Page 62 of Modern Romance September 2026 Books 1-4

And it had been such a very hard decision to make. The hardest of her life. When she’d first realised she was pregnant, it had taken her at least a month to come to terms with it, and to realise that she couldn’t bring herself to undertake a termination. Then, another month to figure out what she was going to do, and then still more time had elapsed as she’d gathered the courage to leave Valdora. Because it wasn’t only about leaving Valdora.

It was about leaving him.

‘Miss Weaver?’ the security guard prompted with a little more insistence. ‘If you please.’

Does he know? And if so, how did he find out?

He couldn’t know. Because there was no way for him to find out. She’d gone to Spain once the test had come back positive, and found herself a doctor there and, as far as she’d been aware, he hadn’t even known she’d been away, let alone the reason for it.

It must be about the resignation letter, then. God, why had she sent that before the plane had left? She should have waited until she’d got to Frankfurt.

The thought of seeing him again made her feel panicky though, and for one wild, impossible moment, Wren wondered what would happen if she made a desperate break for freedom. But there was nowhere for her to go, not trapped on the plane as she was, and again, that would probably lead to a viral moment that she really did not want to be a part of.

Which left her with only one option.

Grief slid a sharp knife through her, cutting deep into her heart, and a sob collected in her throat. She didn’t know if she could actually bear seeing him again, not after what it had cost her to make the decision to leave, but it didn’t look as if she was going to have a choice. The only mercy she had was that he didn’t know about her pregnancy, and she wasn’t going to tell him.

Berating herself wasn’t going to help the situation though, so she took a breath and steeled herself. Gave the security guard a cool, professional smile. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I’ll just collect my things.’

It was ignominious to have to get out of her seat, edging by the people sitting in the other two seats and knocking over someone’s bag. Then came the performance with the overhead locker, and getting her small piece of hand luggage out of it. Everyone on the plane was looking at her with curiosity and whispering.

Her cheeks burned, but she ignored the creeping embarrassment that filled her, holding her head high as she went down the aisle to the door of the plane, the guard following her.

There was no point asking the man what was happening, so she didn’t bother as he escorted her back through the airbridge and into the departure lounge. They went through the duty-free area, before turning down a narrow corridor with a security door at the end. He used a swipe card to open it and Wren found herself following him through yet more doors and corridors, until one swung open into an opulent and dimly lit private lounge.

The walls were dark, the furniture soft couches and armchairs upholstered in dark blue velvet. There was a full bar along one wall, glass bottles of spirits and liqueurs on the wall behind it glimmering in the dim light.

Wren had been in this particular lounge many times. She knew exactly who and what it was for, and now, being brought here made her heartbeat thump, and her mouth get dry. The sharp ache in her chest built, and she shivered.

This lounge was for the exclusive use of the royal family when they travelled, and Wren didn’t need to see him in order to know he was here. Put her in a dark room anywhere in the world, and she’d know immediately.

It was as if the molecules in the air had changed, charging with electricity, and it had been like that from the moment she’d first met him, the day she’d walked into his office in the palace for a personal interview. He’d been sitting at his desk, his attention on his computer, and when she’d sat down, his midnight-blue gaze had met hers, and she’d felt as if every atom of her being had abruptly been rearranged, changing her on some fundamental level into something completely different.

A change that had been permanent and irrevocable.

He was here in this dim lounge. She could feel him, a combination of his intense, magnetic presence and his scent, woody, and dark and masculine.

It made her shiver. Made her wish she was still on that plane putting as much distance between them as she could.

The security guard withdrew and a brief, crushing silence fell.

Over in one shadowed corner, a dark figure unfolded itself from an armchair, rising to the King’s great and intimidating height.

The lights glossed his short, thick black hair, and illuminated the familiar and beloved aristocratic lines of his face. Dark brows, inky blue eyes, straight nose, strong jaw, and hard, unforgiving mouth.

God, she remembered that mouth. It hadn’t been hard months earlier, when it had covered hers in that desperate ten minutes in his office, and she’d tasted him for the first and last time.

Another shudder worked through her at the memory, the ache in her heart deepening. Her fingers curled into unconscious fists as she tried to ignore it.

‘Wren,’ he said, and as always, whenever he said her name in his deep, velvety voice, with the lilt of his Valdoran accent, it sounded like a caress.

Helpless tears prickled and she wanted to cross the distance between them, throw herself into his arms. But, naturally, she didn’t. She might love him, but he didn’t love her and, anyway, she’d already decided that there was no future for them.

Blinking hard, she fought for her usual poise. ‘What do you want, Isandro?’ Might as well ask straight out. ‘I presume you dragged me off my plane for a reason?’

His expression was unreadable, yet she saw a burning blue spark flickering in his eyes, and she knew him well enough to know that it was anger.

Slivers of ice slid under her skin. He was usually a very controlled, self-contained man—he had to be as King—so for him to betray any sign of emotion, he must be truly furious.