Rhiane's resolve and commitment to punishing herself crumpled when, after Luke slowly and painfully made his way into the back seat, he clutched his side and declared he couldn't breathe. She had already been watching him with concern as he struggled to shift across the center console, to manipulate the passenger seat forward, and to stand without assistance when he had exited and re-entered the vehicle. Sitting side by side earlier she had wrongfully assumed that he had been reluctant to move because of the gash on his leg. Now that she observed him more closely her guilt only intensified. Luke refused to acknowledge it aloud, but he was much more injured than she was. While she did have some compromised mobility, he was clearly in suffering more than she could possibly be with her singular acute ailment, and being just as stubborn about letting it show. Rhiane hadn't dared offer her help. Not only would he have rejected it, she didn't deserve his reassurance and consideration a second time, not after her negligence had careened them towards this situation.

As terrible as she felt, however, she was a creature of compassion. Luke had witnessed or heard about this multiple times. Rhiane was careful to put on her best face forward and not show her vulnerability with anyone except her fiance, but she had already become well-known in the castle for her empathy. The aristocracy did not expect much from her and yet she had given every noble she met a compliment. She was polite with her attendants more than was necessary or encouraged, treating them with overflowing warmth, kindness, and congeniality, failing to heed any warnings or advice about the breach of protocol. Every little mundane task earned an affirmation of gratitude. The first day of their trip abroad she had gifted a hat to a very flustered and confused assistant that had been admiring the accessory. She had famously had eaten a meal with her staff. Anyone who doubted her earnest benevolence on broadcast was real had been shocked to discover its sincerity in person.

Ostensibly it was this overwhelming compassion that had made her such a suitable match for Luke. It was a trait that objective evaluation found the public thought the royal family was lacking- both in personality and action- and that would be the virtue most beneficial to improving their image. Someone like Rhiane would also be more willing to make sacrifices for her future husband and king than if she was more selfish, cold, or calculated. This might not matter terribly much to Luke, but it did matter to his mother, who valued the princess elect only in what she could do for her son.

Ordinarily she was not easily fooled nor was she a proverbial doormat. The best example of this was her estrangement with her father and brother Gerald. Queen Camilla monitored correspondence, or its lack thereof, between Rhiane and the outside world. Rhiane had alluded to an estrangement with her family in private, but the IT team had been quietly surprised at the lack of contact. Neither party had written, called, or even attempted. Rhiane had taken one call from Sebastian and made one to him, a brief call to let him know presents were en route, but otherwise there had been silence. Despite all her smiles at the engagement ball she was not ignorant to the insults behind her back, the criticism, or the uphill battle she'd have in forging a small whisper of a friendship. She could read people and establish boundaries.

Here and now with Luke, however, her weaknesses had been exploited. She was slightly panicked at Luke's health. She was overwrought with shame. She was frustratingly flustered when he had shown some tenderness. If there was ever a time she was not suspicious about ulterior motives it had been that moment when he expressed distress.

In the span of a few minutes her upper torso was drenched. She closed the driver's side door, which again groaned its protest, before clamboring in next to Luke and awkwardly shutting the back seat door. Her hair was dripping wet but her clothes were in varying stages of damp or dry. The blouse she was wearing was immodestly clinging to her arms, shoulders, and back, with shadows of her undergarment showing through, but her trousers had been mostly spared between her waist and knees. It was an almost comical comparison to Luke who had been mostly spared- he had not been foolishly standing in the rainfall for nearly as long as she had while she was waiting on him to navigate his relocation.

"What can I do?" she asked as she drew closer but refrained from touching. He could see a flash of hesitance, though it was hard to wager what caused the pause- fear for his condition or the persistent fear of what could be construed as an affectionate gesture. "Is there anywhere you think you're bleeding?" she asked, trying not to be hysterical over the possibility there was a punctured lung or an abrasion she had missed. Gingerly she reached for the hem of his shirt, as if to lift it where he was favoring, if only to determine the cause, though a red flush had started to creep up on her visage once more.