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“I am not going to have one of the most important conversations of my life on the side of a road.”
“You’re not going to have it at all if you don’t start treating me with respect.”
His gut churned and something in his mind whipped at the edges of his conscience. He knew she was right. Not just about today, but the last time they’d seen each other. He’d been a very willing participant in what they’d shared—at the time. It was not Georgia’s fault that regret had set in immediately, and yet he’d pushed her away as though she were worthless and meaningless, with no regard for her feelings. He gripped the steering wheel more tightly, weary in a way he thought he’d never recover from, for it was a true weariness of the heart.
“I’m taking you to my place,” he said, grinding his teeth. “After we have spoken and made arrangements, I will drive you back.”
“Don’t bother, I’ll take the tube.”
He gripped the wheel until his knuckles grew white. A familiar protective instinct surged through him, a need he’d felt, when Bianca was pregnant, to absolutely curate her world so that she was safe and comfortable at all times. He’d presumed it was because she was his wife, and they were in love, but maybe it had been just as much about the life growing inside of her, and his already developed sense of paternal love. Those same needs were drumming into him, so that the idea of Georgia catching a tube, being rammed up against a hundred sweaty post-work commuters, or rushing down the metal escalators, or possibly not minding the gap, as he’d seen her recklessness for himself, and her stubborn pride, forced Dante to realise that this conversation had to achieve more than he thought might be possible. Impossible obstacles were Dante’s specialty though, and he had no intention of letting Georgia walk out of his life until he got her agreement on how they were going to tackle this.
She was furious. Absolutely spitting chips mad, but even then, Georgia couldn’t fail to appreciate the beauty of this part of London. She’d never been here, and given that her year abroad was supposed to be about discovering new parts of the world, there was a small part of her mind that was still able to admire the lush green trees that grew tall and proud on either side of the road, or the very old, yet immaculately kept buildings they passed. On Hampstead High Street, she watched people milling about in the sunshine—an elderly couple holding hands as they walked, a mother and two children crouched down to look at a duck and some ducklings with faces of wonder and concern for the little amphibious family charting its way down a busy footpath, presumably in search of water. The shops were beautiful and busy, and expensive, Georgia was sure, if the window fit outs and clientele were anything to go by.
Dante stopped at a crossing, and she glanced at him, then wished she hadn’t, because he was the definition of a storm cloud. His face was brooding and drawn, his features tight.
“If you’re so upset about this, why didn’t you just walk away?” She asked, with a shake of her head. “I don’t get you.”
“You don’t have to get me.”
“Don’t I?” She pleated her shirt, frowning. “You said something before about beginning our journey as co-parents. What exactly did that mean?”
He began to drive again, but only a little way down the street, he turned into a side road, drove down it then clicked a button in his door and a wrought iron gate began to slowly sweep open. A man walking his child—a little girl on a scooter wearing a superhero cape—lifted his hand in a wave and Dante’s frown creased larger.
“Dante?”
He turned to face her. “It means we have to figure this out.” He looked as though he was being tortured; his expression was one of absolute agony. “I didn’t want this to happen, but like you, I concede that we now need to act in the best interests of our child.” He turned back to the house, closed his eyes a moment. “I can see only one option.”
“That’s because I’ve already told you what my plans are,” she said carefully, an alarm bell blaring in her mind, warning her that he was about to ride roughshod over not just her afternoon but also her life.
“You cannot go back to Australia to raise my child.”
“This is my child too.”
“Obviously.”
“And you don’t get a say in how I live my life.”
“That’s incredibly naïve. Do you really think I’d allow you to simply walk away from me?”
Her lips parted. He drove in the gate, along a cobbled drive that was charmingly old but immaculately kept, to a house that was utterly stunning—and enormous.
“You don’t get to allow me to do anything. I’m my own person, and I’m choosing to go home, when the time is right.”
“Perhaps I should rephrase. I will not allow my child to be taken to the other side of the world—where you choose to live is, of course, your decision.”
She gasped, and felt as though she’d had all the air whooshed out of her lungs. Everything stopped. She was aware of the smallest movements of trees, small lifts of leaves, of the way a sunbeam cut through the air, of the smell of his car—like it was brand new, straight off the showroom floor, all leather and polish. She was aware of Dante, aware of his words, and the determination that undercut them. She turned to face him slowly, eyes huge, brain slow, throat hurting. “I can’t believe you’re saying this.”
“Can’t you?” His eyes swept her face. “Why did you choose to raise your brothers?”
“It wasn’t a choice,” she responded, shivering. “They’re my family. What was my alternative? Let them go into foster care?”
“Exactly.” His gaze narrowed. “You think I have a choice in this, Georgia?”
She opened her mouth and then slammed it shut again, recognizing how neatly he’d trapped her. She shouldn’t have answered his question—he’d backed her into a corner and she’d surrendered. With a soft, indignant puff of air, she dropped her head forward a little, staring at the center console of the car. It was sheer luxury here, too, with a small screen embedded that looked to manage all of the car’s internal functions. She toyed with her fingers, trying to think, to work out what to say.
“Come inside,” he said on a sigh. “There’s much to discuss.”
Unlike his house at Como, this was a place filled with family memories. Bianca had chosen this house after they’d married. She’d hated his penthouse in Canary Wharf, had wanted something more suitable for a child. Having grown up rough, she’d wanted to give their daughter everything she’d never had—starting with lawn and light. Such simple requests, of course Dante had obliged her. But the moment he opened the door and stepped inside, holding it open for Georgia to follow, he felt a crushing weight of regret. That same sense of betrayal was back. How could he be bringing her here, of all places, where he’d lived with his wife and daughter? He could not look at a single room without remembering them. Without seeing them, and at times, it was as though the veil between life and death, past and present, grew thin here. He felt them.
