What Vincent didn't know was that while he was cozying up with Scarlett in Los Angeles, Lucia received a picture message from an unknown number.

It was a single photo.

In it, a smiling Scarlett was draped over Vincent, wearing a sheer nightgown, her shoulder suggestively bare. Vincent wasn't pushing her away. He held a wine glass in one hand and had his other arm wrapped around her waist, a faint smile on his face.

Below the photo was a line of text:

"Miss Moretti, you've been with Vincent for seven years. You must have noticed his heart isn't with you anymore. Be smart and get out of the way."

Lucia knew it was a provocation from Scarlett, a warning for the "old flame" to scram and make way for the new one.

She stared at Vincent in the picture for a long time, an icy smile playing on her lips.

Sweet words were the most worthless things in the world.

Just the night before, he had clung to her with red-rimmed eyes, crying and promising to be with her forever, that he could never leave her.

The very next night, he was holding another woman in his arms without a care in the world.

She didn't reply to Scarlett or call Vincent to confront him. She just silently packed her bags faster.

For the next week, Vincent stayed in Los Angeles.

He messaged Lucia like he always did, sharing details of his day, sending her pictures from the set, even snapping a photo of some wildflowers he saw on the side of the road.

On the surface, everything seemed normal, just like before.

But they both knew that everything was different.

Whenever Vincent had traveled for work before, he couldn't sleep without talking to her on the phone at least once a day.

This time, he didn't make a single call. And when he realized Lucia hadn't called him either, he pretended not to notice. They both tacitly maintained the fragile peace.

Finally, on the morning of the eighth day, Vincent called, his voice full of excitement.

"Lucia, I'm done here, I'm coming back! Let's go out to eat tonight. I'm craving that French place downtown."

Lucia looked at her nearly empty closet and nodded to herself.

That evening, Vincent went straight from his private jet to the restaurant. The moment he saw Lucia in the private room, he rushed over and buried his face in her shoulder.

"Lucia, I missed you so much. We've never been apart this long."

He nuzzled his face into her neck affectionately, but the angle gave Lucia a perfect view of the faint, tell-tale lipstick mark on the back of his neck.

Against his pale skin, the dark red smudge stung her eyes.

Lucia's smile didn't reach her eyes. After they sat down, she asked casually, "Are the mosquitoes bad in Los Angeles?"

After a moment of confused silence from Vincent, she lifted her hand and gently tapped the back of his neck.

"You have a red mark here."

The knife and fork in Vincent's hand clattered to the floor.

The air conditioning was blasting, but Lucia could clearly see a thin layer of sweat break out on his forehead.