Page 160 of Modern Romance Collection February 2025, 5-8

‘But we are perpetuating the lie.’

‘Isn’t it worth putting your moral scruples in a dark cupboard when you see how sick my dear mother is looking?’

Following the direction of his gaze, Clemmie saw Aria Perez, the diamonds at her throat giving the chandeliers that lit the dramatic barrel-ceilinged room a run for their money, bearing down on them, her face wreathed in fake smiles of welcome.

Dread tightened in the pit of her stomach.

‘Oh, well...this is going to be cringey, isn’t it?’

It no longer seemed like the harmless joke it had when Joaquin had suggested it.

As she angled a resigned look up at her escort she caught a strange look on his austerely handsome face. She was immobilised by the cold ferocity stamped on his features as he stared across the room at his mother.

Clemmie, who was not a ‘revenge is a dish best served cold’ sort of person—hers burnt bright and then faded—realised that, for Joaquin, it was not just cold, it was icily implacable.

Before Aria could reach them, they joined the people beginning to move en masse through to the dining room.

‘You’re here, Clemmie.’ Joaquin held a chair for her. ‘I’m opposite.’ He looked from the place setting card to the man approaching. ‘Rob will look after you.’

‘Rob will be delighted.’

The American actor bared his perfect teeth.

There were actually several occasions during the meal when she was grateful for the American’s presence, his quick wit and his ability to defuse a tense moment.

There had been a few of those, but Clammy had made it through to coffee without allowing her hostess to provoke her.

‘Are there any more like you at home, Clemmie?’ asked Joaquin’s father, whose conversation had stayed onlyjustthe right side of inappropriate so far.

It was the third time he’d asked the question; it was also his third brandy.

‘Just me and my mum.’

Aria raised her voice. ‘Who is our cleaner at the manor.’

Six.

Clemmie, who had been counting, calculated that it was the sixth time the woman had managed to drop into the conversation that Clemmie’s mum was their cleaner.

‘Really excellent cleaner...such a good little worker. Husband left her, poor woman... It must be so hard being a single parent—they say the child always suffers.’

Seven.

She almost felt sorry for the older woman by this point. She didn’t realise that her not very subtle attempts to embarrass Clemmie were backfiring. Clemmie was not at all embarrassed and a significant portion of the guests didn’t like what she was doing.

‘Wasn’t there talk of a sister?’ asked Aria now.

‘I had a twin, but she died when we were children,’ Clemmie said quietly.

The entire table had fallen silent, all aware of the malice in Aria’s eyes, glittering behind the fake smile.

‘I’d forgotten. Wasn’t there some talk of therapy...?’

‘Hasn’t everyone had therapy?’

Rob, the man who was everyone’s favourite Hollywood actor—or at least by this point in the evening Clemmie’s favourite—broke the awkward silence.

He had turned out to be as charming in real life as he was on the screen. Clemmie mouthed a silent thank-you.

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