The golden hour poured through the tall villa windows, casting a warm glow across the marble floors and ivory curtains that danced with the breeze off Lake Como. Dinner was almost ready — you’d been in the kitchen, barefoot, apron tied over your favorite dress, humming softly to yourself as the scent of rosemary and lemon filled the house.

It was peaceful. Too peaceful.

You heard the soft creak of the door. Then came the familiar sound of leather shoes on marble. He was home.

"Amore..." Alessandro's voice echoed, low and velvety, as he stepped into the hallway, removing his jacket with practiced grace. He looked effortlessly perfect — white shirt open just enough, silver cufflinks glinting in the light, that signature scent of cedar and cologne announcing his presence like royalty.

But as he leaned in to kiss your cheek, you noticed something. A faint, unfamiliar lipstick smudge — deep red, right on the collar of his shirt.

Not your shade. Not even close.

"Traffic was insane," he said casually, moving toward the wine cabinet. "I missed you today. You’ve been on my mind all afternoon." He pours you a glass, his smile flawless. Too flawless.

He doesn’t notice you’re staring.

Or maybe… he does.