Page 127 of Modern Romance January 2025 1-4

Rosie’s first instinct had been to refuse to go. She had a job and a life here that could not easily be put aside.

But wasn’t he just trying to fulfil her request? And wasn’t it better to take a whole week and really get to know one another before entering into parenthood? Besides, she had presumed he would be taking her to one of the many palaces in the country, somewhere familiar, from which she could continue with her work remotely, and see him in between times.

How wrong she’d been.

The car had conveyed her to the royal airstrip, where a private jet had been waiting. Not bearing the royal crest of Cavalonia, but rather emblazoned withAl Morovain big, bold golden letters down one side. The tail was painted a glossy black.

She stared at the plane, and the flurry of activity surrounding it, with a strange feeling in her chest. Her heart was both sinking and fluttering, and a thousand butterflies seemed to be battering the lining of her stomach. Her fingers fidgeted at her sides as she walked towards the steps; Sebastian was waiting at the top, in conversation with the pilot.

As she approached, he nodded once. Not exactly a gesture of friendship nor affection, but a sign of approval that Rosie found somehow warming. Oh, how low her expectations were!

‘Where are we going?’

He smirked. ‘You’ll see.’

‘A surprise?’

‘Sure.’

‘I didn’t expect that.’

He gestured into the plane—every bit as lavishly decorated as the royal fleet—and indicated for her to take a seat.

Getting to know one another was sensible and wise. Why then did she have an immediate instinct to back right out of this whole thing? Suddenly, despite the enormity of the plane’s surrounds, the grandeur and space, she felt as though all she was conscious of was her husband. And for almost half a year, she’d accepted him as exactly that—her husband—and found she was quite capable of ignoring him. Of minimising the importance of that role.

Now he was all she saw and deep down, that scared her.

He moved with an athleticism that was almost feral, a confident gait that would have been at home in a jungle. He was pure muscle and instinct, and though he’d spent most of his life in America, when she looked at him, she could not mistake his rich Cavalonian heritage: that he was the by-product of two of the oldest, most noble families in the land. She couldn’t pretend his features weren’t carved by the same hand that had been carving the features of the royal family for as far back as the country had existed. When he took a seat opposite her but pulled out a large tablet and began to work silently, Rosie was glad. Glad that she could sit back and be ignored—even when she wasn’t capable of doing the same to him.

Except, the reprieve barely lasted. They were not in the air long enough. Forty minutes at most. The plane lifted, cruised south, and then tacked west, towards the ocean, before beginning a descent just rapid enough to convince Rosie her stomach had been surrendered somewhere at the edge of a dreamy cloud.

‘Nervous flyer?’ he asked, when she pressed a hand to her blouse.

‘Not usually.’ She flashed him a tight smile. ‘I used to be, but I have to travel more and more these days. I’m used to it.’ She leaned forward, towards the windows, craning to get a view of where they were, and realised she didn’t recognise it. In fact, there was very little to recognise. An island that was covered in so much wild vegetation it looked almost untouched, surrounded by glimmering sea.

‘Where are we?’

‘It’s called Vedrina,’ he said.

‘Serenity?’

He nodded. ‘I didn’t name it. The island was called this when I bought it.’

‘You bought an island?’

His expression was implacable, his mouth grim. ‘Some years ago.’

She let out a low whistle but said nothing more. Curiosity, though, fluttered in her breast, and she stepped off the plane with anticipation, looking around to have her first impression confirmed. An airstrip had been carved into the earth, but it was surrounded on all sides by a lush and thick forest. Her eyes chased the trees, looking for a hint of the ocean that she knew to be just beyond it, and seeing nothing.

In contrast to the way she’d been brought to the airport in the Cavalonian capital city, a simple black four-wheel drive was waiting on the tarmac, and there was a distinct lack of staff. Staff was something Rosie mostly took for granted. Even before her marriage, she’d existed in the palace bubble, and it was not uncommon to walk into a room and have up to ten members of the household milling about, carrying on with their duties. Now that she was a princess, she was seldom alone. From the women who took care of her personal requirements, to her office staff, to the king’s team, she was often with people. Many people.

She glanced up at Sebastian, wondering if he perceived the absence of staff as strange, but didn’t see anything in his features to give that away. Besides which, not having an army of servants waiting at the airport didn’t mean his home wouldn’t be well staffed. She doubted someone like him did many—if any—of the domestic duties on his own.

‘What are you waiting for, wife?’ he asked, but just like on the plane, that simple word, the reminder of their state of being married, set something off in her pulse that was impossible to quell. A tremble, a rushing, like water racing towards the edge of a cliff and then over it, bubbling and babbling the whole way down.

‘I’m not waiting,’ she denied, looking around once more, hoping to see someone else—anyone. But there was only the attendant from the plane, busily pushing their bags into the back of the car, before returning to the aircraft.

‘This is the only car?’

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