Page 170 of Modern Romance March 2025 (5-8)

“No.” He buttoned and tucked, zipped his fly, then tied his bow tie perfectly, first try, without a mirror. He shot his arms into his jacket, shrugged it into place and shot his cuffs.

He looked insanely handsome and so remote it hurt her heart.

As he closed the buttons on his jacket, he finally looked at her again, scraping her appearance from top to toe with his critical gaze. “Did you get the ring?”

“What ring?” She glanced toward the study. “Chester left something on the desk.”

“It’s for you.” He strode through and picked up the glossy black bag with satin ribbons for handles. Inside was a box upholstered in red and tan leather tied with a gold ribbon. “Bloody packaging,” he muttered, pulling it apart to reveal a smaller box, this one black velvet. “Granted, the average thief would have given up by now…”

He offered her a huge blue sapphire surrounded by diamonds. When he slid it onto her finger, it fit as though made to sit against her wedding band—which she suspected it had.

“It’s beautiful. Thank you.” She had begun to lose her shyness when it came to touching him, but she felt awkward as she stepped closer and kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Lipstick?” he asked, wiping at the spot as she drew back.

“No, it’s fine.”

“Good. We should go.”

He was so aloof. Was it the stress of his sister’s condition or did he blame her for it?

She made herself find a smile as she tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow and accompanied him to the stairs.

CHAPTER EIGHT

HE SHOULD HAVEexpected it, Atlas berated himself as he was forced to say, yet again, “She’s not feeling well.”

All the guests were longtime family friends and business associates. They knew “unwell” was code for “relapse.” Their reactions ranged from murmurs of compassion to less sincere, more judgmental brow lifts before they turned their attention to Stella.

His wife was weathering her own spectrum of reactions from polite welcome to undisguised curiosity to a few greetings that were more askance.

If she found it uncomfortable, she didn’t show it. She smiled warmly and asked appropriate questions and complimented gowns all while giving away very little about herself despite being grilled relentlessly.

“I grew up near Bern, but moved to Zermatt at eighteen. That’s where I met Atlas five years ago,” she said for the thousandth time, touching his arm and smiling up at him. “I didn’t expect we would rekindle things, but here we are, stealing the limelight from the guest of honor. Have you known Oliver long?”

She was actually an artist at deflection. If he wasn’t in such a foul mood, he would have appreciated that sooner. He would have noticed the stress around her eyes.

He was winning all the prizes for selfishness today, wasn’t he? God, he wanted this night over with.

Catching Chester’s eye, he signaled that champagne should be served, then cut off the man droning on about his recent trip to the Amalfi Coast.

“Would you excuse us? It’s time for the toast.” Bringing Stella with him, he wove through the crowd to the ballroom where a chamber orchestra was assembled on one end.

The conductor nodded when Atlas appeared next to him and gracefully closed out their piece, stepping down so Atlas could bring Stella onto the dais in his place.

With the music silenced and staff circulating with trays of filled glasses, people gathered into the room and quieted, offering their attention to him and Stella. Atlas handed her one of the tall flutes that Chester brought and kept one for himself.

“First, if you haven’t had a chance to meet my beautiful wife, Stella…”

She really was beautiful. The color of her gown made her eyes look purple. Each time he looked at her, he wanted to kiss her. To be alone with her and hold her. To lose himself completely in her so he could escape himself. Until there was no part of himself left.

“…then that is your loss,” he continued. “Because we’re leaving right after our first dance. We’re still newlyweds, after all.”

That earned a knowing chuckle.

“Where is Oliver?” Atlas scanned to where his father had come in from the terrace to glare at him.

Oliver hadn’t said a word to Stella yet. He’d been avoiding them, not that Atlas had bothered making a point of introducing them. They were in a firm standoff of clashing wills.

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