When the purr of the car grew distant behind her she took a deep breath. Her chance of escape now gone, she straightened her shoulders and walked down the pathway that led to the front door of the Spencers’ holiday home.

It could have been worse, she considered. She could have bumped into Aaron somewhere in Cape Town, where she’d been staying since she’d left him. And since they’d lived together over a thousand kilometres away in Johannesburg, Rosa would have been unprepared to see him.

Since she worked from home most days, she would have probably been wearing the not-quite-pyjamas-but-might-as-well-be outfit she usually wore when she ventured out of the house during the week. Her hair would have been a mess, curls spiralling everywhere—or piled on top of her head—and her face would have been clear of make-up.

Exposed, she thought. Vulnerable.

At least now she was prepared to see him.

Her gold dress revealed generous cleavage and cinched at her waist with a thin belt. Its skirt was long, loose, though it had a slit up to mid-thigh—stopping just before her shapewear began—to reveal a leg that was strong and toned: one of her best assets.

Her dress made her feel confident—after all, what was the point of being a designer if she couldn’t make clothes that did?—as did the mass of curls around her face, and the make-up she’d had done before she’d got onto the private plane her mother-in-law had sent for her.

She hadn’t seen Liana Spencer in the four months since she’d left Aaron either. And perhaps that was part of the reason Rosa had agreed to attend a birthday party that would put her face to face with the man she’d walked away from.

The other reason was because of her own mother. And the birthday parties Violet Lang would never get to celebrate.

Rosa took another breath, clinging to the confidence she’d fought for with her dress. It was a pivotal part of the armour she’d created when she’d realised she’d be seeing Aaron again.

She needed the armour to cloak the shivering in the base of her stomach. The erratic beating of her heart. The combination of the two was so familiar that she didn’t think she’d ever truly lived without it. Though that hadn’t stopped her from running from it all her life.

The door of the house was open when she got there and Rosa slipped inside, thinking that it would be easier than to announce her arrival by ringing the bell. There was nothing to indicate a celebration on the first floor—just the usual tasteful but obviously expensive furniture and décor—though that wasn’t surprising. Liana usually went for lavish, which meant the top floor. The one where the walls were made entirely of glass.

It offered guests an exceptional view of the sea that surrounded Mariner’s Island just off the coast of Cape Town. Of the waves that crashed against the rocks that were scattered at the beach just a few metres from the Spencer house. And of the small town and airport that stood only a short distance away from the house too.

Rosa held her breath as she got to the top of the stairs, and then pushed open the door before she lost her nerve.

And immediately told herself that she should have escaped when she had the chance.

There was no party on this floor. Instead, it looked like it usually did when there were no events planned. There was a living area and a bed on one side of the room—the bathroom being the only section of the floor with privacy—and a dining area and kitchen on the other side.

There was an open space between the two sides as if whoever had designed the room had decided to give the Spencers an area to be free in.

But in that open space stood her husband. Only her husband.

And the last thing Rosa thought of was freedom.

His back was to her, and she thought that she still had the chance to escape. He didn’t know that she was there. If she left he wouldn’t ever have to know. What harm would it do?

Except that when she turned back to the door it was closed. And when she looked over her shoulder to see if he’d noticed her she saw that Aaron was now facing her, an unreadable expression on his face.

‘Running?’

‘N-no.’ Be confident.

His mouth lifted into a half-smile. ‘No?’ he asked in a faintly mocking tone.

Her face went hot. The shivering intensified. Her heart rate rocketed. But, despite that, she was able to offer him a firm, ‘No’.

‘Okay,’ he replied in a voice that told her he didn’t believe her. And why would he? Hadn’t she run from him before? Without the decency to explain why? Hadn’t the anxiety of that decision kept her up night after night?

Guilt shimmered through her.

She ignored it.

But ignoring it meant that her brain had to focus on something else. And—as it usually did—it chose his face.

Her eyes feasted on what her memories hadn’t done justice to over the last four months. His dark hair, dark brows, the not-quite-chocolate colour of his skin. The mixture of his Indian and African heritage had created an arresting face, his features not unlike those Rosa had seen on movie stars.

But

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