Page 181 of Modern Romance Collection December 2024 Books 5-8

‘I am leavingyou,’ he said, and the words were fire in his mouth. ‘And there will be no second chances, Emma. I will not come for you. I will not wait for you to come to me with some tale of woe. It is over. We are—’

‘Dante,please.’

He shut his ears. Blocked the Emma-shaped hole in his head. He would not let her. He did not need her. He did not want her.

Liar.

He walked past her. And it hurt. The pull of her against him. The urge to give in to temptation. To go to her and not to step around her, to enter the lift and keep on going. To walk away from her.

‘Where are you going?’

His hand on the button, his feet stalled. He did not turn. He would not look.

He’d go where he should have the night they’d met. He never should have clasped her hand. Claimed her lips. Possessed her body. Because that night she’d possessed him, his body, his mind, until everything he did was unnatural to him.

‘As far away from you as I can,’ he said, and firmly pressed the button, walked inside the opening doors and kept his back turned on the lie of Emma. The lie of their marriage. The lie she had turned it into with her broken promises.

Because if he looked, if he watched the doors close on her, doubt would blur the edges of his conviction. Doubt would weaken him. But he was resolved.

He did not want her love.

He was not changed.

He was not weak.

The doors closed.

A coldness tore through his flesh and entered his bones. His lungs.

He placed a hand on the mirrored wall. He held himself on his feet.

There was no oxygen.

He was cold.

He was alone.

And Dante couldn’t breathe.

CHAPTER TWELVE

DANTEHADN’TSLEPT.

For six weeks, he’d searched for it. The rush. Adrenaline.The high.

He’d searched for the man he was. Jumped out of planes. Climbed mountains. He’d sought the monks in the hills. He’d meditated. He’d prayed. To all the gods. Old and new. None had answered. Still, he could not find it. He was lost to himself. Displaced. Alone on a ledge. Cold. And he didn’t want to be cold. He wanted to be warm. Butnothingwarmed him.

Dante scrubbed his hands over his face. His beard was full, and his hair was too long. He closed his eyes. Raked his fingers through his hair and pulled at the roots.

Why wouldn’t it just die?

Dante opened his eyes and stared at the papers in front of him. At the empty signature boxes.

The divorce papers were ready.

By every rule in the playbook, they should already be divorced. Japan never should have happened. But he’d allowed it to happen. Instigated it, even. Bent every rule to seduce her. To make her want to stay.

And she’d wanted to stay.

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