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Next, I tapped Max’s private line, hoping to speak with my husband before my trip.

The call rang four times before dropping straight to his voicemail.

I took a deep breath and hit the end button, not wanting to leave yet another message.

It was my fourth attempt today, with no luck.

Granted, he was in Lake Como shooting a sweeping Regency romance film.

The industry trade papers were already billing the movie, Il Labirinto Degli Amanti, which translated to ‘Lover’s Labyrinth’, as a potential Cannes winner.

Which meant his devotion to its success was absolute, and I was once again playing the role of his shunned wife.

I took a breath, realizing I sounded overdramatic even to myself.

Still, the ache in my chest deepened, so I gritted my teeth, tamped down the roiling emotions, and steered the car toward the highway.

I focused on my upcoming assignment instead: photographing the beautiful Surma flower tribe of the Omo Valley.

Perhaps this journey would reset my restlessness and give me the perspective I sorely needed.

To work out what the hell was going on in my heart, in my freakin’ marriage, and with my ex.

Chapter 5

DEACON

Nashville’s main airport terminal was pumping with travelers as Christine, Raff, and I moved through the massive halls toward our boarding gate.

Raff glided ahead, his skater sneakers rolling over the polished tile as he pulled his suitcase along.

At one point, he turned around, his eyes gleaming with ten-year-old intensity.

‘So dad, do you think the water in the Mediterranean is warmer than the Gulf?’

He was a geography and science buff, and I encouraged it whenever I could.

‘Way toastier, buddy,’ I told him, flashing a quick grin. ‘And clearer, too. You’re going to see straight to the bottom of the ocean and perhaps spot some luminous fish.’

‘Awesome.’

‘Maybe we’ll take a drive to Málaga to Sea Life Benalmádena, where you can visit the world-first interactive bioluminescent beach.’

‘What? Can we really?’

I nodded.

‘Awesome!’

Christine walked beside us, clutching her passport.

At forty-eight, our brown-haired, petite, New Zealand-born, hardworking nanny was single, never married, with a kind heart and a son named Micah who served in the infantry.

I’d negotiated a sweet deal with her: come to Spain with us, work three days a week, take the rest off, all expenses paid, plus a bonus.

She’d jumped at it without hesitation.

This was her first time crossing the Atlantic, and her excitement was palpable.