Page 50 of Modern Romance September 2026 Books 5-8

“No.” To hell with walls and boundaries. I kiss her, hard, pressing my lips firmly against hers. “This is not your fault.” I turn to Arthur. “Get them out of here.”

Three of the bodyguards whisk Sophaya and Rosalina away.

“Your Highness, you need to come, too—”

“Fuck that.” I look up to the sky, watch as the two helicopters fly south toward Villeluz. “I may be a prince consort now, but there is no way I’m not going to be a part of this.”

“Sir—”

“They could have killed her.” I whip around, fury vibrating in my voice. “They could have…” I stop before I say anything about the baby with others within earshot. But if either Sophaya or the baby is harmed, I will unleash hell on whoever was on that helicopter.

Arthur stares at me for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nods. “All right. Come with me.”

We stride across the ruined wedding scene. I glance down at the torn petals scattered across the grass, remember what Sophaya said last night about the shredded rose blooms on her dining chair being the beginning of her nightmares.

My hands curl into fists. I will do whatever it takes to make sure this never happens again.

Chapter Seventeen

Sophaya

I slip out of the ballroom, leaving behind the music and champagne and caviar as I walk down the hallway. Two turns and one long hallway later, and I’m at the library. Not the royal library. Grand as it is, I need the peace and quiet of the smaller library my grandfather used to conduct meetings he wanted to feel more personal. The same library where I would spend hours curled up in the window seat during the summer or snuggled into a wingback chair in front of the fireplace.

I stop in front of the double doors. Lay my hands on the handles and breathe in deeply before I open them and walk inside.

The scent of paper and leather wraps around me. It’s been too long for the scent of Grandfather’s tobacco to still linger. Yet I swear I can smell it as I close the doors and lock them behind me. Mahogany shelves stretch up twenty feet to the ceiling, every shelf lined with books on everything from botany and history to science fiction and even a few romance titles my grandfather added for my grandmother.

I trail my fingers over the ladder, glance up at the still gleaming brass track. More than once, I’d climb up and hang on as Grandfather pushed me around the room.

My eyes stray to the desk in the corner. Tears prick my eyes. “I wish you were here.”

When I first started down the aisle at my wedding, I almost stopped. Dominic had looked cold, hard, the opposite of the man I spoke with last night. But then he smiled. It wasn’t a true smile. But he was trying. And when he told me I looked beautiful as he held my gaze while he said his vows, and then kissed me with restrained passion I felt all the way to my toes, hope rekindled.

Only to be smothered moments later when the helicopter invaded the gardens.

I realized after Rosalina and I had been escorted inside to a safe room that Dominic had stayed behind. Terror had broken through the apathetic state I’d retreated into and didn’t leave until he texted and confirmed he was safe.

It had taken several phone calls to confirm that he and Arthur were on their way to Villeluz to rendezvous with the police who had chased off the helicopter. An hour later it was verified the pilot had been hired by a television show to fly overhead and get photos. The photographer had insisted that the pilot fly low, not realizing until it was too late the damage it would cause.

The all-clear was given. My mother had surprised me by showing up with another wedding dress to change into since mine had ended up covered in grass stains and several tears from flying debris. The new dress was a simple ball gown with a silver ribbon about the waist and a long, flowing skirt. I changed as guests were escorted into the ballroom, which had been redone for the wedding in shades of violet and ivory, for the cocktail hour. I stayed with Rosalina and plied her with sweets until I was sure she was feeling better.

The mood started off tense, with guests casting worried glances toward the windows. But when Dominic arrived, I forgot royal protocol and strode across the floor, wrapping my arms around his neck and hugging him. When he hugged me back, held me tight against him and told me it was going to be okay, I almost believed him. Our guests applauded when he kissed me. Finally, the mood lightened enough for people to actually enjoy the festivities.

Wine from some of Siravelle’s wineries on the eastern coast flowed, as did champagne imported from France. The bar served custom cocktails like sparkling elderflower wine with wild mountain herbs and a sangria with peaches from some of the country’s finest orchards. Waiters mingled among the guests, silver trays loaded with seared quail skewers, grilled artichokes dusted with ground pine nuts and goat cheese bonbons. A plated dinner was served. In thirty minutes, there would be a break in the dancing, and guests would be ushered out onto the seaside terrace for a fireworks display.

The perfect royal wedding reception. There were plenty of things I liked, especially the focus on Siravellian food, drinks and artisans. The flowers were sourced from local growers, the linens made in Ardavela.

But it’s still just so much. So many people, so many things happening at once.

For once, Dominic didn’t seem irritated by it. He danced with me, Rosalina, even my mother. He visited with guests, kept my plate full and my glass filled with a nonalcoholic merlot. Yet even as the guests gradually relaxed and the atmosphere turned celebratory, I couldn’t shake the feeling that our relationship had suffered a catastrophic blow today.

Dominic had finally experienced the ugliness that comes with being a royal. Yes, occasional photos of him and his previous girlfriends had ended up in the papers or online. But those were few and far between, opportunities taken, not hunted down. How can a man who loathes being in the spotlight, who is one of the most private people I know, handle this life? How long before his commitment turns to resentment?

I glance at the clock on the mantel. Ten minutes, I promise myself. Just ten minutes to catch my breath and then I’ll go back.

A faint click sounds. I whirl around as the door swings open, my heart thudding in my chest, only to sigh in relief when Dominic walks in.

“I thought I locked that.”