Page 236 of Modern Romance May 2026 Books 5-8
She was already at the top, and called out in Italian, “Excuse me. Can you take me to the train station?”
Rocco hurried up the ladder and saw she was speaking to one of his workers, a middle-aged tradesman gathering tools from the back of his truck.
“I’ll take you to Naples,” Rocco said.
“I will crawl on my hands and knees all the way to Berlin before I go anywhere with you ever again,” Mira said in a voice that was guttural with betrayal. “No?” she demanded of the startled workman. “Fine.” She started walking toward the road.
Rocco nodded curtly.
The man called out that yes, he could take her to Vietri sul Mare.
Rocco followed her to the truck and held the door open. The seat was covered in dust, the interior reeking of grease and solvents and the smell from his youth, dropping him straight back to those years of striving to earn enough of a wage that he could go back to his aunt. Striving to be enough for the love he wanted.
“Do you want this?” he asked of the box he still held.
She dropped the paperwork into it along with her engagement ring, then turned her back on him. Her seat belt clicked.
“Vai, per favore,” she said to the workman.
She didn’t look at Rocco again.
Mira slipped into the same fog that had carried her from Otto’s office six weeks ago. Seven?Time flies when you’re in a state of self-delusion. She’d thought she was falling in love with someone who might someday love her back, but it was all a lie.
She didn’t bother collecting her things from Naples or going to Rome for anything from Rocco’s apartment. They were all things that Rocco had bought her and she wanted nothing from him.Nothing.
Like a wounded animal going to ground, she made her way back to Berlin. There, the silence of her apartment closed around her like a glacier, encasing her in ice. She was back to feeling more alone in the world than any person ought to be, but there was familiarity in this hollow, absent insignificance. She knew how to exist in it.
The last time she’d felt like this, however, she’d had a job to go to. And Axel. Their relationship had been superficial, but being forced to go out with him had kept her putting one foot in front of the other.
Without that much to oblige her, she barely moved from the bed to the couch and back. She showered and put on clean pajamas every night, but she wore them every day, all day. She ordered food, but she didn’t eat much. When the woman arrived to dust and water the plants, she let her take out the garbage and run the laundry and remake her bed, but that was the most contact she had with the outside world.
Rocco texted until she blocked him. Messages also came from Patrizia about the villa along with a handful of invitations from the new acquaintances she’d met through Rocco. She hit block until her phone quit making noise.
The quiet should have been a relief, but nothing helped. She was one raw nerve. An abscessed tooth. Pure pain. Anything that touched her only amplified her agony.
Another week went by. She knew because she had clean pajamas again and the fridge was empty of take-away containers. Otherwise, nothing had changed. She was still bundled on the sofa watching something inane. It could have been a mystery or a comedy. She had no idea. It filled her vision with flickering images and hitting “still watching” was all she was able to accomplish in this state.
She didn’t know what day it was or even the time. When her phone buzzed, she picked it up to block it, surprised there was anyone lefttoblock.
It was Winola, Otto’s housekeeper.
Her thumb hovered over the decline button. She only had Winola in her phone because the woman had texted once when Mira had forgotten her coat at Otto’s mansion.
Winola had always been nice to her. Or rather, she had never been cruel. Not like everyone else.
She answered, “Braun,” and immediately had to clear her throat. She hadn’t spoken in days and it struck her that she was still using Otto’s surname when she had never had any claim to it.
“I’m so sorry, Frau Braun,” Winola said in a tone of distress. “Your father has passed away.”
“What?” It took a moment to connect the dots, then she said, “Otto?”
“I found him when I arrived. He seems to have collapsed as he was preparing for bed last night. Perhaps his heart? The police are on their way with the coroner. They asked me to inform his next of kin and ask you to come. I’m so sorry.”
He’s not my fatherwas her first thought.
She could have been his daughter, though. He had had ample time to nurture a relationship with her that would have had her crying over his death. Instead, she was hollow and the only loss she felt was for what could have been.
She looked to the pajamas she wore, wanting to stay in them. She had had enough of Otto putting her through the wringer. She had cut him from her life. Deservedly so. Now this?
