Page 20 of Modern Romance September 2026 Books 5-8

“Unless the father changes his mind.”

I think of Dominic’s face just before he walked out of the suite in Venice, the cold contempt when I fired him.

“He won’t.”

Chapter Eight

Dominic

“She’s a lingerie model.”

I glance over at Cassian, who’s holding up his phone. A stunning blonde is smiling at me from the screen, hair perfectly styled around a heart-shaped face, her eyes sparkling as she laughs at the camera.

Nothing. Not even a twitch of lust. Yes, she’s gorgeous. But all I can think is that her hair isn’t the color of dark chocolate. Her eyes aren’t blue and icy one minute, then warm and soft the next.

“No.”

Cassian shakes his head. “I don’t understand you at all.”

I turn back to the wall of glass and stare out over New York City. From the fortieth floor of the Aliz Hotel, I can see the Empire State Building, the skyscrapers of Midtown. The city is lit up in all its glory as autumn darkness creeps in.

I raise my glass and take a long drink. We used to come here with John. Mostly while I was in college, although I dropped by between deployments, too. This was the last place I saw him before he passed.

Pain lances through me. John was one of four people in my life who have earned my trust and respect. He took in Aiden, Cassian and me, made us a true family and opened doors I never would have imagined possible. He never asked for anything in return. I told him thank you here and there but always held back. I had the chance to open up, and I failed.

Four months after that last drink, John passed away from a heart attack while I was on an operation in South America. Fifty-four years old. He should have had years, decades left.

Instead, I lost yet another person I had slowly allowed myself to care for.

Shrugging off the guilt, I glance around the bar, let my eyes linger on a few attractive women seated at the bar. Two smile back, one even turning in my direction, inviting me to come over.

I haven’t been out since I left Venice. The thought of going on a date, of talking to another woman, kissing her, taking her to bed… I can’t do it.

Why? I ask myself for the hundredth time since I landed back in New York. Why does she matter? It was one night. I made a stupid choice, although I can’t bring myself to regret it. Not when it was the best sex I’ve ever had. Not when Sophaya matched me for every move, her eagerness and passion driving me to the brink of my control.

Not when I pulled her close in the night and savored the feel of her in my arms. It was sexy, yes, but there had been something quietly satisfying about just lying with her.

I’ve never spent the night with another woman. After achieving physical release, I’d leave their apartment or penthouse or whatever hotel room we’d rented and go back to my own place. Another degree of separation that kept things casual.

But waking up throughout the night with Sophaya in my arms left me with a contentment I’d never experienced before. A contentment that took me to incredible highs before dropping me into a deep, dark pit, one seething with guilt and anger and regret as I walked out of Her Highness’s suite.

I will never make the same mistake again, I promise myself as I take another drink. I let down my guard that night, enough for Sophaya to creep in, and now I’m still struggling almost two months later.

It doesn’t help that I hurt her in those final moments. I knew the moment I’d labeled our night together as a mistake that I’d screwed up. No, I shouldn’t have slept with her. But I’d taken out my frustration over my own poor choices and the possibility of gossip on her.

And for what? Other than a handful of articles, the story about us dining together had died within seventy-two hours of my return. There were minor mentions of a man being arrested for harassing her. But the majority of the news coverage had been on the success of her European tour. No nasty jokes about Hawke Security, no clients calling to cancel their contracts.

I’d hurt her for nothing.

“Aiden’s here.”

I glance over my shoulder as Aiden walks in, striding past the low-slung velvet sofas and clusters of people with smug confidence. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic.”

My eyes flick to his mussed hair. “You have lipstick on your collar.”

Aiden tries to glance down. Cassian laughs and claps him on the shoulder. “Can’t believe you fell for that.”

Aiden shrugs and smiles. A real smile. Ever since he finally admitted he was in love with his secretary, Seraphina, he’s been happier. Relaxed. When compromising photos of Aiden and Seraphina hit the news over the summer, I’d been more surprised by Seraphina moonlighting as a fire dancer than the picture of her and Aiden nearly kissing. They’d been working together for years, and we’d always sensed there was something between them. Something I’d observed firsthand when I saw them together at the masquerade in Venice. Even though the engagement had been a ruse to help Aiden secure a deal, they’d finally admitted they were both crazy about each other. Now they were planning a spring wedding.