Page 55 of Modern Romance December 2025 5-8

Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. And while every inch of her wanted to hide under a weighted blanket and not emerge until the New Year’s, this was her son’s first Christmas.

She owed it to him, and herself, to celebrate their togetherness, to start new traditions. She had lost too much recently to not see what she did have. Even if her heart felt like it was dented in a hundred places.

The air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp pavement and expensive perfume. Heels clicking against the marble, she stepped into the grand lobby, only to come to a sudden standstill. Her breath danced in her throat, almost choking her.

Was that Massimo stepping out of the grand elevator? Or was her mind creating mirages again?

With that long-limbed stride and easy laughter, his gaze caught on the phone in his hand, he strolled out the other exit, utterly at ease.

If he was here, why hadn’t he contacted her? Why was he in London at all? It wasn’t as though their mother would let him out of her sight during the holiday season. Only Renzo could convince her to let him travel with him…

The realization hit her like a blow to the chest.

That meant Renzo was here in London. Itwasher husband she’d seen at the awards ceremony. He had been present in the audience, hiding in the shadows, but hadn’t shown himself.

How dare he hide away like a thief? How dare he play with her feelings?

A host of emotions crashed over her, all hot and sharp and unbearable.

Anger. Longing. Heartbreak.

Anger won out, propelling her forward. Her pulse thundered as she pivoted toward the front desk, jaw tight.

“Hi, I have a question,” she said, voice sharp.

The receptionist barely looked up before reaching under the counter. “Good evening, Mrs. DiCarlo. Did you need a new key card?” His voice was smooth, professional, with the polite indifference of someone who dealt with VIPs daily. He simply slid a key card across the marble counter as if this was routine.

Mimi’s breath caught.

Mrs. DiCarlo.

Because the poor man assumed that she would know her goddamned husband was already here. At his own hotel.

Her hands trembled as she took the smooth white keycard, her blood boiling now.

The private elevator ride felt both too slow and too fast. Matching the uneven rhythm of her own heartbeats.

She pushed it open, stepping into the darkened expanse. The only light came from the city skyline, gleaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The room smelled clean, expensive, undeniably like her arrogant, suave Italian husband.

Her pulse went haywire as she finally spotted him.

Standing by the window, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He didn’t seem surprised that she was standing there.

“You were at the gala, weren’t you?” she demanded without preamble.

“Buonasera, cara.”

The whiskey-deep timbre of his voice made her knees shake. “Answer my question, Renzo.”

“Yes, I was there.” He didn’t turn to look at her, though. Instead, he swirled the amber liquid in his glass, exhaling slowly. As if he couldn’t bear to meet her eyes. “Congratulations,bella. You were glowing up there. That quick speech you gave…everyone could hear your passion for what you do.”

“What the hell kind of a game are you playing, Renzo? How long have you been in London?” Her voice cracked with betrayal. “You’re toying with me, with my feelings.”

Finally, he looked at her. His dark eyes were unreadable, and tension radiated from him. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. Not today, not before.”

She took a step closer, her heart slamming against her ribs. “So what? You were spying on me?”

“For what reason?” A flash of anger broke through the surface.