan exhaled a deep breath. He was not sure if he wanted to crack her mind open just to see what she was thinking, or snap at her until she finally stopped being so forgiving. "You’d rather make excuses than admit I failed you, aren’t you?"

Ilaria’s mouth parted in shock. No matter how she tried to fathom the situation, she could not decipher what was wrong with him.

"...Why are you saying things like this all of a sudden? You just woke up..." Her voice softened, uncertain, eyes wide with confusion and worry as if he had genuinely scared her. "Did you...have a nightmare?"

Levan almost laughed at her way of thinking, but it came out more like a scoff. "A nightmare? That’s your assumption?"

She nodded faintly, still thrown off at his outburst. "You don’t usually say such things to me...You sound as if you’re angry."

"I am angry," he bit the words off, looking away like he could not bear to look at her any longer. His shoulders were taut, the bluntness in his voice cutting even as his eyes betrayed something more fragile. "But not at you."

Silence fell once again, heavy and suffocating. Ilaria shifted slightly, but the uncertainty in her eyes held her still. He did not look at her. Instead, his thoughts ran in vicious circles of what had transpired — the dead woman, the wasted years, the cruelty of hope snatched away, and then this: his wife, sitting before him, offering kindness he had no right to take.

Everything felt suffocating to him. The frustration, the guilt, the sharp edge of wanting to break something just to feel in control again. It was ridiculous how just in a span of a day, the calmness he had built like a wall for years crumbled just like that. But he swallowed it all down, and when he finally moved, it was not with anger.

Levan’s hands found hers, cool and small in his grasp, and he gathered them both between his palms as though in prayer. He leaned forward until his forehead was pressed against her knuckles, eyes falling shut, his brows furrowed as if the weight of his thoughts finally demanded silence.

And then he stayed like that. Long enough for the silence to stretch further; for Ilaria to feel the steady weight of his hot breath against her skin; for the beats of her heart to boom in her ears. She was at a loss, but more than that she felt like she would combust. He was so close to her lap that she swore her legs had lost their function.

But it was his voice, rough and raw, that truly broke her when he whispered, almost choking on the word, "...I’m sorry."