Page 225 of Modern Romance March 2025 (5-8)

Sweetheart.The endearment came to him so naturally, though he didn’t say it out loud. “You don’t have to justify anything to me,” Desmond said huskily.

“What happened here in London… I realized I want a different kind of…existence. I’ve never confronted him about what he did to me, whether directly or indirectly.” Her voice lowered. “I’ve been pathetic.”

Desmond made a hissing sound through his teeth. “Are you ever going to stop calling yourself names when it comes to that moron you were married to?”

“I don’t,” Val retorted. “All I meant was—”

“All you meant was that this is your fault. Again. But it’s not.” He paused to let that sink in, then leaned forward in his chair until their faces were very close. “He must have done a real number on you to make you think you’re not as extraordinary as you are.”

“Desm—” She couldn’t finish the word.

And Desmond found himself peering into her face. Their noses were almost touching, and he felt dizzy suddenly. Her eyes were soft and serious all at once. He had to make her listen. He reached down, took her hands.

“I think you already believe me, somewhere deep inside,” he said quietly. “Please don’t absorb one unworthy man’s bad opinion, Valentina. It will rob so much from you.”

Val bit her lower lip. Her exhalation of breath danced whisper-soft against his skin.

And there it was.

He kissed her, just for a fraction of a second, feeling warmth seep all the way to his toes, and when she opened her eyes, she was still looking at him with that oddly tender expression on her face.

And then he felt it again.

That tug of desire for something more.

Something that transcended sex.

Something that was not possible for them, and certainly not while she still wasn’t free of her first husband. Desmond wasn’t sure what the future held, or if he even could be a part of it. But suddenly it felt like possibilities were within his reach, each more beautiful than the last. It gave him a warm glow inside.

It gave him hope.

“Valentina,” he said quietly, and reached out to cup her face.

“Using my full name again, I see,” she said lightly.

“It suits you better, I think.” And maybe it did, now that the reason she’d shunned it in the first place seemed to be dissipating with each day. She laughed, a choked sound, and he thumbed away the dampness at the corners of her eyes. And for the first time in years he allowed what was on his heart to leave his lips.

“Get your divorce,” he said, simply. “I’ll help. Then, marry me, Valentina. For real this time. And come back to London with me, after I’ve solidified this deal. Let me have some part in starting your new life.”

Val considered this for a minute, chewing hard on the inside of her lip, trying to breathe through the emotions currently roiling through her. He couldn’t read her mind, but he would bet his fortune that what he saw reflected in the stunning clarity of those eyes was—

Hope.

It was a long time before she spoke and Desmond waited patiently.

“His name is Malik Ali,” she said finally.

CHAPTER TWELVE

VAL BARELY RECOGNIZEDthe woman staring back at her.

Nothing physical had changed; she was wearing a silk jersey wrap dress that was constantly in her rotation during summer months. Her hair had been conditioned, detangled and smoothed back into soft puffs that adorned the back of her head. Her long-line bra and underwear were still digging into the tender flesh of her torso—a little more than usual, actually—but she was ready to leave London for Bahr Al-Dahab.

Desmond hadsomehowsweet-talked Sheikh Rashid into letting her off duty with Hind during the evenings. He’d been taking her to London’s finest restaurants every single night, and her stomach seemed to be reacting to the bewildering variety of Michelin-starred meals by ensuring every single calorie went straight to her hips and bum.

Desmond.She raised her fingers up to massage her temples. Whenever she thought about her experiences over the past week and a half, her head would start to throb.

Desmond loved to eat; she’d discovered that about him. He loved to talk, often gesticulating wildly as he did so, flinging food into his mouth every now and then. She’d never met a person in her life infused with such raw energy. He attacked every hour of the day ferociously, without looking back, without any of the hesitation or overanalysis that characterized Val’s days. When they ate together, he drew her into the conversation, showed her what he was working on and listened with concentration. He drank from Val’s water glass and laughed when she pointed it out; he cut the choicest bits from his plate for her to try and smirked at her when she scolded him.

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