Page 55 of Modern Romance September 2025 1-4

CHAPTER TWENTY

Katla

The conference on renewable energy sources at which I’m delivering a paper in Reykjavik’s Harpa Hall is full of the most forward thinkers in the sector, and I’m quietly pleased that the talk I’ve just given was to a full house.

It’s been a couple of weeks since I returned from Greece and went back to work after the Christmas break. Mr Tanaka didn’t ask me what had happened, and I didn’t tell him.

I was still concerned about what John might do, considering our last meeting, but he apparently disappeared and no one quite knows what happened to him.

I threw myself into my work, trying not to think about Ulysses and the forty-eight hours I spent with him, which was apparently long enough to fall in love with him and then get my heart broken.

And he’s changed me—irrevocably. He showed me what it was like to be accepted for myself.

He showed me that I don’t have to make myself smaller to fit someone else’s expectations of who I should be—that I truly am rare, precious and beautiful all on my own.

And that my passion isn’t something to be afraid of but embraced wholeheartedly.

I’m trying to embrace it, of course, but over the past couple of weeks that’s been difficult.

Every time my phone rang, my heartbeat quickened and I answered it, part of me hoping to hear his deep voice down the other end of the line.

Except it never was. And, after that first week went by, I stopped hoping.

Perhaps it is for the best, I tell myself.

Perhaps relationships are not for me. Perhaps it would be easier to remain alone for the rest of my life.

Yet there’s part of me that doesn’t believe that.

Part of me that aches, aches and aches, longing for the only man who ever made me feel good about being myself.

The energy conference has come at a good time.

Mr Tanaka wanted me to give a paper on the economic benefits of renewable energy sources, and I was happy to come back to Iceland, where I was born.

I don’t remember much of it, since my mother took me away very young, but there is something about the crisp, clean air and the stormy skies that resonate with something deep inside me.

I want to do some sightseeing after the conference ends, so I’ve booked myself a rental car and plan to do some driving around. In fact, once I’ve answered the questions of the few people who stayed behind after my talk, I plan to get my car and start my drive today.

Except, as I finish answering the last question, I feel the pressure of someone’s gaze. It’s heavy, making my skin prickle, and I look up, trying to find the source of it.

The atrium is full of people all standing in little groups and talking. The cool Icelandic sunshine falls through the honeycombed glass of the Harpa’s walls, shining on them.

Then my gaze fixes on the man standing in the centre of the crowd.

He’s alone, and so tall, he tops most of the other people by a head.

And he’s looking at me as if his world turns on my command.

His eyes are the same gold that haunts my dreams, his face the exact ratio that always soothes me, and deep inside I feel something I thought had died bloom again.

Ulysses.

What is he doing here, at this little conference in Iceland, of all places?

Sudden, bitter fury rises in me and I want to turn and walk away from him, the same way he walked away from me, but my feet are rooted to the spot and I can’t move.

Tears prickle behind my eyes and I desperately try to force my emotions down.

This isn’t the time or place for them now, not in a conference centre full of my peers.

Then quite unexpectedly he walks towards me and I wish I could move, turn my back on him and leave—do anything but stand there. Yet all I can do is stare at his beautiful face as he gets closer and closer, until he’s standing right in front of me.

The gut punch of his stare, the pressure of it, gets me every time, especially when his eyes blaze with the fire that has always lived close to the surface of his skin. His expression is fierce and intent.

‘What are you doing here?’ I force out, trying to stay in control of my wildly flailing emotions. I can’t bring myself to say his name.

‘I heard you were giving a paper,’ he says, his deep voice so familiar. I hear it in my dreams still. ‘I wanted to see it.’

‘Well, you’re too late.’ I lift my chin, wanting him to know that he didn’t hurt me, that I’m strong and not at all broken after he walked away. ‘I’ve already given it.’

His gaze never leaves my face. ‘I was hoping you’d give it to me again. In private.’

My heart clenches, pain radiating everywhere in my body. I don’t understand what he wants now, not when he made it so clear last time that he didn’t care. Even though I knew what he told me then was a lie—that he does care—that wasn’t enough to make him stay.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t,’ I say, pleased that my voice is so steady. ‘I have other appointments today.’

It’s too painful to stand there with his golden eyes on me, so I finally manage to make myself turn and walk quickly to one of the exits.

There is sunshine outside, and the sea that the hall stands at the edge of, with boats on the water. My hotel is right next door to the hall, so I walk quickly towards it, desperate to get away.

But then strong fingers wrap around my arm, halting me, and I’m pulled into the ferocious heat of a strong male body, his arms surrounding me, holding me. I shudder as I feel his mouth near my ear, his breath against my neck. ‘Don’t go, my ice queen,’ he whispers.

I am trembling, the tears in my eyes making the sea in front of me swim. ‘You said you didn’t care,’ I say hoarsely. ‘So why are you here?’

‘I knew you were giving a paper.’ His arms are iron bands around me. ‘And so I’ve have been making plans. I’ve bought a lodge on the golden circle and I thought I’d kidnap you and bring you to it. And then I was planning to spend a good few weeks apologising for walking away from you.’

I shut my eyes, my heart hammering. ‘I don’t understand what you want from me. Is it another six months? A night? What?’

He is quiet for a moment, then he says, ‘I don’t want to demand anything from you or to take anything from you. Especially anything you’re not willing to give. But… I did want you to know that I lied back in Greece. I lied when I told you that I didn’t care.’

I swallow, my heart hurting, my body waking at the warmth of him surrounding me, his familiar scent making my mouth go dry. ‘I know,’ I say. ‘I know you lied. But you still walked away.’

Slowly he lets me go. I know I should walk away, but I don’t. Instead, I turn round and look at him, see the shadows beneath his eyes and the lean, hungry look on his face.

‘I had to,’ he says roughly. ‘I couldn’t keep you. I had to do the right thing for you and that was to get me as far away from you as possible.’

This time I don’t bother to withhold my tears, I let them slide down my face. Who cares if he sees them? The tears are the truth in my heart, the truth that I find so hard to say, even to myself—that I love him and I always will, no matter how he feels about me.

‘So why are you here, then? Why approach me?’ My voice is shaking. ‘Why are you making this even harder?’

‘Because I was wrong.’ His gaze tracks my tears and yet he doesn’t move, his hands in fists at his sides. ‘I thought I had nothing to give you, that it would be better to let you go, but it’s not. It’s not better.’

This is the truth, the heart of it—I can see that now.

‘I saw my sister,’ he goes on. ‘And she told me that she’s found a life of her own, one apart from mine, and that I needed to find one too.

That I can’t let the past drag me down; that if she deserved happiness, then so did I.

And I realised that the happiness I wanted was with you, Katla Sigurdsdottir. ’

He takes a shuddering breath. ‘I love you, ice queen. I think I loved you from the moment I first saw you.’

The words are a hot shock, scouring my soul, and I look deep into his eyes—seeing the truth of him, seeing the big-hearted boy he once was, and still is, staring back at me.

My tears continue to fall and I let them. ‘I thought… I thought I wasn’t good enough,’ I say thickly. ‘I thought I was wrong to tell you that I loved you, that I was only seeing what I wanted to see, and…’

He moves then, compulsively, as if he can’t hold himself back any longer. And before I know it I’m once again in his arms and he’s kissing away the tears on my face.

‘You weren’t wrong,’ he murmurs, his lips feather-light against my cheeks.

‘And you’re more than good enough. In fact, you’re too good for me.

I know it, yet I love you anyway. I want you to come back to the lodge.

I bought it for you, and if you don’t want it, I’ll get rid of it.

And if you want it but don’t want me, I’ll walk away.

But, before you make any kind of decision, I want you to have this one thing. ’

He lets me go, reaches into his pocket and then holds out his hand.

In the middle of his palm is a small white shell with the most perfect spiral. My heart clenches tight. It’s the shell from his office, the one Olympia gave him, the one he said was precious to him.

‘It’s yours,’ he says. ‘For your collection.’

I want to speak, but my throat is tight and there are more tears in my eyes. So I shake my head, though why I don’t know, because I want the shell and I want the lodge—but, more than anything in the entire world, I want him.

He seems to know, because he gathers me to him and lets me weep against his expensive overcoat.

‘Six months,’ I manage to force out once I’ve got myself under control. ‘I want my six months.’

He cups my face in his hands, his golden eyes on mine. ‘Not enough,’ he says softly. ‘How about a lifetime?’

I swallow, my heart expanding, happiness spreading like wildfire all the way through me. ‘Perfect,’ I say. ‘That’s absolutely perfect.’

And it is.

Because in him I’ve found my ultimate golden ratio.