Page 133 of Modern Romance September 2025 1-4

She would find a way to fulfill her father’s wish.

Diego Folliero couldn’t say he liked living as sparsely as a monk, but that was the point. Not liking it.

He had studied the idea of penance deeply over these past two years. In his understanding, pain was the price of survival. Neither guilt nor self-flagellation could bring his family back, but the cold water he had to haul from the icy alpine lake, the fire he had to start to cook anything, the trials and tribulations of life on a tiny, remote mountaintop where Castello di Natale could be seen below was the price.

He had been selfish. He had survived. Now he suffered.

It was right.

He awoke to a frigid morning. The pain of cold sank into his joints, and he thanked the universe for it.

His pain was his price.

He got out of bed and pulled on the warm, serviceable clothes he would need to survive the day, then went about his morning routine: build up the fire in the lone fireplace, boil water for bitter coffee. He buttered a piece of rustic bread—both food items he’d had delivered from a scrabbling farm not far away.

It was not any pain to eat so humbly when the items were made so well, but he overpaid for the privilege.

After breakfast, his next task was to deal with work. There was one modern amenity he allowed himself—internet, and the power required for it. He would have cut this off as well, but in order to continue the Folliero legacy, he had to be somewhat reachable. Still, he did not allow himself to use electricity, communication or this connection with the outside world for pleasure. It was for work and work alone.

He settled into the chair at his desk, both hardscrabble items not meant for any comfort. His assistant vetted all his emails, so only the most important ones made its way to him. Every morning, he read them, dealt with them and then went back to his life of penance.

But today, an email from his assistant caught him off guard.

Mr. Folliero,

Your presence is required at Castello di Natale this Christmas season. I have handled your travel arrangements, attached below. We look forward to seeing you.

Warm regards,

Amelia

It was such a nonsensical email to receive, he stared at it, read it at least five times, trying to understand what on earth had happened for him to receive such a missive. Hispresencewasn’t requiredanywhereanymore because he refused.

His cheerful assistant had clearly gotten some kind of wire crossed.

He scowled at the email. It was addressed to him, signed by her. Where could the confusion be? She had been his assistant for the last two years now—efficient and excellent, which he hadn’t expected since it had been a guilt hire after all—but Amelia Baresi had never pushed his refusal to attend any meetings or event in person or even via video call. She’d accepted it, dealt with it.

She was his proxy, and she understood that. Orhaduntil this moment.

Well, he would clear up any confusion. Without even opening her attachment, he hit reply. His response was simple, no greeting or salutation. Just:

No.

He walked away from his computer, found himself pacing the small room that made up the living area. He stopped, scowled. Work had not agitated him in some time.Feelingsaside from the acceptable guilt had not stabbed through the fog of nothingness in years.

He didn’t like it.

The computer dinged, signaling another email. A strange feeling, something he might have once called anticipation, settled in his chest. He crossed back to the computer, opened the email with another scowl.

Mr. Folliero,

So sorry for the confusion! I’m afraid no is not an answer, as it was not a request. A car will be there soon.

Regards,

Amelia

He didn’t miss the fact she’d dropped thewarmfrom herregards, or that the apology and exclamation point were passive-aggressive at best.