Page 158 of Modern Romance January 2025 1-4

She wanted to push him, as he’d been goading her.

There was no chance though.

They were kept separate all evening by their various responsibilities, conversations with dignitaries the main purpose of their attendance. The king came to make a brief speech, towards the end of the night, and Rosie stood near him, so he naturally came to her afterwards and gave her a small hug, and a kiss on the cheek, remarked on how well she was looking. When he left, she glanced around the room, not looking for Sebastian, and yet her eyes found him as though she was a heat-seeking missile and he, her target. She shivered at the expression on his features and quickly glanced away again.

It was late before the event was finally over and Rosie was tired. She hadn’t slept well the night before. Visions of their baby, lost in a room, crying, kept coming to her, and the baby was so vivid and real that she couldn’t believe such a person didn’t already exist.

As was their usual way, Sebastian accompanied Rosie from the function, but once in the private corridors of the east wing, he didn’t relinquish his grip on her hand, as he ordinarily might. Instead, he turned to face her, and there was a look on his face that took her breath away.

‘We need to talk.’

‘Do we?’ she replied, pleased when her voice emerged cool and crisp.

‘We need to talk somewhere other than here,’ he confirmed with a tight nod. ‘Come home with me.’

Her heart began to race. It was everything she wanted, and yet it wasn’t. On so many levels, she was terrified.

‘I’m tired,’ she responded.

His expression showed cynicism. ‘Is that a “no”?’

She opened her mouth and closed it again. Shewastired, but she knew that if she demurred and went to her room, she’d regret it. She’d get no sleep, anyway.

‘No,’ she said after a beat. ‘It’s not a no.’

His eyes flashed to hers and he began to walk, holding her hand. ‘Wait, Sebastian—’

‘Why, Rosalind?’ His impatience was palpable. ‘Haven’t we been waiting?’

Her stomach twisted. Yes, they’d waited all week, and it had been awful. Silently, she followed him, out into the moonlit night, and as they approached the car, her body seemed to explode like a wave of ash.

It had been a spur of the moment invitation. He was acting on instinct and autopilot, with no forethought or planning, and once inside his limousine, he had no goddamned idea what he was going to say to her when they were alone. But not being able to talk to her properly had been stifling and beyond frustrating. At least at his place they could speak to one another, or even yell at each other, if they wanted to.

Except it wasn’t enough. In the back of his car, all he was conscious of was her. Her nearness, her soft skin, her shallow breathing, the smell of her perfume and shampoo, the fact that he could reach out and touch her anytime. But photographers were everywhere, swarming the exit of the palace and continuing to follow them on motorbikes, which zipped in and out of traffic with scant regard for safety.

Each mile stretched like elastic in his gut, torturing him. At one point, his fingers glanced across her knee, and she gasped softly, so he knew he wasn’t alone, that her desire was at the same fever pitch as his own.

He was angry, he was frustrated, he was worried about her, and he was furious with himself for his weakness, but God knew, none of that mattered anymore. He just needed to get her into his house and lock the damned door. For days, if that’s what it took.

He didn’t know exactly what he wanted to achieve, but he knew bringing her here was right and necessary.

The car turned into the street that led to his home, the gates swinging open, with a few paparazzi outside of them. He glanced at Rosalind, who now had a serene smile plastered on her face. Well, it might fool the press, but he was beside her, and the tension emanating from her frame was unmistakable. It was a tension he felt too.

She was so beautiful, but he hated that beauty. Not the beauty, he corrected, but the untouchability. This version of her was something he couldn’t help but resent, having seen her wild and free on the island.

Once inside his house though, the façade cracked. She whirled around to face him, eyes latched on his. ‘So?’ she demanded, an awe-inspiring mix of hauteur and fury. ‘What do you want to talk about?’

Thishe liked. Anger was real. Anger was passion, just expressing itself differently.

‘The baby, for one thing.’

‘There is no baby,’ she ground out.

He clamped his teeth, then said, ‘You’re upset. Yesterday, you pushed me away. Tonight, you acted like it never happened.’

‘And?’ she snapped. ‘It’s fine. These things take time.’

‘I’m aware of that, but it doesn’t make it any easier—’

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