Page 68 of Modern Romance September 2026 Books 1-4

Isandro gritted his teeth. Well, he knew that. Which made it even more imperative that he and Wren have a full marriage. That, of course, could sound like an excuse, and Xavier had certainly had plenty of those, but Isandro knew himself. If his current obsession and temptation was already in his bed, then he’d be less likely to stray.

The base part of him growled in approval at the decision, already thinking of a wedding night and Wren, naked in his bed, clawing at his back and screaming his name. The thought made him even harder, but he ignored it. He wouldn’t touch her again until they were married, when it was all legal and above board, and not a moment before.

He’d expected Wren might want to ask him questions during the journey back to the palace, but she didn’t. She remained tense and silent the whole way, staring fixedly out the window.

She really didn’t want to marry him, did she? She’d gone white when he’d told her about his decision, and there’d been real fear in her eyes. He could understand that—facing up to what you’d done was never easy—but surely she must know that he’d protect her from the worst of it? He might be furious about the situation, but he’d never leave her to deal with it on her own.

Another thing he would have to talk to her about.

* * *

The Valdoran royal palace was ancient and built on a rocky promontory that overlooked the capital city of Valdoria. It was grand in the old, medieval way, with turrets and curtain walls, and battlements.

His father had hated the palace, living mostly in a ghastly and tastelessly decorated mansion just outside the city, but Isandro loved it. He loved the history, and the ancient stones, and the walled gardens that were like little oases of calm. His mother had loved the palace, too, and before she’d left, she’d taken a personal hand in the designing of said gardens. Pity she hadn’t taken such personal attention with him, but all that was in the past now. He never thought of her any more.

Arriving at the palace, Isandro had his driver take him around to the King’s private entrance, off to one side of the huge front gates. It was through an archway in the curtain wall, and so hidden from the eyes of the general public. No point advertising Wren’s presence here before he was ready.

The entrance led directly into the King’s private wing, where his apartments and offices were located. He’d had the whole thing redone after his father had died, since Xavier had had a fondness for gold and had gilded everything in sight. Isandro had ripped out the gilt and returned the King’s wing to its original state, with stone walls and weathered parquet flooring.

Carlotta had complained about how dark it was, but Isandro had disagreed. Perhaps it was a little dark, but considering the palace had been built in the early Middle Ages, that was to be expected. Also, it was historic and much more true to his own reign and not that of Xavier.

Isandro led the way to his office without a word, and Wren followed him, the way she always did. They’d walked together to his office so many times it was probably a learned response rather than anything she consciously thought about.

The office was large, with big, deep windows that looked out onto his private garden. Again, it was one his mother had designed as a present to his father, but Xavier had ignored it the way he’d generally ignored everything his queen did.

Isandro, though, loved the garden and was meticulous about tending to it. In fact, tending to the plants and the trees and the flowers was what he loved most to do whenever he had a spare moment. Which wasn’t often enough for his tastes, but still. It was enough to keep this particular garden looking beautiful.

He went over to the large, antique oak desk that the long line of Valdoran rulers had used, and sat down behind it. A comfortable armchair was positioned on the other side, and normally Wren sat there. But not this time. Instead, she stood in front of his desk, her hands still clasped, her expression tight.

There were memories in this office. Memories that shamed both of them. But he’d worked hard to keep those memories locked up tight whenever he was in here, and most especially when he was in here with her.

Perhaps it would have been better to talk to her somewhere else. Then again, being here to talk about their marriage was somewhat apt.

‘Presumably, since we’re here in your office,’ she said before he could speak, ‘you want me to craft a press release.’

It didn’t help his mood that she already knew what he wanted, which was illogical since it was her ability to know what he was thinking that had made her so valuable as an employee.

And not only as an employee, but a friend.

A friend, yes, he’d tried to put her in that box. Tried to tell himself that’s what she was, that’s all she was. Of course, that had been a lie. She’d been more than a friend. He’d been fascinated by her intelligence and the calm, patient way she’d handled Carlotta’s various scandals. Her attention to detail, her incisive questions that always made him think, her passion for the country she’d elected to live in that was a mirror for his own. There was also a quiet strength to her, an unshakeable core of determination that he found incredibly attractive, especially when she disagreed with him.

She’d been an obsession he’d never managed to overcome.

Yet things were different now, weren’t they? She wouldn’t be his employee any longer. She would be the obsession he could glut himself on, and his body liked that. It liked it very much. But it did mean that she couldn’t be the one crafting the press release. He’d have to find himself a new palace PR manager and it would have to come from them.

He stared at her from across his desk, her figure hidden beneath the voluminous black sweatshirt, her pale face staring out at him from under the hood.

‘No,’ he said. ‘You will not be crafting anything. You’re not my PR manager now, Wren. You’re here so we can both decide on an appropriate narrative to put in the press release.’

Surprise ruffled her delicate features like the wind over a still pond. ‘Oh? I assumed—’

‘My wife will not be the palace spokesperson. Surely you can see that?’

Her expression tightened. ‘Of course.’

Isandro leaned back in his chair, and nodded to the seat on the other side of the desk. ‘Sit down,’ he said.

‘Thank you, I’ll stand.’