Page 100 of Modern Romance September 2026 Books 1-4

The wedding planner smiled at her, indicating that it was time for her to leave for the cathedral, so Wren gathered the skirts of her gown, as well as her courage, and started towards the car.

* * *

The cathedral was full of dignitaries, heads of state and nobility, and others Isandro had invited for strategic gain. There were cameras everywhere, as he’d ordered, because he’d wanted no one to be in any doubt that this wedding wasn’t to be conducted in haste or in secrecy.

He stood by the altar, the bishop waiting with him, dressed in full royal regalia, and he was conscious that his heart was beating faster than normal. A little nervousness was to be expected, though he hadn’t felt that way when he’d married Carlotta in this very same church. No, he’d felt nothing beyond the mild satisfaction of having completed an onerous task.

But it wouldn’t be Carlotta walking through those doors today. It would be Wren.

A tight, hot anticipation wound through him. He’d been deliberately keeping his distance from her for the past two weeks apart from their meetings in the evening for two reasons. One, because he’d known the paparazzi had found out about their outings and a game had sprung up between them about where the King would take his fiancée next, and the first one to get pictures got the money. He’d decided to let it happen since it reinforced the love story he was writing for the press. But naturally, he didn’t want them to get physically involved the way they had in the museum. So he’d been good, he’d satisfied himself with a couple of touches to her arm and the small of her back. A whisper in her ear. A touch on the rounded swell of her stomach, touching the small life inside it.

He’d thought about what she’d said in the museum that night, about how his happiness was important, and he’d decided that his happiness involved taking her to bed, and if he did that, her worries for him would be satisfied. It was strange to have anyone worried about him, but he didn’t mind that she did.

You should be worried about her.

Well, he was. About her health and that of the child. Also about her happiness. Those things were important to him, and he thought he’d been doing much better since taking her out in the evenings. She’d enjoyed those outings, and he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t himself, and so he’d planned for more.

He could allow time out of his schedule for her. It was more time than he’d spent with Carlotta, and that was a good thing. He wouldn’t make the same mistakes that he’d made with Carlotta with Wren.

The buzz of conversation in the church grew louder, and Isandro glanced down at his watch, checking the time. She should arrive at any moment.

He kept watching the doors, waiting for her. His best man—one of his bodyguards, since he had no siblings nor anyone else close enough to be a friend—would advise him of her arrival so he didn’t actually need to keep watch, but he did anyway.

More time passed and Isandro glanced at his watch again. Five minutes late, which he supposed was fashionable.

The buzz of conversation increased.

Isandro glanced at his best man, but the man only shook his head. Not here yet.

He tried not to be impatient, or at least he didn’t let his impatience show, or pay attention to the growing, gnawing seed of doubt that sat in the pit of his stomach. It was ice cold that seed, and grew colder with every passing second.

She’d run out on him once, and he’d had to drag her off the plane and bring her back. Perhaps she’d do it again. Perhaps she’d lied to him when she’d promised she wouldn’t leave. Perhaps, even now, she was throwing off her wedding finery and taking a taxi to the airport, getting on a plane and leaving him.

The minutes ticked by with relentless momentum, the five evolving into ten, then becoming fifteen. People were getting restless now, but Isandro paid them no attention, his focus solely on the doors, as if staring at them could somehow make her appear.

As yet more time elapsed, he was aware of a strange feeling coursing through him, as if he were falling from a great height, and that when he hit the ground, he’d smash into pieces, never to be repaired.

What if she doesn’t come? What will you do?

He had no idea. None at all.

Just as he was about to hit that ground and break apart, his best man hissed, ‘She’s here.’ And the falling sensation turned into something else, a rushing wave of relief that threatened to take him out at the knees. He froze, his every sense trained on the doors, as if moving would make her disappear.

She hadn’t left. She’d kept her promise to him. She was going to marry him. He wouldn’t lose her. He would never lose her.

Wren appeared at last, framed by the huge, ancient wooden doors of the cathedral, a vision in silver and white tulle, the crystals sewn into the bodice and skirts of her gown making her glitter as she walked slowly towards him.

The rest of the world fell away. The cathedral, the people, the bishop. There was nothing else but her and a curious ferocity that tightened every muscle in his body. Possessiveness and protectiveness, tenderness and desire, all of them rolled up into one filling him.

Her face was hidden by the silk veil she wore, which was frustrating, because he wanted to look into her eyes. He wanted to know how she was feeling, whether she was happy, whether she felt the same strange ferocity that he did.

She came to stand beside him at the altar, and he reached out to lift her veil slowly, putting it back over her head and looking down into her face. Her cheeks were pink, and there was a tinge of redness to her eyes, a hint of moisture gleaming on her skin. She gave him a smile, but he knew it was forced.

She’d been crying.

A kernel of ice, which should have melted at her arrival, instead grew sharp spikes, digging into him. He wanted to demand who had made her cry, and why, but he had a terrible feeling he already knew the answer.

The bishop began the ceremony and she turned away from him, staring at bishop instead, while he found himself staring at her.