Page 10 of Modern Romance May 2026 Books 5-8
‘Because you cared about your brother more than our marriage. And yet, when it comes to it, when you have an opportunity to make his life better, you won’t take it. I can make his life better. Yours too.’
He watched as she crouched down to unlock the padlock. ‘My life is fine. More importantly, it’s here. What possible reason would I have to give it all up for you?’
It was tempting to point out that moments earlier she had refused to listen to his reason for doing so. Instead, he said, calmly, ‘If you agree to my proposal, you’ll need to give up your jobs so naturally I will recompense you. And I will be generous, enough for you to get Oscar real, professional help.’
Her chin snapped up. ‘You’re going to pay me? To be your wife.’
He could feel her shock, greater even than when he had suggested that they stay married. And he could feel her retreating inside herself, to that place that he had never managed to access. Because that was where Dulcie had failed their marriage vows.
She might have promised ‘to have and to hold’ but for him that had meant fully and completely accepting him, committing to him, recognising his needs and being present for him, and that had been true sexually, but emotionally she had always kept a part of herself out of reach.
Now though, it felt as though she had raised the drawbridge and closed the portcullis.
‘That’s very “generous” of you, Ettore. But as being your wife would mean having to spend time with you, I’d rather scrub toilets for the rest of my life. Don’t come looking for me again. Now you know where I live, you can just send me the divorce papers. Ciao, Ettore.’ She mounted the bike and before he could reply she was pedalling furiously away from him, her blonde ponytail streaming behind her as she bumped over the cobblestones and out of his life for the second time.
But this time, he was not letting her go.
Later, Dulcie would wonder how she had got home. She had no memory of stopping at any traffic lights or turning left or right. The last memory she had was of twisting the dials on her padlock with trembling fingers.
And Ettore’s beautiful, so familiar face, not soft with love, but dark with frustration as she cycled away.
Unlocking her front door, she bumped her bike’s wheel over the threshold and into the hallway. Her heart was racing, not from the speed at which she had pedalled. It was the shock of seeing Ettore again. And of his offer—suggestion, proposal? Whatever it was—to stay as his wife. For money.
Her head swam and she leaned back against the wall, breathing in the cool, still air of the tiny house she had bought eighteen months ago. She and Oscar had repainted it with various calming shades of green and pulled up the horrific carpets. Now there were varnished floorboards and rugs, and a sofa dotted with cushions.
She had wanted it to be a home for Oscar. But the truth was, she had no idea how to make a home.
When she was a child, her family’s house was large and full of material possessions, but it also quivered with a claustrophobic tension, a kind of permanent sense of impending doom. After her parents’ divorce, she lived in a bigger house filled with even more material possessions. But her father was critical and controlling. He paid for everything, but he wanted results, and he didn’t tolerate flaws or weaknesses or defiance.
As she remembered their last conversation, her breathing stumbled.
Her father was no role model, any more than her mother had been.
But maybe she was doing something right because Oscar had been doing so much better lately. He was doing exercise and even volunteering for two hours every day. A sense of purpose was part of the programme that she and Oscar had agreed with his counsellor. That and a curfew. Which he hadn’t missed for over two months now.
She was so proud of him. Of both of them. They were a family with their own unique name. They didn’t need anyone else. Although it was an undeniable bonus that Oscar liked their neighbours, Chris and Kelly.
She needed to focus on that, on Oscar, and forget Ettore’s ridiculous, incomprehensible proposal.
Ridiculous because they had managed only six weeks of married life the last time, and incomprehensible because she hadn’t given him a chance to explain his reasons for wanting to stay married.
Because he had offered her money.
‘If you agree to my proposal, you’ll need to give up your jobs so naturally I will recompense you.’ With an effort, she blanked out the memory of Ettore’s voice.
Focus, she told herself firmly.
Oscar would be leaving work any time now and regular meals were another part of his recovery.
Twenty minutes later, Dulcie was cooking in the kitchen when she heard the soft thump of the front door closing. Glancing at the clock on the oven, she smiled. Oscar was early.
‘I’m in the kitchen,’ she called out. ‘We’re having your favourite. I even added cream to the mashed potatoes.’
‘That’s great.’
Her scalp froze and the contents of her stomach solidified into a hard, unyielding lump. She turned slowly away from the saucepan on the hob. But she didn’t need to. She recognised that note. Over the last three years, she had grown attuned to every tiny shift in her brother’s speech and behaviour patterns.
Someone else might not even have noticed the slight slur that he was trying to conceal in his voice. But she could hear it, and she knew what it meant.
