Page 144 of Modern Romance September 2025 5-8
Aurora’s admission of loneliness that day had been too raw to ignore or dismiss.
He’d been lonely in the early years of his self-imposed solitude. Now he was used to it. But she wasn’t. And didn’t he have a duty to provide some sort of company for her? To make sure she wasn’t lonely. At least not until the baby.
He did.
Every evening since that afternoon, he had waited for her in a room he’d never used before she’d arrived. The table had never been set. The ornate chairs and wine-coloured velvet padded seats had never been sat in. But the candles were lit now. And they flickered in a line down the centre of the table in their silver candlesticks.
The clock chimed eight.
The door opened.
Tonight she wore gold. On her skin. In her hair. At her ears in dangling hoops. The material of her dress strained across her breasts. His fingers itched to touch her. To travel down the outline of her body to her waist, where the material flared out, softly caressing the swell of her.
He’d never dressed for dinner before. He usually ate in his studio. But she dressed for dinner. Made it a spectacle of colours and diamonds that sparkled in the light of all the candles in the room. And she had asked him to make a spectacle of it, too. To make their evening meals together an event. Something to look forward to.
And so he’d agreed. He’d ordered a wardrobe solely for her eyes. And every night he thought of her as he took his clothes off and dressed for her.
He shifted in his seat. Ignored the heat at his back. Tonight, the black iron fireplace was stoked, and it smouldered. Adding a heat he didn’t need. He didn’t want it lit. But every night, something was added. Changed by her.
Including him.
‘Aurora,’ he greeted her, his voice a heavy husk he did not recognise.
‘Sebastian,’ she greeted him.
He dipped his head. But he did not stand at the head of the table. He waited and watched.
Every night, the ritual was the same.
With unadorned fingers, the gold sleeves of her dress kissing her wrists, she collected her plate from the opposite end of the table, picked up her cutlery, and set it down beside him.
‘That’s better,’ she said, and her smile didn’t falter as she held his gaze.
Every night, she ordered them to be seated together. And every night he ordered the staff to change it back, only for her to move the place setting herself.
He stood now, pushing back his chair, and moved beside her.
‘Is it?’ he asked, and pulled out the chair she wasn’t supposed to sit in and watched her take it regardless.
‘It’s perfect,’ she said.
He tucked her in. And he didn’t hold his tongue. ‘Gold is the perfect colour for you.’ He swallowed. ‘You look beautiful.’
He took his own seat.
Her hand rose. ‘I like this,’ she said, and stroked the suede of his brown dinner jacket.
He caught her wrist and gently removed her fingers from his body.
How easily she touched him. As if it were a normal thing to do. But it wasn’t natural to him. Her touch was anything but casual. His body strained beneath his jacket and open collared white shirt to press against her perfectly manicured fingertips.
‘Thank you,’ he husked and released her wrist. Trapped his hands on his thighs beneath the table.
‘The cot arrived today,’ she said. ‘Would you like to see it?’
The blood stopped flowing to his vital organs. He hadn’t seen a cot since that fateful night he’d settled Amelia, tucked the blanket beneath her chin, kissed her forehead and walked out of the house one last time.
‘No,’ he replied, and his answer was a weighted thing in his mouth.
