Page 103 of Modern Romance September 2026 Books 1-4

He doesn’t understand. He really doesn’t.

Carefully, Wren pushed the chair back and stood, trying to still the tremble in her hands that came not so much from the shock as from a building fury that threatened to burn her to the ground. ‘What about you?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice level. ‘What about this great love story you’ve been orchestrating? What will the press say when your brand-new wife suddenly leaves?’

‘What does that matter?’ A sudden anger glittered in his eyes. ‘The press will say what they want. They’re irrelevant.’

The fury inside her built and built, because it was becoming abruptly clear to her why he was sending her away. ‘You’re not freeing me,’ she said, rage colouring the words. ‘You’re protecting yourself.’

His frown deepened. ‘What?’

‘This isn’t about me or my happiness.’ She took another step so they were mere inches apart, holding his gaze with her own. ‘This is about you. You’re terrified, Isandro, and you can’t bear to acknowledge it.’

Temper glittered in his eyes. ‘Terrified?’ he demanded. ‘Do I look terrified to you?’

‘Yes,’ she snapped. ‘You’re scared out of your bloody wits. So scared that you’d rather send me away than have to deal with your own issues.’

A muscle ticced in his strong jaw. ‘What issues?’

‘This ridiculous nonsense about not being able to love.’ She threw the words at him like stones, hard and sharp and cutting, because how dare he do this to her? After everything that had happened. How bloody dare he? ‘You can love, you stupid man. You want to be a better king for your country and your people, because you love them. You loved our baby the moment you felt it kick against your hand.’ She took a sharp breath. ‘You want to be a father, and you want to be a husband, but you’re actually terrified of emotionally committing yourself to anyone.’

He was statue still, saying nothing, staring at her as if she’d suddenly turned into a stranger and he didn’t know who she was.

Well, perhaps it was time he found out who he’d married.

‘I think, Your Majesty,’ she said, moving even closer, staring him down, ‘that you tell yourself that you can’t love because it’s easier than opening yourself up to it. It’s easier to detach yourself than to feel pain, and I think you’re in pain, Isandro.’ She looked up into his eyes, watching the shadows move in them, seeing the hurt little boy behind them. ‘You were taught that your feelings weren’t important, that they didn’t matter, and so that’s what you told yourself, too. Because it hurt, didn’t it? It hurt to be alone in this castle full of strangers.’

* * *

Isandro stared down at his new wife as she stood in front of him, mere inches away. She was small and so heartbreakingly lovely in her ice-blue gown. Too lovely a woman to be firing all these bullets at him. Bullets that seemed to find every place he was vulnerable, tearing through him, causing pain.

He hadn’t expected this. He’d expected her to nod and agree with him when he’d put his suggestion to her. To see relief wash over her face once she understood that she would be free. But there was no relief there, only anger burning in her dark charcoal eyes, and a sharp honesty that cut him down to the bone.

She’s right. You know she is.

No, she wasn’t right. No one had taught him anything. All he’d had was lack of interest and neglect, so why would he love the people who’d brought him up? Why would he feel anything at all for them? When his mother had left, he’d felt nothing. When his father had died, he’d felt nothing. When he’d married Carlotta, he’d felt nothing. It was true that anger had coloured the last couple of years of his life, but that was only anger. It wasn’t love.

Yet it’s not anger you feel something at the thought of sending her away.

She was so close, his bride. Smelling so sweet and soft, yet looking so indomitable. As if she would crush anyone who opposed her.

No, he wasn’t angry about sending her away. It was…painful. Yet it was also necessary. Because how could she be happy here with him? A man who, in her own words, had detached himself because it was easier than dealing with the pain and the loneliness. Which wasn’t true, of course. He hadn’t detached himself. It was just that there was only vacuum where his heart should be.

If there’s only vacuum, why does all this hurt so much?

‘No,’ he said to her and to the growing pressure in his chest, as if by dismissing it, he could get rid of it. ‘Why the hell would I be in pain?’

She looked up at him, and abruptly something in her expression softened, the anger in her eyes fading. ‘Because it hurts to be ignored and dismissed. To be neglected. It hurts to have no one and nothing.’ Her voice lost its hard edge, something else tingeing the words that turned the pressure into an ache. ‘I know how it feels, Isandro. Don’t forget that. I had nothing and no one growing up too.’

He wanted to dismiss her, tell her he was done with the conversation. Or, better yet, grip her and pull her close, cover her mouth with his to stop all those painful words from coming out. But before he could, she abruptly lifted a hand to his cheek, cupping his jaw. ‘You know you didn’t fail anyone, don’t you?’

He froze, completely unable to move. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘You were failed, Isandro. By everyone. By your parents and those around you. By the strangers you grew up with who made no effort to get to know a child, and who showed him no care or love.’ Her thumb stroked his cheek. ‘But you were never the problem. It was all them.’

She’d told him that before and he’d agreed that, yes, his parents had failed him, and he’d been angry about it. A powerful, righteous anger that had felt good at the time. But this time… This time…

His anger had gone and he couldn’t seem to find it, couldn’t seem to grip onto it. And in its absence was pain. A feeling as if his heart had been put in a vice and that vice was tightening and tightening, crushing it inside his chest.

Memories filled his head. Memories of his mother dismissing him when he’d wanted to show her something. Of his father ignoring him when he’d asked if he would play with him. Of the procession of nannies who had been more interested in talking on their phones than in doing anything with him.