Page 218 of Modern Romance Collection February 2025, 5-8

‘So how was it?’ Suzanne asked.

‘Interesting,’ Mari said, peeling herself away, but not before Suzanne caught sight of her eyes.

‘Oh, right. So maybe you want to show us these properties,’ Suzanne said, ‘that you’re so excited about.’

Mari swiped her cheeks as she and Valerie pulled up chairs to the table, a space for Suzanne’s wheelchair in between so they could all see the pictures on Mari’s laptop. She was ready to make a bid for any of them, as soon as Suzanne and Valerie agreed. She’d woken in the morning to a notification from her bank that a large deposit had been made to her account, currently awaiting clearance by the authorities. She’d opened the bank app to see it bulging with a dollar amount unimaginable just a few weeks ago. So even in the midst of his grief for his mother, even at his displeasure that Mari would leave him, Dom had managed to fulfil his end of the deal.

To be done with her? Perhaps. When all was said and done, did it even matter? She had the means now to make her sister’s life better.

And this ache she felt in her heart, that she had left something or someone behind in San Sebastián, was dulled with sister’s excitement as she looked over the photos and floor plans and as the three made plans to do house inspections.

And Mari knew in her heart that she had been right to leave Dom when she had. Because right here in Melbourne with her sister was where she belonged.

Dom stared out of the window overlooking the bay that made San Sebastián internationally famous, and yet he registered nothing. Because there was a package on his desk. A package containing the divorce papers he’d had the lawyers prepare when the contract had been arranged. He’d thought of everything, down to the preparation of the divorce papers to dissolve the convenient marriage on his mother’s death.

And now they’d been duly delivered. Ready for signing. Ready for the dissolution of his and Marianne’s marriage.

He should sign them. Sign them and send them by courier straight to Marianne. The matter—their divorce—should be settled within a week.

But he couldn’t sign them.

That day, that one day, when he’d arrived from his mother’s deathbed needing her, she’d been there. She’d consoled him. Taken care of him. Made love with him so tenderly that it was bittersweet to even think of it. Made love to him so tenderly that it haunted his dreams.

Every time, the sex between them had been amazing, but that day, that one day, she’d taken care of him. She’d soothed him. She’d gifted him her body and given him solace.

She couldn’t have done that if she hadn’t felt something for him.

Once upon a time, long ago, he’d let Marianne slip through his fingers. He’d been busy. His father had died, and running and building the family business had fallen on his shoulders, along with supporting his grieving mother, and he couldn’t afford to take the time to go back like he’d promised. Time and time again he’d put off going back, until he couldn’t see when he’d get a break and it didn’t seem fair to keep Marianne hanging on any longer, and so he’d called off their relationship, thinking he was doing them both a favour.

Except he wasn’t. And then, when he’d gone looking for her a year later, it was to find her already married. And it had made him so angry.

Angry with himself. Because he’d waited too long.

Damn it.

He had lost her once. Was he prepared to lose her again?

* * *

Mari slammed her keys down on her table, collapsing into a chair. Three weeks back, three job interviews down and she was feeling no closer to finding herself a new job, despite the high-powered dresses and suits she’d treated herself to. She wasn’t about to rely on any more of the money from Dom—that money was earmarked for Suzanne’s care—but at least instead of looking like she’d just walked out of a chain store she looked like she meant serious business.

Not that it was doing her any good.

She hadn’t made a shortlist once, despite a glowing reference from Eric, and despite believing her qualifications and experience satisfied the job requirements to a T. She was either told she was overqualified for the position or the interviewers said they were looking for someone younger, someone who was fresh and new.

Since when was thirty-nine years old no longer fresh and new?

Mind you, she didn’t feel fresh and new. Her muscles were sore and she had a headache. She felt as if she was coming down with the flu.

Please God, no. Mari stood up, poured herself a glass of water and found herself some paracetamol. She didn’t have time for flu. It was stress, she told herself. She was making herself feel ill through worry—about finding a place for Suzanne, about finding a job and, most of all, about whatever Dom was doing back in San Sebastián.

What was he doing? Had he found solace with one of the women lined up and all too ready to offer him comfort? Had Isabela wormed her way into Dom’s affections? The woman had made it clear that she wanted to be in Mari’s place as Dom’s wife. And she was stunning. They would make an amazing couple—the perfect-looking couple—what if Dom had taken up with her? He was grieving. Who could blame him for seeking consolation wherever he could find it?

It shouldn’t matter, it shouldn’t concern her, and yet somehow it did.

God, she was torturing herself. It made her stomach roil anew thinking about it.

But there was hope on the horizon. She had another interview tomorrow morning. Sooner or later, one of them had to come good.

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