Page 183 of Modern Romance Collection December 2024 Books 5-8

The end.

Divorce.

In the back of her mind, in the fog of exhaustion, she’d known it would arrive.

Dante had said he hadn’t wanted to stay in this house without her, and she understood it now, even more than she had on the plane.

It was agony. To be here. To see what she hadn’t been able to see the night he’d brought her back from the hospital. The memories.

Dante lingered in every room. His scent followed her, infiltrated her every waking thought, and in sleep, he was there. In her dreams.

For six weeks, she’d wanted to lie on the floor and cry. Break things. And cry again.

She’d ruined everything because she’d uttered the one word she shouldn’t have. Confessed to having that one feeling. A feeling she knew was too big for him. Too big for her too, because it consumed her. Even in Dante’s absence, there was no escape from it. The yearning for it, for him. For what she’d had with him in Japan. Passion. Closeness. Intimacy.

She knew it was love now, even more so than she had known it the night she’d confessed it to him. And she would confess it again.

But Dante had never lied to her. Never manipulated her like her father had manipulated her mother. Dante had always told the truth. However blunt. However much she didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t lie. He did not break his promises.

He was never coming back.

But still she waited, still she stayed in this house, still she lived with the ghost of the man she loved, because she couldn’t bear not to. Because a part of her still hoped even when she knew she shouldn’t.

It terrified her, the depth of her feelings for him. And every day her love grew. It would not diminish. Every day it grew in certainty. In confidence. In strength. And that only made it worse. The pain. The knowing she had rushed him. She hadn’t treated him as softly as he had treated her. She hadn’t eased him in. She’d thrown her love at him and he hadn’t known what to do with it, how to embrace this feeling he couldn’t see. Didn’t trust.

And now he didn’t trust her.

But she trustedhim. Trusted this love, however new, however fragile, to bring him back to her.

So still she was here. Still she waited. But the divorce papers hadn’t arrived.

So she hoped he would find his way back to this place that was theirs. That was safe. She would not abandon it again. She would not leave it empty for him to find. She would not leave him to be alone.

So still she waited.

Still she loved.

There was a knock on the door.

She’d sent all the staff home; there was no one to answer it but her. So, barefoot, she ran down the stairs. Padded across the marble reception and silk rugs. To the door. She tugged it open—

Her mouth fell open. Never had she seen his hair so long, his beard so full. Never had he come to her in a T-shirt creased from travel. Jeans loose at the hips from too much wear. She searched his face. Noted the bruises under his bloodshot eyes.

The bud of hope inside her bloomed. She wanted to reach for him. Tell him it would be okay. He was safe here with her. But she was afraid. Afraid he wasn’t here to stay.

And then she eyed the papers scrunched tightly in his hand. The bulge of his naked forearm...

He’d come to claim his divorce.

Not their marriage.

Not her.

And she felt it.

The death of hope.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

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