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Then the door opened.

* * *

Christos stood in the doorway, watching Rose. Her eyes were closed, her face drawn in taut lines of resignation.

“You heard,” he said, a statement, and her eyes flew open. She stared at him starkly for a second before giving a terse nod.

“Yes.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, saying nothing. Perhaps, Christos acknowledged hollowly, there was nothing to say. He’d spent the last few hours trying to fix this problem, as he’d had to fix so many others, but this time there was no solution. The sperm bank really had made a mistake. His brother’s sperm had not been used by anyone, and moreover, it could not be used after his death as he’d not given his written permission.

The Amanti line had died with Luca, and Rose had no reason to be part of his life.

“I don’t think either of us expected this,” Rose remarked quietly, and Christos inclined his head.

“No.”

The silence stretched on, and Christos struggled with how to fill it. What could he say to her? Words of love that had throbbed in his chest and tangled on his tongue last night now felt even more impossible, and worse, irrelevant. It turned out a baby had been enough to bind them together; take it away, and they had nothing.

“I think,” Rose said at last, her tone careful, “I’m going to go.”

“Go?” Christos repeated neutrally. “Where?” He was pretty sure he knew what she meant, but he wanted her to say it. Wanted her to admit that she’d been marrying him for the child she carried and the advantages his family had offered him or her, not for him alone. Now that that had been taken away, there was no reason for her to stay. He wasn’t enough. He never had been. No matter what had transpired between them last night, the truth remained, glaringly obvious in this moment.

“Back to New York,” she said quietly, not quite looking at him. Even though he’d been expecting it, it still came like a punch in the gut.

Christos nodded. “Very well.”

Slowly Rose pulled his engagement ring from her finger and laid it on the table. Only then did she finally look at him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That…that the baby isn’t Luca’s. For your sake, for your family’s sake. Was there anyone else—”

“No.” The word came out flat, swift. “We’ll lose the estate.”

She lowered her head, her gaze on the floor. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “It’s not your concern.”

She recoiled a little at that, and he cursed himself for seeming too harsh, but how was he supposed to sound when his heart was breaking…and hers so obviously wasn’t?

“I’ll just get my things,” Rose whispered.

* * *

She left without saying goodbye. Perhaps they both realized it was easier that way. Christos could hardly believe it had ended so swiftly; when he thought of last night, and how happy they’d both been…

Well, clearly it had all been nothing more than a fairy tale. Fake, flimsy, easily forgotten. At least, he hoped it would be. Right now, it felt like Rose Delaney had been imprinted on his soul.

His mother had plans to visit friends in Milan, and so he left without her that very afternoon; he hadn’t told her the news yet, and he knew it would break her heart. He couldn’t remember a single moment of the four-hour journey. It only occurred to him when he arrived back at Villa Amanti that Rose might already be back in New York. Forgetting him.

He spent the next two days in a haze of grief—grief for Rose, for Luca, for losing the estate he’d fought so hard to keep. Financially, he and his mother would be fine; they had his business, an apartment in Milan, a house in Tuscany and many other investments besides. Upon his death, the Amanti vineyards and estate would go to a second cousin on his father’s side he had met only twice. He supposed it could be worse, and in any case, it wouldn’t happen in his or most likely his mother’s lifetime, anyway.

Still, it felt like failure upon failure. He hadn’t been able to keep his brother safe. He hadn’t been able to keep his family’s estate intact.

And he hadn’t been able to keep the woman he loved.

Three days after he’d returned to the villa, his mother arrived. He was sprawled in his study, drinking his second—or maybe third—whiskey of the evening when she came into the room with an impatient tap of her heels and flicked on the lights.

“Per amor del Cielo,” she exclaimed when she saw him sitting there, unshaven and bleary-eyed. “What is going on, Christos? Why is the house all dark, and you look like a—a drunken bum?” She shook her head, her lips pursed. “Where is Rose?”

“Gone,” Christos replied, and drained his glass.