Page 18 of Modern Romance September 2026 Books 5-8

Especially since I’ll never see the damned man ever again.

Chapter Seven

Sophaya

Seven weeks later

The sun slowly sinks toward the horizon. Even though there’s an hour of daylight left, the sea is darkening.

It’s been a long time since I enjoyed living in the palace. When my grandparents were alive, I could escape to their quarters or follow one of them to the library or the grand gallery where portraits of our ancestors hung. Ever since they passed, the palace has become a cold, empty place, full of luxury and lacking in emotion.

But the suite I moved into when I returned last Christmas has quickly become my sanctuary. My mother wanted me to move into my brother’s old suite. But given what happened in there, from the crazy parties to the seductions of numerous women, I wanted nothing to do with it. When I told her I wanted the curved room at the far end of the palace, she balked. It was bigger, she acknowledged, than my previous quarters, but didn’t have the grand sitting room or the five-tiered chandelier.

I glance back over my shoulder. Painted a soft lavender, the room has become an asylum. My bed sits on a raised platform facing the balcony doors. I’ve opened them on more than one occasion as a storm has been rolling in and lain on my bed listening to the thunder echo across the ocean. There are deep, high-back chairs in green velvet in front of the fireplace, and a long chaise lounge just inside the door with an end table stacked high with books and an antique lamp. There are royal touches, sure, from the vintage floral paintings on the walls to the quality of the furnishings. But it’s not a room for show, to host ambassadors and honored guests. It’s mine.

I look back out over the sea. I’ve made the room my own. But the primary reason I chose it, aside from its distance from my parents, is the view. The palace was built on a rocky outcropping twenty kilometers north of Villeluz, the first city established in Siravelle when it became a country over three hundred years ago. If I glance to my left, I can see the gleaming white buildings and red-tiled roofs of the capital in the distance. But between the palace and the capital is a huge pine forest, broken in the middle by a thin river that feeds into the bay. Below my balcony, a large, golden beach curves in a half-moon shape, cradled by soaring honey-colored cliffs dripping with moss.

I spent hours on that beach with my grandparents. My brother, too, on the few occasions he joined us. Being seven years older made it hard for us to connect. So, too, did his time being absorbed by the parade of tutors educating him in everything from Siravellian history and politics to dancing and which fork to use at a formal dinner. My heart twists as I remember one morning he joined my grandmother and me on the beach and helped me build a sandcastle. It’s one of the rare memories I have of him showing any interest in me. One of the few times I remember him as being truly happy.

My throat tightens even as I roll my eyes. I’ve been so weepy the last week or so. Weepy and drained, even though I’ve been going to bed at a decent time and sleeping anywhere from eight to ten hours. Granted I’ve been working round the clock: public engagements like ribbon cuttings for a new rural hospital in the northern region, daily tutoring sessions on international relations and the country’s finances, evening banquets.

Even my normally cold, judgmental mother complimented me on my productivity yesterday after my less-than-satisfactory meeting with our minister of education. If we had any semblance of a relationship, I’d talk to her about the ceremonial summaries I’m getting from our ministers, the lack of substance in my meetings with key officials. My father likes being the diplomatic star, holding press conferences and speaking with the people at festivals. Important duties, yes, but he’s created a culture where the royal family has been shoved out of the more substantial duties we should be tackling.

But I can’t talk to Mother. Not about my struggles adjusting to my new role, the pushback I’m getting from our government leaders. I can’t talk to her about my lost dreams or my heartbreak. Father certainly wouldn’t understand, either.

I’m alone.

Dominic’s face flashes in my mind. A wistful smile plays across my face. For one night, I wasn’t alone.

The first few weeks I was back in Siravelle, I avoided thinking about him entirely. But as time has passed, I’m slowly trying to remember the good moments of our night together and not the vicious loss the morning after.

Nausea hits. I frown and sink deeper into my chair. The more I’ve worked, the more I’ve lost my appetite. I know I’m pushing it, probably too much. I can’t make myself sick for the sake of the crown.

A knock sounds on my door. I groan. The thought of getting up to answer the door makes my stomach clench. “Come in!” I say as loudly as I can. Un-princess-like, but I don’t care. I crane my neck as one of the double doors opens.

Dr. Carmen Morales walks in, giving me a friendly smile as she closes the door behind her. A renowned physician specializing in rural medicine, Dr. Morales came to Siravelle when my grandfather was still king. She came to serve as an advisor on a committee he put together to address a lack of health care in our northern and southern regions. She fell in love with our country, and one of the Siravellian doctors on the committee. A year later she moved from Guatemala to become a permanent resident. When she retired ten years ago, she became the palace physician.

I like her. A lot. During my teenage years, she was the one I went to with questions about my changing body. She never judged, never critiqued. She’s one of the few people I can let my guard down around, which is why I finally caved this morning and went to her office in the east wing to get myself examined before a breakfast meeting with a museum committee.

Carmen walks out onto the balcony, dressed in cream-colored slacks and a navy blouse tucked into the waistband. Her black hair is pulled back into a low bun, strands of silver adding a touch of elegance to her image. She smiles, her eyes crinkling a little more than they used to. “Good evening, Your Highness.”

“Good evening. Forgive me for not standing, but I’m still feeling a little out of it.” I nod toward the chair next to mine. “Did my results come back?”

“You’re not dying.”

“Well, that’s good.” I wince as my stomach rolls again.

Carmen’s eyes sharpen. “Have you eaten anything today?”

“A little at breakfast. Every time I think about food, I feel sick.”

“Let me get you some tea.”

I don’t argue. A few minutes later she returns with a steaming China cup and sets it down on the table between our chairs.

“Ginger tea.”

“Thanks.”