Page 190 of Modern Romance Collection February 2025, 5-8

‘At last,’ she said. ‘Something we agree on.’

He tossed his napkin on the table and beckoned a waiter. ‘My fiancée is feeling indisposed. We’ll take dinner in the suite.’

‘Of course,’ he said with a bow. ‘Did you wish to order now, and we’ll have it sent up?’

‘Yes. My fiancée will have the lobster medallions and the Wagyu beef.’

‘And for yourself, sir?’

‘Nothing for me. I’m not hungry. Not anymore.’

* * *

‘Was that completely necessary?’ Mari demanded as the lift whisked them up to the twenty-third floor, each of them standing in opposite corners.

‘Was what completely necessary?’

‘That ridiculous order.’

He shrugged and loosened his tie. ‘You said you couldn’t decide. I made an executive decision.’

Mari scoffed and crossed her arms. She should make an executive decision right now. She should tell Dom exactly where to shove his deal. No faux marriage. No pretending to love him so he could keep sweet with his mother. He wouldn’t be out of pocket much. He could probably ignore Audra’s invoice and return all items—mostly—unworn and with labels attached. Most of all, he wouldn’t have to put up with her any longer.

A win-win solution.

It was tempting. Sorely tempting.

Except…

He’d already advanced her one million dollars. She’d already spent quite a chunk of it and there was no way she could repay it.

She swallowed as the lift doors slid open.

She was trapped.

He closed himself in his sprawling room within the suite—more a suite within a suite—and left Marianne to her own devices. There was a deal firming up in Brazil and he could work in the private study without distraction.

And Marianne was distracting. She’d emerged from her room in that cocktail dress with her hair sleek and burnished bright and he’d been blindsided. The Marianne of twenty years ago had been spirited and free, her hair wild, her outfits composed of colourful cottons. She’d been a teenager, even if vivacious and beguiling and the most exciting creature he’d ever met.

Whereas the Marianne of today was a woman, fully formed, and looking every bit like the kind of woman he liked to be seen with. It had been a pleasure to take her on his arm and escort her to their table amidst the looks of envy from other diners, both men and women.

And then he’d kissed her, and the years had fallen away. He’d been in danger of losing himself in the kiss. It was only knowing that she was more affected than he was that he’d been able to take control and enjoy her vulnerability.

And it made him feel more powerful. Because for all her protests of hating him, she wasn’t unaffected by his kiss.

And that gave him a degree of satisfaction that, despite tonight’s disagreements, he could make this work, that ultimately he would bend Marianne’s resistance to his purpose.

His phone buzzed and he took the call. Things were moving fast, the messenger relayed. Negotiations were moving along, and the paperwork could be ready for Dom’s attention within the next twelve to twenty-four hours. He could look it over on the plane.

Perfect.

Just like the way Marianne had looked tonight. A shame she’d had to ruin it with her obfuscating. Sure, Marianne’s memory was right as far as it went. Dom’s father had suffered a heart attack and Dom had headed home on the first flight he could get, promising Marianne to return as soon as his father’s condition had stabilised. And just when it looked like his condition had stabilised and Dom was about to board a flight back to Sydney, his father had suffered a second massive heart attack, this time requiring surgery, and Dom had meant to let Marianne know he hadn’t made the flight, but things had developed so quickly that he’d waited too long.

Game over. And Dominico had been hit with the responsibility of being the sole heir, while caring for his mother, suddenly a grieving widow, and there was no way he could have got back, not immediately. And there was no way he could have abandoned either role, not in the short-term. It hadn’t seemed fair to keep Marianne endlessly hanging on, so he’d called her, just like she’d said.

Marianne had those things right.

But there was one thing that Marianne didn’t know. A year after that phone call, the one where he’d told her that he didn’t know how long it would be until he could get back, that it was unfair to expect her to wait for him and to go on with her university degree—one scant year later, when the dust had finally settled after finding himself the owner and CEO of a major business—he’d found himself wondering about Marianne. How was she doing? Was she still at uni?

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