Page 89 of Modern Romance July 2025 #4-8

CHAPTER ONE

A S THE CAR STOPPED , Carmel Davenport closed her eyes against the craving that rose in the back of her throat. She didn’t really want alcohol. She wanted the blankness. The numbness. Emotions were spiky and hot and heavy. They bombarded her as the door opened beside her.

She kept her eyes closed, concentrating on her breathing technique as she absorbed the slice of regret and the bruising ache of shame, the loss of time and the opportunities she had squandered.

She drew a breath laden with nostalgia while technicolor images danced behind her eyelids.

A man with black hair and tanned skin that gleamed with drops of water.

A cocksure smile. A heated stare and a confident touch that made her feel thrilling, wonderful sensations.

Caresses that told her she was worthy and special.

She exhaled melancholy because those moments were yet another thing she’d taken for granted and misused.

Darker voices tried to creep in and berate her for that, but she firmly reminded herself she was not worthless and stupid. She couldn’t change the past, but she could move forward making better decisions.

She had to move forward. No more backsliding. No more wallowing in the purgatory of yearning and self-loathing and what-ifs.

“Sorry,” Carmel murmured to her brother’s driver as he continued to wait patiently in the hot Athens sun.

She snatched a few tissues from the holder in the console, blinking her eyes against the press of tears. She hated crying. It made her feel sloppy and out of control. Plus, tears would ruin the makeup she had taken such pains to apply.

Everything about her appearance from the low, twisted chignon to the power suit in navy blue had been debated to death by her inner critic.

What would Damian say about how she had aged? It had been five years. She was no longer twenty-four and stick-thin with bleached blond hair and a penchant for showing skin. What would he think of her natural brunette hair color? Her weight gain? Her sobriety?

Ugh. She didn’t need his approval. She needed a divorce .

She didn’t even need his approval for that. She could have filed the petition and waited to see if he would contest it, but she was hoping he would cosign so it could be rubber-stamped without delay.

So she could continue her trek forward, out of the past and into a more deliberate and fulfilling future.

She stepped her open-toed Ferragamo onto the sidewalk and accepted the hand the driver offered.

“I’ll walk back after my meeting,” she told him, not caring if the heat frizzed her hair out of its bun or turned her into a flushed and sweaty mess. No matter what happened, she would need to clear her head after she saw her husband.

“I’m happy to wait for you.” The driver knew as well as she did that there were three licensed establishments between this office building and her brother’s apartment.

“I’ll be fine.” She hoped. “Please let me tell Atlas in my own time where I asked you to drop me today.”

“I’m sure you’ll speak to him before I will.

I would only tell him if he asked.” But he would tell Atlas if Atlas asked, and Atlas would ask because he still didn’t fully trust her.

His wife, Stella, had been the one to say effusively, Of course you can stay in our apartment while we’re away .

Atlas had instructed the housekeeper to lock up all the alcohol.

“I’ll text you once my meeting finishes, then.” Gone were the days when she could bribe or charm her brother’s employees into hiding her secrets.

Not that she wanted to be that person anymore.

Or that she had many secrets left. Only this husband she was planning to divest herself of.

She looked up at the building and her belly filled with a heavy, oily sensation.

Maybe she should have asked Atlas to handle this for her. She didn’t think Damian would come after her fortune—which begged the question, “what fortune?”—but he could make a grab for the assets she had left, like the company she’d inherited from her mother or her flat in London.

No. She didn’t want to tell Atlas about this rash, short-lived marriage of hers. They were finally in a good place. She didn’t want to ruin it by asking him to clean up yet another of her old messes.

She was so tired of being humbled by her past. Of having to ask for help. She needed to do this herself, to properly make her amends with Damian.

Even though it scared her spitless.

She glanced in her shoulder bag for the millionth time, ensuring the envelope of paperwork was there.

A horn beeped to nudge her driver into moving from his spot in front of the building.

She let him go and hurried through the revolving door, then showed the envelope and her lawyer’s card to the security guard.

Her assistant had finagled a five-minute appointment with Damian by claiming she was bringing paperwork from a London law firm that required his signature. Which was true , if not as forthcoming as Carmel was striving to be these days.

Heck, if she was as brutally honest as she should be with herself, she would admit the real reason she hadn’t involved Atlas or allowed her lawyer to handle this was because she wanted to see Damian.

And she knew he wouldn’t see her if he knew she was coming. He had said so the last time she’d seen him.

I never want to see you again in my life.

The antipathy in his expression had sat as a cold spike in her chest for five long years.

Hot misery over earning his hatred had prompted her to get serious about sobriety, not that she’d succeeded right away.

No, she’d stumbled in and out of treatment several times, trying to pull herself together only to fall apart again.

She was taking accountability now, though. Facing her demons.

Or the one she’d married at least, she thought ironically.

She accepted the visitor badge and was escorted into an elevator. As it whisked her to the top floor, she tried to inject strength into her weak knees and willed her palms not to be so clammy.

Her apprehension only grew worse as she shot skyward. This was one of the tallest buildings in Athens and it hadn’t escaped her notice that Damian’s name was on it, including on the wall that faced her when the doors opened.

Growing up in a wealthy family, she wasn’t intimidated by the marble floors and glass walls and hushed air of luxury as she followed the receptionist. She was impressed, though.

Damian had been a scrappy start-up in green energy when she’d met him.

Now he dominated that industry across Europe and had offices around the globe.

The receptionist stopped near the end of the hall and left her in the custody of an assistant who invited her to take a seat in a waiting area.

She almost didn’t hear him, her pulse pounded so loudly in her ears. As subtly as she could, she regulated her breathing. Her hands longed to wring the envelope like a wet rag.

It would be fine, she reassured herself.

Damian didn’t want to be married to her.

How could he? They had married on impulse after a few days of passion.

He had had big ambitions, and she had wanted to fund them.

She had believed that marriage would grant her access to her trust, and she had wanted to be free of her father’s pressure to marry one of his toadies.

At no point had she imagined their marriage would last. Damian couldn’t have thought so, either. He’d been indulgent and affectionate. Possessive enough to stare down any other man who looked at her, but he had already been realizing his mistake by the time they arrived in London.

Did you just put vodka in your mimosa?

She had. Because she had known that her father would be appalled that she had married a common working man she had met while vacationing in Greece.

Like father like daughter , she had said when Oliver curled his lip at Damian. At least I married my lover. At least there won’t be a baby turning up fifteen years from now .

Good , her father had said. That means you can get rid of him.

She sighed, no longer blaming Atlas for her father’s philandering ways, but she had no one to blame but herself for the way Damian had looked at her as his father sneered at him.

Is that the reason you married me? To offend him?

The assistant’s phone buzzed, startling her back to the otherwise silent office.

The young man answered in Greek, which Carmel understood better than she spoke. Atlas’s mother had been Greek, and Carmel had learned enough to eavesdrop on him.

“ Málista , kyrie , but your ten o’clock is here.” The assistant flicked his gaze toward her. “She has documents from a law firm in London.”

He made a noise of assent and an apologetic expression began to form on his face.

No. Carmel lurched to her feet.

“I only need two minutes,” she said in English, rushing toward his desk. Her brain frantically tried to find the words in Greek. “Dyo lepta.” She held up two fingers. “Parakaló.”

“Kyrie?” the assistant said, frowning at his phone.

There was a loud bang as the wide doors that dominated the end of the hall were pulled inward so forcefully, they hit the walls.

Carmel jumped again, heart stalling in her chest because there he was, like an avenging god. Damian Kalymnios. Her husband.

She had stalked him online many times, rarely seeing his image in anything other than groundbreaking ceremonies or corporate headshots. None of those small photos had prepared her for seeing him in real life.

He was still tall and wide-shouldered, but he’d filled out with maturity.

His muscles were even more powerful beneath his gray, bespoke suit.

He was clean-shaven, not wearing a scruff the way he used to, revealing the cleft in his square jaw.

His black hair was shorter, his mouth unsmiling.

Grim. His gaze raked her, then slammed back to meet her own.

His eyes brimmed with outrage. And contempt.

Ouch.