Page 116 of Modern Romance Collection December 2024 Books 5-8

And it wasn’t just that he hadn’t been there; it was the very fact she needed him at all. That realisation was unravelling everything she’d ever believed about herself, about their relationship. And about this life she’d been living with Dante.

Her heart ached acutely behind her breastbone.

‘If there’s nothing else, Mrs Cappetta...’

‘Thank you.’

James nodded and left her alone.

Alone as she’d been all day.

Just today?

The voice in her head mocked her. Because it was true. It had taken the death of her mother, her funeral, for her to understand.

But now she did understand.

The weight on her shoulders doubled, anchoring her to the spot.

Her eyes moved, taking in the plush silk rugs, the hand-carved and intricate side tables with professional lighting installed to highlight the priceless art hanging in just the right spot to awe and please.

It was a museum of priceless artefacts collected and displayed in a house that showed no signs—no evidence—of the people it housed.

No evidence ofthem.

It was further proof she didn’t belong here.

The inner-city girl who had grown up surrounded by discoloured high-rises had no business here in Mayfair.

She had no right—no claim—to any of it.

The tendons contracted in her throat.

She hadn’t realised it before, hadn’t seen it, but she was in too deep.

Had she already fallen victim in the same way her mother had? Fallen in—

No. This wasn’t love.

Love didn’t exist. It was an illusion. And her mother had been punished for her folly. She’d been left broken-hearted time and time again. It’s what had killed her, led to a heart attack at forty-three.

Emma straightened her spine.

The lie of love had killed her mother.

And it would kill her too if she allowed these feelings to take hold of her.

Emma slipped off her shoes where she stood and made her way to the spiral staircase. Two at a time, she climbed them.

She entered her bedroom.Theirbedroom.

At the sight of the perfectly made bed, heat engulfed her. She couldn’t help thinking of the nights, the mornings or the afternoons she’d spent in it. In his arms.

Sex wasn’t the problem. It never had been. In fact, it’s what had started it all.

Emma couldn’t let herself think of that now.

She moved to the desk positioned by the balcony doors to the view of the secret garden below.

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