Page 9 of Modern Romance May 2026 Books 5-8
‘They had no right to tell you why I left.’
‘People like to gossip,’ he said obliquely. ‘And no doubt your brother’s antics helped break up an otherwise boring day.’ No need to mention that people particularly liked to gossip when there was a financial incentive to do so.
He watched a flush of colour seep across her cheeks. She was angry and hurt, but what of it?
She had no idea what it had been like walking out of her flat into the darkness. He had found sleep impossible. Eating, a chore.
The accident had added despair and shame to his misery. He had missed her so badly and had stopped taking the pain medication because he had been paranoid that he might mention her name, call out for her.
And no amount of morphine could dull the pain of losing both Dulcie and Edo.
It had been the one time in his life that he’d been grateful for his family’s telenovela tendencies. Grateful for anything that would distract him from that ache inside.
‘They don’t know the full story.’ She glowered at him.
That old chestnut, he thought, and he felt a stab of frustration. How many times had his brother or his father or his cousins trotted out that line when the consequences of their antics had needed to be quietly and discreetly swept under a particularly large and forgiving carpet?
It might not be the full story but, in his experience, there was no smoke without fire.
Besides, he had met her brother. He was a definite firestarter, he thought, picturing Oscar’s glazed eyes and curling lip when they had found him waiting on the doorstep of Dulcie’s flat.
‘Of course, I wouldn’t have had to go to your workplace if you hadn’t changed your name,’ he said softly.
Her chin jerked up, blue eyes wide like a Siamese cat.
But why Shaw?
There was no obvious explanation. Nor was it of any concern to him. And yet it needled him. That she should prefer any name to his.
And solitude to his company, he thought a moment later as she darted sideways and, this time, she made it past him and he found himself in the incredible position of having to pursue her down the street, without actually looking as if he was pursuing her because the last thing he needed was to make a scene.
‘You can’t keep running away from this, Dulcie.’ He was walking beside her just as he used to do whenever they went out together. Only then they used to hold hands and now her hands were curled into tight fists. ‘More importantly, there’s no point. I know where you live.’
‘So, you’re a stalker now. And you wonder why I don’t want to accept your tempting offer of marriage?’
‘I’m not offering to marry you. We’re still married.’
‘Barely,’ she snapped. ‘And not for much longer. The sooner we get divorced, the better.’
‘There was nothing stopping you from filing for divorce when you ended our marriage.’
‘I didn’t end our marriage.’ She stopped so abruptly and he was walking so fast that he was several feet ahead of her before he realised that she had stopped and he was forced to stride back to her. ‘You did. You made me choose.’
Her blue eyes were narrowed now, reminding him even more of an angry feline.
‘And you chose your brother.’
She squared up to him, her ponytail flicking provocatively from side to side in a way that made him want to reach out and grab it and wrap it around his hand and tether her to him, and he had a sudden, dangerous urge to step closer, and keep stepping closer.
‘Because you made it a choice. And now you’re trying to force me to make another choice.’
Now she was walking again, and he was having to lengthen his stride to catch up with her.
‘I’m merely asking you to do something you did two years ago of your own volition. You are my wife.’
She stopped next to a bike, chained to some railings. ‘I haven’t been your wife since you walked out of my flat in London, two years ago, Ettore. And according to our vows, I never was. I mean, you didn’t exactly follow through on for better or worse, did you? You met my brother, and you judged him, and you found him wanting. And you expected me to validate your judgement. And that was why our marriage ended.’
Not true,he thought furiously. But the past, their past, was history. The real-time equivalent of a closed book. What mattered was the present and the immediate future. And the narrative arc that required him to be married.
