Page 205 of Modern Romance November 2024 5-8

Santos was silent for a long moment, absorbing what his mother was saying and what it meant. Would sheeveraccept Mia, if this was her attitude? It saddened him that she might not, but he knew he would not be swayed. He loved Mia and no one—not his mother, his sister, the community or anyone—could take that from him.

‘It was a mistake of passion,’ his mother continued, her voice now low and persuasive. ‘My God, you wouldn’t be the first man to be turned by a pretty pair of eyes! There is less shame in that, Santos, than in staying with a woman who can never truly understand what it means to be an Aguila or who will never be a credit to you or to your family.’

‘Madre...’ His throat was tight with anger and something like grief. He’d had no idea that his mother felt this strongly and he hated that fact.

‘Please, think about it.’ She squeezed his shoulder before stepping back. ‘Think about your responsibility to this family and to your father’s memory. Don’t react in passion or anger, Santos, but with the even temper and reason I know you have. You will see sense then. I am sure of it.’

‘And do what?’ he asked, his voice thick with emotion he didn’t want to reveal. ‘Divorce my wife?’

‘Yes,’ his mother replied swiftly. ‘As I said. It will be easy. Rodrigo has the papers ready.’

‘Does he?’ Again, Santos felt as if he were reeling. He could not believe his mother had planned this already and had spun a web of manipulation...

For a second Santos simply stood there, absorbing everything, letting it reverberate through him. He thought of his place as head of the Aguila family—the expectations not just of his mother, but of his wider family, his staff and the Sevillian community. He thought of how Mia hadn’t felt at home here—and how could she, if this was what she was up against?

If he divorced Mia, or if he agreed to some sort of separation, maybe, in the long run, it would be easier—not for him, but for her.

The thought of it was like a knife plunging into his heart. The sensation made him dazed with pain, but in the midst of that he felt a sudden certainty thudding through him, waking him up, clearing his mind.

‘Madre...’ he began, only to stop at the sound of a movement outside his office. He heard a stifled sob, light footsteps down the corridor and then a door being wrenched open.

With a sinking sensation, Santos realised Mia must have overheard the entire conversation. How much of their Spanish had she understood? Too much, he feared; far too much.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

MIARANASif the devil were on her heels, and in some ways it felt as if he were. All of Santos’s mother’s words, and his guarded replies, thudded through her head, an endless, mocking echo she couldn’t escape from, no matter how fast or long she ran.

There is less shame in that, Santos, than in staying with a woman who can never truly understand what it means to be an Aguila or who will never be a credit to you or to your family.

A sob escaped her, raw and wild. She went back to the hacienda, thinking only to get away, to run, the way she always did, because she wasn’t wanted here, and she wasn’t going to stay somewhere it hurt to be. ‘Always move on’ had been her motto until she’d met Santos, and even then...

Mia raced up the steps of the main staircase and down the corridor to the bedroom, where just a few short hours ago she and Santos had lain in a sleepy, sated haze. Already, it felt like another lifetime. She’d only gone to find Santos because she wanted to show him she was making an effort. She had been planning to ask him to show her the olive groves. She’d wanted to hear about the estate; she’d wanted to be part of it.

No longer.

In the bedroom, Mia gazed around, feeling as if she’d never seen it before. This house had never felt like home. She’d never been truly welcomed. Why stay and have it all play out and unravel? She and Santos only worked when they were isolated in their beautiful little bubble. That wasn’t real life, just as she’d said before, and it—they—didn’t work when confronted with reality. She’d been afraid of that before, and she suspected Santos was now as well.

He hadn’t refuted his mother’s claims, had he? He hadn’t said the idea of a divorce was outrageous. No, if anything he’d sounded pensive, maybe even cautiously approving. He’d sounded as if, on some level, it madesense—and why wouldn’t it? Santos was a sensible, rational man. Marrying Mia had been the thing that was out of character for him, not everything else. It made total sense for him to want to divorce. But she wasn’t going to stick around, waiting for him to do that.

Her backpack was leaning against the suitcases Santos had bought in Barcelona for all her new clothes. It looked so small and forgotten, and yet it felt like the truest thing about herself. She grabbed it and slung it over her shoulder, and for a second she thoughtthiswas home—having nothing more than a single bag, running to the next new place. It was all she’d known, maybe all she’d ever know.

She turned from the room, and as she did her steps slowed. For a dizzying second, it was as if the room took on a magical sort of haze and she could see it with different eyes. On the bed, she saw Santos and her with their limbs tangled, her head resting on his chest and his arm around her. She saw herself staring out at the blue sky by the window, a beautiful new day with all its possibility. On thechaise, she saw herself lying with Santos next to her, their baby in her arms as they gazed down at the tiny, beloved face in wonder.

A small, stifled cry escaped her. If she ran—again—none of that would ever happen. She’d just keep running; she wouldn’t have changed, learned or grown. Was that what she really wanted to do? Was that what Santos wanted her to do?

But he hadn’t said otherwise to his mother. He hadn’t told his mother that he loved Mia, that he wanted to stay with her. He hadn’t even sounded as if he’d wanted to say those things, if he’d felt them. Santos was stubborn, Mia knew. He’d insisted he didn’t have doubts, but she knew him better than that. He might not admit it but he did. He had to. And if he felt conflicted—as conflicted as she did—how could they possibly survive?

Slowly Mia looked around the room and the mirage of possibility and happiness evaporated before her eyes. She hitched her backpack further up on her shoulder and walked out of the room, down the stairs and out of the hacienda.

No one stopped her.

Santos swore under his breath as he headed for the door.

His mother reached out one hand in supplication. ‘Santos...’

‘That must have been Mia,’ he snapped, biting off her words. ‘I think she heard the entire conversation.’

His mother looked startled and perhaps a bit discomfited before she lifted her chin as she eyed him in cool challenge. ‘And if she did?’

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