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If Georgia didn’t love Dante, she would have thought it kind of romantic. Instead, it was the end of her dreams. She tried to offer a smile, of sorts, but gave up. It was too hard.
“I’ll call a cab,” she said, moving from behind the armchair, towards the door, careful to choose a path that didn’t take her near Dante.
She had left the room but his voice followed her. “I’ll drive you.”
Her eyes swept shut. She knew that it was over, but the finality of that—the proof of his acceptance—cut through her.
“That’s fine. I’ve got it.”
Her suitcase wasn’t heavy, and she could manage it on her own, but when Georgia emerged from her bedroom, Dante was standing there, staring into space. Her heart lifted; maybe he was going to fight for her after all?
But he simply took the handle from her, his fingers brushing Georgia’s in a way that made her jump backwards, and the breath hissed out from between his teeth. “Let me drive you, Georgia.” He hesitated. “It’s the least I can do.”
A tear rolled down her cheek. She wanted to say something. To argue. To reassure him. This wasn’t his fault. Loving deeply, even in death, wasn’t a crime. It wasn’t wrong. It was just…wrong for Georgia. But instead, she nodded her head, and turned her back on him, this time, for good.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
GEORGIA HAD BOOKED A ROOM at the hostel on Edgeware Road, but Dante had insisted on taking her to a place in Mayfair instead. He’d been to her room at the start of all this to collect her luggage and he hated the thought of her going back there.
She’d allowed him to reserve her a penthouse suite merely to avoid an argument, though he could tell it was the last thing she’d wanted, which had left Dante with a sense of frustration.
And it had grown.
Day after day after day, back in his home, alone, he felt irritated and annoyed. His inability to make things work with Georgia, to make her happy while holding his love for Bianca in his heart, had stranded him in his strange no-man’s land.
He missed Bianca every day. He missed Livvie every day. And now, he missed damned Georgia like a hole in the very middle of his being.
And he hated it.
He was miserable.
He was angry.
He was frustrated.
Worst of all, he was treating everyone in his life, including Portia, with the same degree of irritable impatience.
Portia was the first one to call him on it, two weeks after Georgia had moved out.
“For goodness sake, Dante, I swear to God, I love you, but if you speak to me like that again, I will walk out of this office and not come back.”
He snapped his head around, tempted to tell her, ‘good’, because Portia was far too perceptive and he didn’t want anything about him to be perceived right now. Only even in his current state, he was aware of the reality of his situation, and he knew that without Portia, his job would become almost untenable. She was too useful, too integral to what he did. Whenever she took time off, he found it almost impossible not to bombard her with questions.
He glared at her instead, said nothing, and turned back to his screen.
“What the hell is going on with you?” She demanded, stalking across the room, standing in front of him with her arms crossed.
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit. Tell me why you’ve been acting like a bear with a sore head for the last few weeks.”
“Two weeks,” he corrected, then grimaced, because he knew it was too close to an admission. It showed he knew that she was right, and that he understood why.
“It’s Georgia, isn’t it?”
He ground his teeth.
“What’s happened?” Portia’s sucked in a sharp breath. “Is the baby okay?”
