Page 228 of Modern Romance Collection February 2025, 5-8

And there, in a nutshell, was why he hadn’t had them couriered over to her.

Because he didn’t want her to sign them.

He didn’t want to divorce her.

Because he loved her.

Dios!Why the hell had it taken him so long to realise? As a twenty-two-year-old he’d had no problem telling Marianne that he loved her. When had the word disappeared from his lexicon? When had he forgotten how to say the word?

When he’d learned that women wanted him for his fortune and not for himself? Or because he’d always been looking for another Marianne? Someone who might take the place of the woman he’d loved and abandoned, only to lose her to somebody else.

The papers.

He turned his head, searching for the envelope, spying it on the parcel shelf, remembering that he’d tossed it there when Marianne had threatened to sign them then and there on the way to the clinic.

And he knew what he had to do.

* * *

Mari tied up her hair and treated herself to a bath, trying to relax her body if not her mind. Sadness seemed to infuse her every cell, the sadness of farewelling a loved one, the sadness of losing another one—one who was destined never to be hers.

It was only early evening, but Mari donned her nightgown and sheepskin boots and wrapped herself in a cosy dressing gown, ready for a night in front of the television. It didn’t matter what was on, it wouldn’t register. She just wanted something inane to blot out the gaping hole in her heart.

The knock on the door was as unwelcome as it was unexpected. She settled in deeper to her sofa. She wasn’t about to open the door to some stranger while wearing her pyjamas. Not a chance.

The knock came again, more insistent this time. More reason to ignore it. Mari crossed her arms over her chest and tried to blot out the interruption.

Whoever was at the door wasn’t taking no for an answer, and this time there was another sound, something that sounded like ‘Marianne…’

Nobody called her Marianne, nobody but… She sat up.

‘Marianne, it’s Dom.’

A shudder skittered down her spine. He was back? But why? She could keep pretending that she wasn’t home. But something about the urgency of his pounding and the sound of his voice made her curious.

She pulled the sides of her robe closer around her and tightened the belt around her waist, her hand hesitating on the door handle. She pulled it open and Dom was standing there, his arms spread wide, resting against the doorframe. His eyes looked tortured, his features drawn, an expression that transformed immediately when she pulled open the door. Because suddenly she saw hope.

He smiled. ‘Marianne,’ he said.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I found these in the car,’ he said, pulling down his hands from the doorframe. He was holding an envelope in one. She recognised it. The divorce papers.

‘Oh.’ Of course he’d want to mop up the details of their deal, now that he knew that she didn’t want him in her life. She held out one hand. ‘I’ll sign them now.’

But he didn’t hand them over. ‘I have a better idea,’ he said, taking the envelope between both hands and tearing it in half, and then in half again, and again and again, before he threw the scraps in the air. They fluttered on the breeze, scattering to the ground.

‘What are you doing?’

‘We don’t need divorce papers. You don’t want to be divorced.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I finally worked it out. I worked out what I’d said that was wrong, the words that hurt you so much yesterday in the cemetery. Then I worked out what it was that I hadn’t said, and that was even more important.’

Marianne started to protest.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I know that I hurt you. I saw it. I felt the defences go up when you didn’t get what you needed. Because you weren’t looking for someone who wanted to stay married to you because you were pregnant. You wanted someone to stay married to you because they loved you.

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