Page 129 of Deacon

To fill the void in my Kensington living room, I fired up my tablet and scrolled through Threads.

I sat up when Max’s face filled the screen on a video post, flashing beneath a glaring headline.

I tapped to play the footage and turned up the volume.

‘Scandal in Lake Como, Italy tonight,’ the newscaster announced, leaning toward the camera. ‘It turns out actress Francesca Olivetti is catching massive heat in the European press and on social media. Her affair with actor Massimo Canelli while married to former model Ana De Stella is making her a pariah. The public backlash is merciless.’

According to the presenter, Francesca’s billionaire ex-husband, Tonelli Olivetti, had also just sued her for breaching their prenuptial agreement.

It transpired that Francesca and Max also spent funds from the Olivettis’ joint account to the tune of millions. Tonelli was now demanding that his wife and her lover repay the amount, the accusation forming part of the suit.

As reported by more anonymous sources, the pressure proved too intense, causing her and Max to break off their affair.

I let out a soft laugh in disbelief, still a little tipsy from the cocktails and champagne I’d shared with Deacon.

Damn, karma had a wicked sense of humor.

Then the broadcast cut to a chaotic clip: Francesca running from a swarm of paparazzi in Rome, spinning around to glare into the camera.

‘Massimo and I are over! He’s probably gone back to Ana de Stella,’ Francesca hissed. ‘So leave me alone, I never deserved or asked for this!’

I huffed at her audacity.

‘Yes, you did sweetheart, sleeping with a married man,’ I muttered out loud.

Her distress was real enough, though I refused to buy into her self-pitying act.

Yet I couldn’t deny a faint sense of gratitude; by slipping into his bed, she had inadvertently handed me my freedom and exposed Max for the disloyal bastard he truly was.

I spent the next few days handling the sale of my London house, between calls from Raff and Deacon.

One morning, Deacon went above and beyond and sent me a massive bouquet.

The enormous cluster of dark pink peonies and white hydrangeas dominated the empty living room.

I was down to a mattress on the floor and a single armchair, the rest of the furniture already cleared out and loaded into storage.

So the blooms lit up the otherwise drab space and lifted my spirits.

‘Thank you, gorgeous, for the flowers, but why?’ I asked him later that evening on FaceTime. ‘I’m clearing out the house and flying to Nashville in less than two days.’

He lay in his hotel bed, leaning back against the headrest, so nonchalant and handsome it made me heat up.

‘Do they make you happy?’ he rasped.

I huffed.

‘Of course. They’re gorgeous.’

‘I rest my case.’

I smiled, overflowing with emotion. ‘I appreciate the thought.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘When are you wrapping up the tour prep?’ I asked, unable to hide how much I wanted to see him.

‘Missing me, woman?’