Page 85 of Modern Romance March 2025 (5-8)

At this point, I wouldn’t fight him on the terms of the divorce if that happens. I can handle eight months if it means finally being completely free of my past and moving forward. Not just with my life in Paris and my business, but getting out, meeting new people and maybe finding someone who wasn’t an arrogant ass.

A knock sounds on my door. I tense. “Come in.” James, the butler, enters. I smile at him. “Good evening.”

He gives me a slight smile in return. “Good evening, Mrs. Drakos.”

I barely manage not to wince at the sound of my married name.

“You’re invited to dinner on the rooftop tonight.”

“On the rooftop?” I repeat.

“Yes, madam. Mr. Drakos has invited you to join him at eight.”

My heart jumps into my throat. Not what I was expecting at all. “Are you sure?”

James gives me another slight smile. “Confident, madam. You two are the only ones here.”

“Of course.”

I wait until he leaves before going back into my room and moving over to my closet. I assumed I would only be here a couple of weeks and packed light. A few sundresses and some loungewear. I shouldn’t want to dress up for the man who so quickly dismissed me yesterday after reminding me that I had absolutely no stake in his life whatsoever.

But I want to look good. Not for him, but for me. So I can navigate whatever is going to happen with the confidence I’ve developed over the last few months instead of slipping back into old patterns and letting my insecurities rule me.

I pull out a red sundress Katie convinced me to buy on a shopping trip on the Champs-Élysées. I brush out my hair, add a touch of perfume behind my ears, and then pick up a book I’ve been meaning to read for the past few weeks, a romantic comedy with family drama, ghosts and a star-crossed romance to distract myself.

After an hour, I finally make it through the first chapter, interrupted by constantly glancing at the clock and the door.

Disgusted with myself, I set the book on my nightstand and reach for my crutches. I’ve spent most of the day in either my office chair or my wheelchair. It’ll be good for me to get up and move around.

I also resolve to utilize the impressive personal gym James showed me this morning. One of the reasons why I’ve been able to shift to utilizing the forearm crutches far more than I ever did at home is because of the incredible physical therapist my doctor in Paris paired me with. I’m not going to lose progress just because I’m distracted by my coldhearted husband.

I make my way to the elevator a few minutes later and merge on the top deck. I stop, confused by the sight before me.

The deck is incredible, a stone terrace edged by plants and strategically placed lighting that make the lush flowers seemingly glow in the dark. One side of the terrace is lined with endless lounges, plump cushions and even plumper pillows offering a place for someone to sit and enjoy the views of the sea, the olive groves and the rooftops of Corfu in the distance.

But it’s the table that has me confused. The small table in the middle of the terrace, draped with a white tablecloth and topped with a small bud vase with two red roses and a single candle.

“Good evening.”

I turn around. My heart catapults into my throat. Rafe is standing just a few feet behind me. The sleeves of his dark blue dress shirt are rolled up to the elbows revealing tan skin and muscled forearms. His black pants follow the long length of his legs. There’s no sign of the coldness, the anger he displayed yesterday. He’s regarding me with that half-amused smirk I’ve seen him sport so much since he walked into the restaurant and upended my life less than forty-eight hours ago.

“Hello.”

He gestures to the table. “Shall we?”

I stay where I am.

“I hope you can understand my confusion.”

He nods. “While I stand by my words, my reaction was strong yesterday. Consider this a peace offering.”

I notice what’s missing: the actual apology for his overreaction. But I also recognize that he’s offering me something he probably doesn’t to most people: a truce. If this were an actual marriage, I would call him out on his lack of remorse. But it’s not. As he made perfectly clear yesterday, this is a business arrangement. Nothing more. I can either accept what he’s offering, or walk away and fly back to Paris.

The temptation to do just that is strong. But I would be shooting myself in the foot. I’m attracted to Rafe.Veryattracted. Even if he and I disagree on the fundamentals of life and business, I know him. He knows me. Just having those years between us lessens some of my nervousness.

His impressive physique certainly helps, too, a naughty voice whispers in my ear.

“Thank you.”

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