Page 219 of Modern Romance October 2025 5-8

‘You’re the one who brought me here.’

‘Your point?’

‘You could have come on your own and told her about me.’

‘She would have thought that strange.’

‘Okay, fine. But you still could have left me in London. We didn’t have to do this together.’

‘In order to convince her...’

‘There’s no way that lovely woman, who thinks the sun shines out of you, would ever doubt your word, Dante,’ Charlotte hissed. ‘You could have come on your own.’

‘I’m still at a loss as to the point you’re making.’

‘You brought me here and I’m doing my absolute best to be the perfect imaginary fiancé, but you’re not pulling your weight.’ She jabbed a finger into his chest, then. ‘I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you were like a stone all night tonight. I had to basically spin plates on my fingers to keep your grandmother from noticing.’

He grimaced at her fair charge.

‘So? What’s the problem?’

He’d never really seen Charlotte angry before, but she was a passionate woman, and this side of her was just the flipside of that passion.

‘You did a good enough job of convincing her for the both of us.’

‘Not this again,’ she groaned. ‘You really are unbelievable, do you know that?’

‘How so?’

‘You keep accusing me of being good at what you’ve asked me to do, like it’s some kind of failing. This is our deal, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ he agreed, his gut tightening. He hated everything about this, suddenly. Being here, under these circumstances. Fighting with Charlotte. Being her fake fiancé. Knowing that they’d gone too far to undo any of it.

‘Well then, why aren’t you doing your bit?’

He clamped his lips together, searching for a way to explain.

‘God, Dante,’ she threw her hands in the air, frustration obvious. ‘You need to get yourself together or this is never going to work.’ She turned, to walk away, but he reached down and grabbed her wrist, spinning her back to him.

Fire sparked in the depths of her eyes. ‘What?’

Frustration burst through him, like a lightning bolt. Fierce and bright, burning him all over.

‘What?’ she demanded, so he felt her frustration, too.

‘Damn it, Charlotte,’ he said, the words far from cold.

‘Why? Damn what?’

‘You act like this is easy. You act like—,’

‘Like what?’ she shouted, then lowered her voice. ‘I act like we agreed I would act. How you’re supposed to be acting.’

That was true. So why was he finding it so hard to play the part? Why couldn’t he just roll up his sleeves and treat her like a beloved fiancé? Why was it that the more time they spent together, the more he found acting that part impossible?

‘You wanted to make your grandmother happy and I’m trying. Isn’t that what you want?’

What he wanted? He had no idea any more. It all seemed so stupid. But then he thought of Allegra and how hard she’d found his marriage breakdown, how she’d pined for his happiness ever since. He thought of how she’d been after her stroke, six months earlier—right before he’d met Charlotte, in fact. He thought of how hard she’d fought to recover. All the physical therapy sessions, the cognitive work, so the only lingering sign of her stroke now was the slight limp she carried.