Page 173 of Modern Romance March 2025 (5-8)

“She probably wanted to come home.”

“Perhaps.” He nodded. “But when she did, I was there. She wasn’t aware I existed until I arrived. Suddenly, she learned her father had not only had an affair while her mother was pregnant with her, she had a brother who was entitled to half the estate. I remember overhearing her crying, trying to understand, and Oliver said to her, ‘Someone has to take over. You’re not up to it.’”

“That’s horrible.”

“It was. She felt rejected. Usurped. It’s not that she’s not capable of working alongside me, but she’s never applied herself because her anger and drinking were always in the way. I’ve often questioned whether it’s worth being Oliver Davenport’s son, but I stuck it out because my mother wanted me to claim what she saw as my birthright. I’ve invested years of my life into DVE. I’m definitely a better leader than Oliver, but Carmel thinks I have a master plan to steal it from both of them. Oliver plays us against each other. I’m dead sure he fed her some line about my marrying you so I could cut her out. That’s why she has always sabotaged my relationships. She feels threatened. Our photos? Iris would have seen them, but Carmel madesureshe saw them. She knew I’d have leverage with the board the minute I had a wife.”

“Aren’t you trying to stick it to Oliver, though? A little? You were needling him with your toast.”

“I was.” He winced with remorse and fury. “But what kind of man uses his daughter’s illness as a weapon? Do you know why he didn’t take her to the clinic? He wanted me to see her like that.” Sick and weak and soured by vodka. “He wanted me to feel responsible.”

“But you’re not, Atlas.” She brought his fist to the spot where her warm breastbone was exposed by the lapels of the robe, cradling it there. “You care about her. I can see that.”

“I do.” Agony sliced through his chest as he thought about how much damage had been done to Carmel through the years. “But I swear he would rather she died so he wouldn’t have to deal with her any longer.”

She released a small noise of sympathy and pain and brought his knuckles to her lips, kissing it better, but only making the ache inside him throb deeper.

“That’s what I come from,” he said, swallowing the thickness from his throat. “That’s what I cause by existing. By claiming what’s mine.”

“Oliver had the affair, Atlas. Does Carmel never see his role in it?”

“Where do you think she gets her victim mentality? None of this is Oliver’s fault.” He threw his free arm over his head. “In his opinion, my mother was a slut waitress who trapped him by having his son. His bastard was getting attention on the sports channels so he had to acknowledge me before my paternity came out. His daughter failed to live up to his expectations so he had to bring in his second string. I keep telling Carmel that she should trust me, not him, but she desperately wants Daddy’s love. He can never be the villain in her eyes. Only me.”

“And it hurts.” She rubbed her soft cheek against the backs of his fingers.

“I don’t expect her to love me or accept me, but my taking over isn’t just about besting Oliver. It’s what’s best for all of us,” he asserted, believing it. “I should have seen our marriage would cause her a setback, though. I was being like him. Going after whatIwanted.” Going after Stella. He could see how he had roped her in with his selfish logic, binding her to him no matter the cost, so he could have everything he wanted in one ruthless move.

A chill of self-contempt invaded his chest, but Stella was shifting to blanket herself across his chest as a weight of plush velour and warm curves and that unique scent of almonds and honey.

The rope of her hair slid across his neck. He picked it up and pressed the cool, bound silk to his lips, deeply aware of the way she captivated him, making him disregard the consequences of his actions.

He wanted to replace Oliver, not be like him, but the more enthralled he became with her, the more he felt the ruthless, self-serving blood that ran in his veins.

* * *

* * *

Stella was still thinking about all that Atlas had confided when they drove to Carmel’s clinic after breakfast.

His frankness and genuine torment over his sister had allowed her to glimpse who he was deep inside—a man with a strong conscience and a desire to protect the vulnerable. A man worth loving.

As she had curled up against him, she had felt her heart cracking open in a way that scared her. She had learned to protect herself with calm smiles and carefully chosen words and behind-the-scenes maneuvering, but he was sliding past all those defense mechanisms.

It had been concerning enough when she’d realized how much physical power he had over her. Not brute force. He would never wield his strength against her—not in a way she objected to, anyway. He preferred to assault her senses so she bent willingly. When his hands trapped hers or his thighs held hers open, she was always weak with passion and was thrilled by the rough exertion of his strength. He never hurt her when they were like that and that had already begun building her trust in him.

Now her thoughts and feelings felt impossible to disguise from him. It was a terrifyingly unguarded sensation. She wasn’t sure how to deal with it. She wanted to withdraw the way he seemed to do without effort, but all he had to do was give her hand a small squeeze and she was smiling with shy joy, unable to hide how much she was won over by his tiniest show of affection.

They arrived at a stone building at the end of a shady drive and walked inside, past a brass plaque that read Aster Lane Retreat. The building wasn’t big, possibly holding ten or twelve rooms. There was a dining room, which was empty, and the sound of a piano from a parlor she couldn’t see.

They were shown to a small, well-tended garden surrounded by a tall stone wall where Carmel reclined on a lounger. She wore pink Davenwear joggers, a matching jacket and sunglasses.

“Yech,” Carmel sneered when she saw them. “Here to gloat?”

“I wanted you to meet Stella. Properly.” Atlas turned a nearby chair and caught Stella’s ponytail, drawing it up and away so she wouldn’t trap it behind her back as she sat. “How are you feeling?”

“Hungover. Obviously.” Carmel turned her head to study Stella from behind her lenses. “Daddy said he got you fired when we were in Zermatt that time, and you two have been doing it ever since. I don’t remember you,” she added with deliberate dismissal.

“You might not remember me saying yesterday that Stella is off-limits,” Atlas said in a tone of quiet warning. “Now you will. And no. We haven’t.”

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