Page 47 of Seasons of Sin

He shook his head. “And?” He prompted, his emotion impossible to comprehend.

“I love you, and I want to be with you.” She reached for him but he shrugged away from her.

“You’re married.”

“I’m getting a divorce.” Her eyes scanned his, looking for some sign of relief. Some indication that he welcomed this news. It wasn’t forthcoming.

“That is your business,” he said finally.

Saphire tried to catch her breath but it was almost impossible. “You don’t love me.”

Thaddeus packed every little piece of his heart away. She had shown how she valued him when she’d walked away from him. All of this was just an afterthought. His face was dark. “I loved sleeping with you.” His smile was cruel. “But now I have her.”

Saphire let the sob ring through her. She lifted her hand and slapped him hard across the cheek but he didn’t so much as flinch. Her fingers stung. Good. The pain suited her emotion.

“I love you,” she cried, and now she let the tears fall freely.

Thaddeus watched her with a growing sense of urgency. If he didn’t get away from her, he couldn’t have said what he’d do. “Was there anything else?”

Saphire bit down on her lip and tried her hardest to marshal her thoughts into some kind of order. “I guess … I guess not.”

Thaddeus had no idea what was happening to him. His blood was burning. His head was swimming. He stood still like a statue, staring after her as she walked down the deserted street. He worried for her. For her safety, for her happiness, for all of her. But he didn’t act on that worry. He watched and waited for her to turn the corner and then he squared his shoulders and crossed the street. Cassandra was waiting.

* * *

Saphire surveyedthe room with satisfaction. Everything was perfect. Well, almost everything. With a frown of disapproval, she clipped across the marble floor and straightened a stray white rose back into position. The ballroom high on a hill outside Rome boasted stunning glimpses down towardsil Vaticano, and its many cupolas. She took a moment to appreciate the vista, kissed by purples and oranges, and then forced a smile to her face.

It felt just as false as it had been for the past month.

A month.

She swallowed; the acid was still there. Would it ever go away? Would she ever feel like herself again? Or would she forever feel like a woman who’d only come to life briefly, in Thaddeus’s arms, and never would again?

Her cell phone began to buzz in her pocket; she answered it gratefully.

“Mel?” She frowned. Her boss’s usual army-sergeant tone was hoarse. “You sound terrible.”

“I feel terrible,” Mel clipped. “I have a chest infection and severe tonsillitis, allegedly.”

Saphire liked how she said that, as though the doctor perhaps made up the diagnosis for his own amusement. “You were okay yesterday.”

“That’s whatIsaid,” Mel responded. “But I really do feel like utter shite.”

“Terrible timing,” Saphire murmured.

“I need you to run things for me at the event,” Mel cut straight to the chase.

Saphire froze in the middle of the glorious ballroom. “You’re not serious?”

“Of course I am. I can’t cough all over thecrème de la crèmeof European society. You’ve been doing these things for years. You’ve got a knack for this stuff.”

Saphire nodded, but her mind was spinning. “I’m just an administrative assistant,” she reminded the woman. After all, Melania Brompton had founded the charity and built it up from scratch. No way could Saphire step into her shoes, even for a night.

“So? Do you need a raise?”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Saphire said with consternation.

“Why not?” Repeated coughing had weakened Mel’s voice. “You’ve been faffing around doing volunteer work for years. Now you’ve finally accepted a paid role and it’s way below your skillset. Why?”