Page 31 of Modern Romance September 2025 5-8

CHAPTER ONE

Cassandra

I’ M THE MAD wife in the attic.

The realization hits me like a closed fist, and my knees buckle with the force of it. I lean against the wall, hand pressed to my heart.

I stare around the room at the paintings I’ve done over the last six months.

Each one a testament to my degrading mental health, growing darker and darker, the last one a black hole with only a spot of brightness at the center.

The light at the end of the tunnel? Or a fall into nothingness? I can’t tell anymore.

The trouble with dreaming of finding your own Mr. Rochester is that it’s tempting to believe you’ll be Jane Eyre.

That’s the hubris of youth and inexperience. The belief you’ll be different somehow than all those other girls. The belief that you can save him when no one else could.

I admit defeat, then and there.

I can’t save Dragos Apostolis. Not from his inner demons, or himself. I can’t save us .

When I’m alone in this house—and I am far too often, wandering the halls like the ghost of a girl who used to believe in love—I forget how I ended up here.

I can forget the way my world stopped the first time I saw the man I now call my husband.

Six foot five, broad shoulders, short black hair. His eyes a surreal crystalline blue, a scar on his cheek keeping him from looking too close to pretty. His knuckles were tattooed in severe black ink, one letter on each finger, the words in Romanian.

I found out what it meant later. He spelled it out for me, counting on those fingers as he thrust them into me.

Even now that memory makes me shiver.

That’s my madness, though, and I know it.

I knew he was dangerous from the first, even though he was dressed in a bespoke suit, a guest at the exclusive fundraiser I was waiting tables at to make ends meet while I studied abroad in London, away from my small town, away from my loving family.

But I wondered, how dangerous could he be?

I had been a very naive girl. Though not naive enough not to realize the definition of a bad-boy fantasy, and at twenty I’d held onto my virginity for far too long and I’d been overcome by the desire to beg him to take it.

I hadn’t had to beg. Though he likes me to do it.

But I’m not pathetic enough to do it, not anymore.

That first night is still burned into my memory. He approached me with the smooth grace of a shark cutting through the water, and I was stunned that the man who had caught my attention and held it had sought me out.

As I stand there, in my perch in the attic, looking down at our manicured garden— his manicured garden—I see that night play out in my mind.

I’m holding a tray of drinks when the man comes over and lifts it up off my hand and sets it on a nearby table.

“It’s my job to carry that.”

His eyes are so dark they’re nearly black. They catch mine, then they rake over my body so intently it feels like a touch. “Your hands are far too lovely for such a menial task. I can perhaps think of a better use for them.”

His accent is gorgeous, though I can’t place it. I know I shouldn’t be thinking about his accent. I should be angry that he’s made such an indecent comment. I’m not.

“As far as I’m aware I take answers from my boss. And not from you.” I’m not sure what instinct spurs me to come back at him like that. To engage in what might’ve been banter if this were a meet-cute.

I’m quite certain, based on the shiver of fear that skates down my spine, and the shimmer of attraction in my stomach, that this is not a meet-cute of any kind.

“I can also thing of better things for you to do with your mouth.”

There is no way of mistaking the meaning in his words. He looks at me directly. Those eyes are so fathomless in the dark. He has the beautiful face of a fallen angel, and I’m stunned. I’m like a little goldfish swimming toward a lure.

I know it.

But I can’t stop myself. I take one step toward him, and he reaches out and grips my arm, pulling me up against his body.

“I want you.” His voice is low, rough; it echoes inside of me.

“I…” I should tell him that he needs to take me out. I should tell him no. I shouldn’t be thrilled by his attention. I shouldn’t respond to his possessiveness. And yet I do. I have never felt so attracted to a man in all my life. I have never wanted a man like this before.

“I really have to finish my shift,” I manage to say.

“You don’t,” he says.

I look around, certain we’ve drawn the eye of the people in attendance—or worse, my manager, Lisa, who I hate with the fire of a thousand suns. “I do… I’ll lose my job.”

“You won’t ,” he says.

“Do you own the company?”

A slow smile spreads over his face. “I own this place.” He indicates the sparkling venue that we’re standing in and I can’t figure out if he’s a liar or not. He’s certainly not the old white guy I’d associate with ownership of a building like this. “Do you not know who I am?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“How interesting.” He looks at me like I’m an artifact. Something to be studied. “You’re beautiful.”

He says both things with a tone of wonder.

My heart is beating so hard I think I might pass out.

I can’t remember if I’ve ever been this close to a man before.

I have. I know that I have. I’ve kissed men before.

And yet, it didn’t feel this close. This intimate.

Sharing the air with a man like him is something else entirely.

He’s a predator. I feel that in my bones.

A shark.

And yet, I am the little fish that keeps on swimming. Maybe the snare is a hook. Still I swim.

I tell myself that having a modicum of self-awareness in this makes me less pathetic. And yet, I know the truth. I’m not the first woman to fall from grace over a sinfully handsome mouth. I won’t be the last.

“Come with me.”

Do I want this? Do I want my first time to be with a total stranger who’s never going to call me?

Because he won’t. He’s clearly a wealthy, powerful man who can have anyone he wants.

He walked up to me and grabbed me like I was an item that he could purchase.

I suppose I should be grateful that he didn’t offer to cover my evening’s wages.

But I want him. I have never felt the need like this before. It’s insistent, driving. And I have the deepest, most profound sensation that if I don’t go with him I will regret it for the rest of my life.

Live.

That’s what my mom said before I left home. When I left our sweet little house on the street that I grew up on, in Idaho, heading to Europe for my grand adventure. She said: Live, Cassandra.

I’m sure she didn’t mean this. But maybe she did.

Maybe she meant that I should make mistakes sometimes.

God knows I’ve never made a mistake before.

I had to get the best grades. I had to be at the top of my class, so I could get the scholarship that I wanted, so I could go to the schools that I wanted to go to.

My family loves me. My dad works so hard for me, for my siblings, but paying for four children to go to college has never been in the cards.

I knew that if I wanted to get into a good art program it was going to have to be based on my achievements.

I did all that. But what I haven’t done is live.

And right then I wonder, what the point of being an artist is if you don’t have messy experiences.

I can feel that I’m justifying. I want to do this. I want to do him.

Before I can rethink it, we’re leaving. I’m in the back of his shiny town car, and he drags his finger along the line of my jaw, down to the center of my chin. “Dragostea mea.”

I don’t know what that means, but I don’t want to ask. I don’t want to break the spell.

Then he kisses me. His lips are hot and hard on mine. I’ve been kissed before. I can’t remember those times. Because this is something entirely different. The way his mouth was over mine. The way he claims me. His lips, his teeth, his tongue.

I am trembling. I want him so badly I’m ready to tear his clothes off in the back of this car. Ready to tear my own clothes off. I realize then that I didn’t even look to see if there was a barrier between ourselves and the driver. I’m having a hard time caring.

We separate, and I look up at him, my heart pounding so hard it’s all I can hear in my ears. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

“What is there to understand?” He pushes his hands through my hair, and I shiver. “This is the most honest thing there is. The most real thing. When two people want one another.”

So I give in. I throw myself at him. I kiss him. The town car stops, and we’re ushered into a beautiful building, whisked to the top floor.

Once we get inside, he closes the door. We’re alone.

It’s spare. There are no artifacts that point to who he is, but I wonder if that’s information all on its own. Everything is black. Polished.

There is a large couch in the living area, a massive window that offers a view of the city below.

He moves toward me, and kisses me. I realize I don’t know his name. He doesn’t know mine. Does it matter? Do I want to do anything to break the fantasy, or do I want to live in it? Live in this.

I don’t want to stop and talk; that much I know.

He’ll be gone by the morning. Or rather, the truth is, he’ll throw me right out into the night, I’m sure.

Why exchange names? He kisses me down my neck, down the edge of my rather respectable neckline. Then he takes hold of the front of my dress with both hands and tears it. Well, he isn’t going to throw me out on the street in this same dress, that’s for sure.

He peels it away from my body, and I’m in nothing but the black bra and underwear that I put on this morning. I’m breathing hard, trembling.

He kisses me, smooths his thumb over my bottom lip, then dips it into my mouth. I bite him. And he growls. I don’t know where that instinct came from, only that it was strong and powerful. That with him, all I can do is follow my instinct, because it’s all I have.

He kisses down my body, holding me firm, holding me steady as he trails a line of hot open-mouthed kisses over my skin.

He bites my hip, pulls my panties down. I’m only wearing a bra and my black high heeled shoes.

Then he pushes me against the wall, and begins to lick me there at the center of my thighs. I’m shocked. Motionless. And yet, I’m also prisoner to the pleasure that he creates inside of me.

He’s relentless, merciless. And I like it.

Then he pushes two fingers through my slick folds, thrusting them deep into me, and I gasp at the unfamiliar invasion.

He continues to move his tongue over the sensitive bundle of nerves there, and I shudder. Then I wish I knew his name because I would call it out like a prayer. Instead, I just cling to his shoulders, digging my nails into his skin.

Then he rises back up, rips my bra away and kisses me hungrily. He’s still fully clothed.

My legs are shaking. He takes me to the couch, lowers me down onto it and then sits beside me, running his fingertips along my thigh, lifting my foot up into his lap, where he slowly begins to unbuckle the ankle strap on one of my high heels.

Then he turns his attention to the other one. The movement is so civilized, so careful, and in contrast with everything else, so delicate it makes my heart ache.

The intent expression on his face does something to me.

I am in another world. I’m outside my body, and yet somehow more fully inhabiting it than I ever have.

I move my hands up because I want to take his tie off; I want to take his clothes off. He reaches up and grips my wrist, pulls it away, his hold iron. “No,” he says, pushing his forefinger up against my mouth. “You are not in charge.”

The dominance in his voice makes my internal muscles clench. Yet another thing I feel I should be angry about, but I’m just aroused.

Then I find myself being pushed back on the couch, and he looms over me, his hand coming up to my throat, where he squeezes tight, and my breath exits my body.

For one moment, I wonder if I’ve made a grave mistake.

But then he lowers his head slowly and starts to kiss me.

And there’s something about the way he’s holding me combined with the sweetness of the kiss that brings me right back to the edge of erotic dysfunction. I can hardly think.

While he’s kissing me, he releases his hold on me, and I am conscious of him making movements, but barely aware. I realize that he’s gotten a condom, freed himself from his suit, and before I can tell him that I haven’t done this before, he thrusts inside of me.

I gasp at the unfamiliar invasion. He’s so big I can barely breathe. I find myself beginning to panic, my breath coming too fast, making me dizzy.

He begins to shush me, like I’m a panicking animal, but he stays inside of me as he holds my face steady and looks at me. “Are you a virgin?”

“Not anymore,” I say, trying to keep the edge of panic out of my voice.

I don’t want him to stop.

He makes a pained sound, somewhere between pleasure and torture, and then he begins to move inside of me.

With each movement I find my pleasure building. The pain becomes a distant memory, and I am lost in the rhythm.

And when I finally do come, I arch my back up off the couch, and scream. He covers his mouth with mine, and freezes above me. I feel him large and pulsing inside of me as he surrenders to his own climax.

I am certain that I will never see him again.

I laugh then. In the emptiness of the room.

If only I hadn’t seen him again. But I was a silly girl.

I wanted to be in love. I wanted my ill-advised one-night stand to be forever.

So much that when he asked me to stay the night I stayed.

And then I stayed every day after. I tried to keep doing my studies for a while, but there was a point when being with him became overwhelming.

We exchanged names, obviously.

He showered me with gifts. He made me feel special.

And he married me quickly. The most lavish event you can possibly imagine.

An old church in Romania with roses climbing all over the old stone structure.

Lights wound around every pillar and trellis.

Thousands of people came. I couldn’t say that I knew any of them, apart from my family and a couple of my friends.

All of whom wanted to be supportive, but were clearly overwhelmed.

Who can blame them? It was like I’d had a personality transplant. Dragos was my whole world. When before my whole world had been my art. My achievements.

And then once he had me…

I look around the empty space. My decision is made.

Yes. My decision is made.

I can be Dragos Apostolis’s mad wife in the attic. Or I can go back to being Cassandra.

I miss her.

And so, I know I need to leave.