Page 107 of Modern Romance Collection December 2024 Books 5-8

And Jolie after that moment, spread out before him like one more decadent feast, giving all of herself to him. And murmuring things she should not while he took her, as if all of this was a different kind of story than the one he’d been telling himself all along—

But he could not accept it.

He would not.

The next day, he made a few calls. And as Alceu was nowhere to be found, he took leave of Paris and set off for Switzerland instead.

The last payment sent from Jolie’s bank account had been to an address in Geneva, only two days before. It was time, he concluded, to find out therealtruth. Then, perhaps, he would treat his darling wife to a fewwhat ifsof his own design.

It was a short flight, and the closer he got, the more he felt that deep, dark, boiling fury inside of him.

He was certain that whatever he was about to find he would not like.

If she had not been a virgin, he would have assumed that she was supporting a lover. He could hear her as if she was sitting beside him on his plane, making arch comments about the power of herbuilt-in lie detector.

Something about that seemed to shift inside him uneasily.

But he could not believe the things she had said to him. He could not believe she was simply an innocent, caught up in Spyros’s game.

And then, the way she told it, in his.

He could not believe those things because if he did, he realized as his plan set down in Geneva, he would have to accept that he had not distanced himself from the old man the way he’d been so certain he had.

It should have been impossible that anyone could compare him to his father.

That it was not—

That thought was so horrifying that he found himself clenching his own jaw so tight that it was a wonder he didn’t crack a tooth or two.

He had a car waiting for him and he stalked off the plane and into the backseat, letting the driver worry about getting him where he needed to go. Though that allowed him perhaps too much time to sit and consider the problem that was Jolie.

Apostolis didn’t want to think about her. He didn’t want to think about the seven years she had carried the hotel on her own slender shoulders. He did not want to think about the reading of his father’s will. Or that stormy wedding that they had both surrendered to with such ill grace that their only two guests had removed themselves to get away from the vitriol between them.

He did not want to think of the years that stretched ahead of them still when it already seemed as if a lifetime had passed since his father had died and his vindictive intentions had been made clear.

There was only Jolie, for five whole years, if he wanted to claim his own birthright.

Then he thought about that birthright, too. And wondered why it hadn’t occurred to him that it was an act of aggression on his father’s part to have left nothing at all to Dioni.

Then again,argued a voice inside of him that sounded suspiciously sharp, like Jolie’s,it’s likely notyouthat he expected would take care of her. It’s her friend. Her stepmother. Your wife. Spyros trusted her more than you, so does your own sister.

In the back of the car, sliding along through the streets of Geneva, the lake gleaming at him and far-off mountain ranges standing proud. But he didn’t see any of that. Apostolis felt his own chest vibrating and realized that he was actuallygrowling.

Out loud.

He stopped at once.

Jolie wanted him to trust her. His own father had never trusted him, but then Apostolis had known better than to trust him. And he could not remember how or when that had started. It seemed to him that it had always been that way, since long before he had gained enough perspective on the world to make such a decision.

It felt like a simple gut feeling, and one he’d had his whole life.

Spyros was untrustworthy. Everything he did had deep, sharp talons attached and he never seemed to care who got cut. It was easy, even as a child, to make sure to keep away from that type of person.

He looked down at his hands, stretching them out as if looking for the blades attached to his own fingers that he was sure, suddenly, he could feel.

And then, perhaps inevitably, he thought of his mother.

Apostolis so rarely allowed himself that kind of nostalgia. When he thought of her, it was always from back when he was very small. When she had been a voice, soft and loving and instantly able to soothe him. He could remember the way she smelled like summer and that sometimes, when he passed the flowers that Jolie took such pride in arranging about the hotel, there were certain varieties that stopped him in his tracks.

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