Page 219 of Modern Romance Collection February 2025, 5-8

Mari had set her alarm clock early, to give herself time to get ready. Her body clock had set itself even earlier. She woke sensing…knowing…that she was going to throw up.

Nerves, she told herself as she clung to the porcelain bowl. It wasn’t as if she’d eaten anything to throw up. She was nervous because she’d blown three interviews so far and she didn’t want to mess up this opportunity.

She would not mess up this opportunity, she told herself as she patted her face dry in the mirror. She was going to be the very best version of herself she could be. She was going to knock this one out of the park.

But the smell of her favourite coffee was suddenly repugnant to her, her attempt at toast to settle her stomach making it rebel again. This time when she patted her face she stared in the mirror. What the hell was wrong with her? This wasn’t like any flu she’d ever had.

It hit her like the blow from a sledgehammer. She saw her eyes widen in the mirror with the impact. Widen with fear. Widen with panic.

No, not that,she pleaded,please not that.

Her brain scrambled to count the days and weeks since her last period. Because it couldn’t be. She was probably just peri-menopausal. That would make sense. Because the alternative would be too cruel. Too unfair.

But the horrible possibility refused to be ignored.

Because no. Her instincts told her that it wasn’t flu. It wasn’t menopause or even peri-menopause. It was something way worse.

Mari made it to the interview, but afterwards she couldn’t remember a word she’d said. Her mind had been fixated on the pregnancy test she’d be buying the minute she got out of the interview, a test she tried to convince herself she was buying to rule out the unlikely possibility.

Forget waiting until the visit to the toilet in the morning, like the box recommended. The moment Mari got home, she headed for the bathroom. She took one of the sticks and peed on it.

Negative, she projected with her thoughts. It had to be negative. Flu was infinitely better. Peri-menopause would work a treat too. Full-blown menopause even better.

Except it wasn’t flu.

And it was the furthest thing from menopause you could get.

Two pink lines stared back at her. Bold pink lines, as the test all but screamed positive.

And for the second time in her life the bottom fell out of Mari’s world.

Because once again she was pregnant by Dom.

* * *

For too long the divorce papers lay on Dom’s desk, burning a hole in it. Once again he circled his desk, regarding them warily. He could sign them. He should sign them and get them off his desk and on the way to Marianne. That had been their deal. A quickie marriage. A quickie divorce. Piece of cake. End of story.

Except signing a paper to terminate their marriage wasn’t half as easy as he’d imagined it would be.

Strange. He’d been worried that whoever he married might want to hang around and prove difficult to get rid of. Ironic that he was the one dragging his feet.

When he’d signed their contract, he hadn’t wanted anything more than a temporary arrangement. That was the deal he’d stipulated and that was the deal she’d accepted.

Except he hadn’t realised just how temporary it would be.

He hadn’t been ready for his mother to die.

And he hadn’t been ready for Marianne to leave.

He’d married her because she professed to hate him. She’d been the perfect choice because of it. But she didn’t hate him, she couldn’t have, or she never would have made love to him like she had.

So why had she taken off in such a godawful hurry?

What was she so afraid of?

He looked at the papers on his desk, awaiting his signature. Sure, he could sign and send the papers.

Except, damn it, he couldn’t.

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