Page 60 of Modern Romance March 2025 (5-8)

He tilts his head to the side, that smile still on his face. But it doesn’t reach his eyes. No, this is classic Rafe: calm, cold, calculated. He has a reason for being here, and it’s not me.

The ache deepens.

“I don’t recall you being so direct.”

“I’ve changed a lot.”

“I noticed.”

His eyes darken as his gaze sweeps down over my bare shoulders. I freeze. Tension charges the air between us as his eyes rest on my breasts, then travel over my arm to where my fingers are wrapped around the stem of my wineglass.

Then his gaze snaps back to mine. God, I feel pathetic. There’s no warmth in his stare, no fleeting hint of desire. There’s just ice.

“You’re here because of the divorce papers.”

“I am.”

The waiter appears with Rafe’s bourbon and a plate of artfully arranged brioche toast points covered in ricotta cheese and topped with spring peas and bacon, all resting on sprigs of rosemary. I focus on the art of the food, the relaxing aromatic scent of the herbs that reminds me of walking through the ancient forest of Fontainebleau with Katie that first month. Nothing but soaring trees, sandstone boulders, and the calming scent of pine as I’d relished my newfound freedom.

Better to think of that than linger on the fact that Rafe and I are officially enjoying our first meal as husband and wife. I barely ate anything at our sham of a wedding reception. I was too sick to my stomach, too heartbroken at what I’d overheard, to eat anything.

Calm.I serve myself a piece of brioche and bite down, savoring the flavors with a quiet hum of appreciation.

“I received your petition for divorce.”

I swallow too fast and cough. Rafe presses a glass of water into my hands.

“And?” I finally say after I clear my throat and barely resist glaring at him.

“You truly want a divorce?”

“I wouldn’t have sent the papers otherwise.”

He stares at me for so long I know he’s testing me. Using his legendary ability to stay silent to get me to talk. To reveal something that will unveil an elaborate plot.

But there is no plot. Nothing sinister. When Rafe proposed to me, he told me upfront it was a business arrangement. He wanted the real estate firm my father had inherited after the unexpected deaths of my grandfather and aunt the year prior. A firm that had been in our family for over fifty years, hence my father’s reluctance to sell even if it meant hanging on to something that could ruin him.

My lips twitch. Apparently holding on to things that aren’t good for us runs in the family.

I set the water glass down and resume eating, ignoring Rafe’s hard gaze. I knew what he was offering when I said yes. I latched on to the lifeline he had offered with both hands, as someone drowning grabs on to a life preserver without bothering to see who’s towing them to shore. Entertained some idiotic notion that, over time, he might come to feel something more and that, in the interim, I could be happy with the unique friendship we’d developed over the years.

Until our wedding night. Until that horrible moment when I’d passed by the library during the cocktail hour and overheard Rafe and his father talking. Realized that whatever fairy tales I had concocted were just that: fiction.

Yet it was also the last tie, the last thing tethering me to my past, to my own fears and doubts. I’d gone back to my room, packed my bags, and even arranged my own transportation back to Santorini with a staff member who was thankfully discreet. Each move away from my old life had been like shedding a shackle, the weights dropping off the farther I went. It helped temper the dull throb of a heartache years in the making.

Coming to Paris was the first thing I’ve truly done on my own. I spent the majority of the last four months building a new life, one where I depend on no one but myself.

I have my sister, Katie, of course, and a few friends I’ve made. I have my own apartment that’s half the size of the bedroom Rafe had designated for me at his villa. I wake up every morning excited to face a new day and see what it brings instead of knowing the exact schedule of every waking moment. A schedule created by an overprotective mother who cared more about keeping me safe than letting me potentially fail.

I also have Tessa’s Interiors. My heart swells as I repeat the name in my mind. My own interior design firm. It’s already growing faster than I expected. Out of my first three clients, two are accessible design clients. The kind of projects I had hoped to specialize in one day, never anticipating I would get to try my hand at them so quickly. Combining my love of design with creating functional spaces that represent my clients is a dream come true.

In Paris, I’m not dependent on others for my own happiness. I’m making my own. And I’m not about to surrender that to my so-called husband.

“Do your parents know?”

Irritation makes the pain in my calves dig deeper as a hard ball settles in my stomach. I’m twenty-eight years old. I don’t need my parents’ permission to live my life.

“I haven’t told them, no.”

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