Page 23 of Modern Romance September 2026 Books 5-8

“So what happens now?”

I breathe out. He’s not angry. Granted, I would have preferred a little more of a reaction. But at least there’s one small blessing in his indifference.

“For you, nothing.”

The mood in the room changes in an instant. Dominic doesn’t move, but I can feel the sudden tension gripping him. I nearly shrink away from the sight of his eyes hardening into chips of stone. “Nothing?” His voice is soft, lethal.

“I wanted to tell you in person. I apologize for my cryptic text, but I didn’t want to risk sharing anything that could be obtained by the media.” I leave out my doubts about not being sure whether he’d show up or not if he knew my reason for being here. “You made yourself clear in Venice regarding your feelings about relationships and commitment in general, so you needn’t worry about that. I’ll be getting married in a few weeks—”

He’s across the room in an instant, shocking me into silence as I back up and run up against a wall.

“Who?” His question whispers across my skin as he towers over me.

Irritation has me straightening my shoulders and making myself as tall as possible, which still leaves me nearly ten inches shorter than him. But if Dominic thinks he can intimidate me, he’s in for a surprise. “None of your—”

“Who?” he demands, planting his hands on either side of my head, caging me between his muscled arms. I hate the threads of heat that ignite, burn through me as he lowers his head until his lips are so close it would only take a slight movement on my part to kiss him. Two months apart, and all I can think about is our bodies tangled in bed, sweat-slicked skin pressed together as we uncovered each other’s deepest secrets.

“Don’t you dare try to threaten me, Dominic Hawke.” I wrap ice around me like armor, sink into the cold that’s more like home to me than anything else since my grandparents died. It’s constant, steady, numbing. “I’m navigating a labor strike, a shortage of staff at one of our most rural hospitals and enduring weekly meetings with an increasingly hostile Minister of the Interior. You don’t scare me.”

“I don’t give a damn about political prowess.” He leans down, his face coming within inches of mine. I hate the sensual thrill that runs down my spine at his nearness. “Give me a name.”

“I don’t have a name yet.”

If the situation weren’t so dire, I’d laugh at the sudden confusion on his face.

“What?”

“Do you want to ask why and where, too?”

“Don’t get cute with me, Princess.”

“My aide is creating a list of potential candidates who would consent to marry me and claim the baby as their own.”

The confusion evaporates, replaced by barely suppressed fury. “Over my dead body.”

My jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

“If you think I’m going to let another man claim my child as his, you’ve lost your royal mind.”

A headache starts to build, a dull throb that quickly grows into sharp little pickaxes digging into my skull. I plant my hands on his chest and shove. It’s like trying to move a damn mountain, but after a moment he steps back, his arms dropping to his sides. I brush past him, trying to find some sense of calm as I mentally plead with my body to not betray me. Throwing up in front of my one-time lover and father of my child is not what I need right now.

“There’s no other option.” My world tilts a fraction. Not much but enough to make me feel dizzy. “I must be married before the pregnancy is announced.”

The nausea hits hard and fast. I double over, clutching my stomach as a long, low moan escapes.

“Sophaya!”

Dominic scoops me up into his arms and strides through the penthouse like he owns it.

“Put me down.” Instead of an imperious tone ringing with authority, my voice comes out weak and whiny.

His arms tighten around me. “Forget it.” He moves into the bedroom and gently sets me down. One hand cups the back of my head, gently eases me down onto the mound of pillows. “Are you taking anything for nausea?”

“Ginger tea.” I scrunch my eyes shut as the dizziness worsens. “Lemon drops.”

“Do you have any?”

“Lemon drops in the nightstand. Tea in the kitchenette,” I manage to gasp out.