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The fact that she was now so easy with me, letting me back into her intimate rituals, was a miracle.

Proof that the walls between us were coming down.

‘On a good note, my leg is healing well and I’m in a calf support brace that I only wear either at night or when I feel strained. My insurance company is ready to reimburse you for the evacuation funds minus a few expenses and taxes, which I will pay you.’

She was speaking of the steep price tag I swallowed to secure her medical transport out of Ethiopia.

‘Keep your money away, Ana,’ I rumbled, leaning into the camera. ‘Let my label executives and your insurer battle it out. That’s what I remunerate them for. I’ll take the hit for what remains after they fight it out.’

Ana shook her head, annoyed.

‘Deacon, I can’t owe you for this.’

‘The mother of my children does not owe me anything. I paid it with no qualms to make sure my son got his mum back, and he was over the moon I did.’

‘What about his dad?’ she said, eyes twinkling.

She’d have no clue how much I go to hell and back for her.

‘He’s just as vested,’ I said. ‘You’ve no idea.’

We stared into each other’s eyes for a while longer before I took a breath.

‘Got to hit the sack, beautiful; long day.’

She blew me a kiss; I shot her a lopsided smile, hung up, and collapsed on the pillows behind me.

Damn, as someone once sang, she had me on my knees like she was my creed.

ANA

Max’s lawyers reached out through my attorney about the dissolution date.

My soon-to-be ex was adamant about securing the split fast and agreed to meet me at the magistrate’s court in Milan.

We had no shared assets, and this option prioritized a speedy break, which we both wanted.

I booked flights, left Raff in Nashville with Théa and Christine, and boarded a flight to London for the first leg of the journey.

I spent the night at my Kensington townhouse.

I’d asked Sue to get King & Knight London to organize moving boxes to be sent to my local address, and I found a neat stack waiting for me on the front steps.

As I wandered through the rooms, packing up the remnants of my former life, I felt no nostalgia.

The space had always been Max’s style: sleek, monochromatic minimalism with a glass extension that flooded the dining room in evening sun.

To me, it seemed like an empty shell, a mirror of our marriage.

All I could recall were the endless dinners, banquets, and parties Max threw for his shallow crowd of industry sycophants.

People whose entire world revolved around auditions, fashion, camera angles, and their latest Botox appointments.

Because of my modeling background, they assumed I was one of them, oblivious to who I actually was.

Behind closed doors, when the cameras disappeared and the entourage vanished, Max’s charm evaporated.

He became cold and distant, ignoring me for days.