Page 181 of Modern Romance Collection February 2025, 1-4

The tragedy that had so nearly consumed them yesterday had ripped from her all that had meshed about her during her pregnancy: her fears and her guilt, her resentment and her resistance. Ripped them from her and transformed them into what had been so blessedly bestowed upon her—her precious baby son, alive and well and loved with all her heart.

But now she must face what remained to be faced.

For a moment pain lanced in her...and anguish. But she must go on. Because nothing had changed. All the drama and terror of yesterday—it altered nothing.

‘I know that now we have to move on,’ she said, making herself face him...face what had to be said. ‘Move forward. You’ve been so good,’ she went on, ‘supporting me as you have. And yesterday...thank you...’

She felt her voice become unsteady, forced herself to make it sound more normal, less strained. She must not burden him with her pain, her anguish.

‘And thank you now...for coming in, for the private room, for seeing me through to this point. Thank you for all your support! But now...’ She swallowed. There seemed to be a stone in her throat, blocking it, making it hard to speak, but speak she must. To say what must be said, cost her what it would. ‘Now I don’t want...don’t want to impose on you any longer—’

‘Impose?’ There was an edge in his voice suddenly. He pushed back the chair, getting to his feet. Looking down at her, his face shuttered.

She forced herself on. ‘You have been so good to me—and yesterday...’ She didn’t finish—couldn’t. Instead she went on: ‘I am so, so appreciative. But now you will want to get your own life back.’

He cut across her. ‘My own life—?’ His voice was flat.

She spoke on, saying the difficult things that had to be said. Even now, after all the trauma, they had to be said. The abject relief of their baby’s safe arrival could not last for ever. It had drawn them together in urgency, but now the reality of their situation must apply again. However guilty she felt now, for having come so terrifyingly close to losing her baby, guilty for how she had not welcomed becoming pregnant, had wished it had never happened, that did not blot out all that she must face.

She looked him square in the eyes—but her fingers were working on the folds of her sheet.

‘I forced this on you, Vincenzo. Forced on you the knowledge of what had happened that night we spent together. And I know... I know you are grateful for our baby’s safe birth, when it might have gone so dreadfully the other way, but I don’t want... I don’t want that to...to change anything. I mean, I don’t want you feeling...obliged...in any way because of that.’ She took a breath, made herself go on. ‘I know you will always honour what you feel are your responsibilities, but...’

His expression had changed. She had seen it before, that expression—but not for a long, long time.

‘Responsibilities? Obligation? Is that what you would reduce me to?’

There was a chill in his voice that reached into her veins. She stared at him, consternation in her face.

‘Vincenzo...’ Her voice was anguished, each word forced from her, halting and hesitant, but they had to be said—theyhadto. ‘We know—webothknow—that had yesterday been the tragedy it might have been, we...we would never have seen each other again. For there would have been no reason... And I know...’ each word was a blade, cutting into her ‘...that...that our baby is all there is between us—nothing else.’

He was looking at her, and it was unbearable that he should do so. But she must bear it—she must. Even if it was a weight that was crushing her, stifling her...

He was silhouetted against the window, motionless and rigid.

‘But that is not true.’

His words fell into the space between them.

His face was shuttered. His own words echoed in his head.

‘But that is not true.’

Not true.

His eyes went to the crib on the other side of her bed. He felt his heart catch, turn over in his chest. His son...

And Siena’s too.

But other words overwrote those.

Ours—our son.

Conceived on a night that was impossible to forget. That burned in him still. A night he had since seized a second time—taking her into his arms, into his passionate embrace...

The bitter irony of it tore him like a wolf at his throat.

That first night together it had been he who had left her in the morning, not wanting to face the truth about what had burned so fiercely between them. But that second night...

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