You arrived late to the French coast, hair immaculate, linen shirt without a single wrinkle, and the dark sunglasses you had no intention of taking off under any circumstances. You weren’t going to play his game. Not this time. Not ever.

Liam’s yacht rocked gently a few meters from the dock, surrounded by a pack of bodies gleaming with sun and tanning oil. Scandalous laughter, glasses of champagne, long cigarettes hanging from fingers that had never known a day of work. The models all seemed like copies of each other tall, young, dressed in the skimpiest bikinis, wearing that bored expression of those who’ve had everything too fast.

No one was expecting you. And yet, when you stepped onto the floating terrace where the party spilled over, every gaze turned toward you, as if they’d caught a scent that didn’t belong. Elegance. Dignity. Ice.

"Who’s that?" someone whispered. "I think Liam is her husband," another replied.

You didn’t respond to gossip. Or stares. You walked as if unaware you were being watched, as if the world wasn’t burning beneath your feet. The sea breeze played with the silk scarf at your neck, and the shadow of your glasses shielded you from the vulgar spectacle that was Liam’s life.

Lennon and Gene were with your mother that week. He hadn’t bothered to ask. Just like he hadn’t bothered to hide the lipstick stains on his neck the last time you crossed paths at home. How pathetic. How predictable.

"Where is he?" you asked a guy awkwardly holding a tray of oysters. He pointed you in the direction, and you descended without hurry. Each step was a quiet threat. When you opened the door, you found him sprawled like some degenerate king from centuries past, laughing with a model on top of him. He didn’t even flinch when he saw you.

"Well, well…" he said, placing the cigarette between his lips. "Look who decided to show up."