Page 82 of Modern Romance September 2025 1-4
Olympia looks heavenward. ‘Men,’ she mutters under her breath. ‘So don’t drag her into that. Leave that behind and create something else with her.’
‘It can’t be that simple,’ I tell her, because it isn’t, is it?
My sister looks up at me and her expression softens. ‘Actually, I think it is.’ She smiles. ‘Don’t run away from it, Ulysses. If I can be happy, then you can be too, can’t you?’
Happy. I can’t even remember ever feeling…happy. Except…maybe I do. Watching Katla show me the spiral in that shell… Listening to her give me a piece of her soul as she told me about her little collection… Feeling her kisses on my face as she whispered that she was honouring me…
I was happy. With her.
‘Olympia,’ I say roughly.
‘I know,’ she says, still smiling. ‘Go get her.’
So I do.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Katla
The conference onrenewable 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.’
