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I shut down the images Lucia sent and messaged her.

Ana: Thanks, honey, for letting me know. The truth is, he has every right to do what he wants, with whoever he wants. I hope he’s happy.

As I sent the text, I wondered: was he happier with Nashami? Hell, were they having better sex?

The errant thought occurred to me, and I hissed, annoyed at myself for still caring so much.

Needing reassurance, I scoured WhatsApp to see if Max had replied to my messages.

No missed calls, no answers to my texts, not even a double tick on what I’d sent.

His silence hit me like a gut punch, compounding the burn in my chest.

He hadn’t checked in for days.

Where the hell was he?

Did he even care that I was out here in the middle of nowhere?

Only one husband had always touched base every day when we were apart.

Deacon.

He’d always called morning and night, whether he was on tour or I was on an international modeling gig.

I’d forfeited that peace of mind when I lost him.

I shut the image down, closed the messaging app, and reopened the photo transmission queue.

I stared at the upload progress bar, frustrated with myself and how my emotions split between Deacon and Max.

What kind of grown woman was I, acting like a confused teenager?

An overwhelming sense of isolation crashed over me, and I felt marooned in this remote camp, surrounded by my crew yet still on my own.

I squeezed my eyes shut and took a deep breath.

Get it together, Ana.

Max had a lot of answering to do; however, Deacon owed me nothing, not even an explanation about Nashami.

If Deacon was building a new life without me, I had to let him go for good.

Even if it killed me.

DEACON

A mid-morning haze hung thick over the hills in Mijas, carrying the scent of dry pine, crushed thyme, and scorched terracotta tiles.

Sunlight sliced through the cream wooden louvers of the villa, throwing long stripes across the dining room table where my portable mixer sat connected to my laptop.

Thankfully, the villa stayed cool during the day, the stucco walls blocking out most of the heat.

Raff was swimming, and Christine was in the kitchen while I perched at the vast table, headphones around my neck, staring at the music-mixing software on my display.

I was trying to nail a couple of bridge chord progressions on a new track that needed work.

I took a sip of iced espresso and adjusted the sax and Levi’s violin sections.