* * *
The secrecy still sat between them—small but heavy. She called her parents one golden afternoon—Lucas in the outdoor shower, out of earshot.
“Hey, Mum. Yeah, I’m good. Staying in France—little place near Nice. Work thing came up last minute, Louis Vuitton shoot. No, just me. Needed a break from London heat. It’s gorgeous—pool, sea view, total escape.”
Her mother laughed down the line. “Sounds perfect, love. Enjoy it. You work too hard.”
Mia smiled at the phone. “I will. Love you.”
She hung up. Lucas emerged from the shower—towel low on his hips, water still dripping down his chest. He’d heard enough.
“‘Just me,’” he echoed quietly. No anger. Just a small, sharp hurt.
Mia set the phone down. “We have to. No one can know. Not my family. Not yet.”
He nodded slowly, jaw ticked. “Right. No one can know.”
The words hung between them—small but heavy.
“I don’t want to hide you forever.”
“Then we won’t. Just… not yet.”
He kissed her forehead. “Not yet.”
* * *
Lucas
The Louis Vuitton shoot arrived mid-week. He was the centrepiece—casual elegance, effortless charm, every shot dripping with Riviera fantasy.
Mia was there as media lead—clipboard in hand, coordinating interviews, managing social posts, keeping the narrative clean. She wore a simple sundress, hair up, professional, invisible.
One of the models—tall, dark-haired, French accent like honey—leaned close between takes, laughing too easily at something he said, touching his arm lightly. He smiled politely, but he felt Mia’s gaze from across the set.
The photographer—an Italian with a disarming grin and expensive sunglasses—kept complimenting Mia’s eye for composition, asking her opinion on framing, brushing her elbow when he passed. She laughed at his jokes.
Lucas noticed.
By the end of the day, tension crackled like dry lightning.
The drive back was silent—thick, suffocating silence that pressed against the windows like humidity. He kept both hands on the wheel, knuckles white. Mia stared out at the passing olive groves and whitewashed villas, arms crossed tight over her chest. The sun was low, turning everything golden, but the air inside the car felt cold.
They pulled into the villa driveway. Gravel crunched under thetyres. He killed the engine. Neither moved.
Finally, he spoke—voice low, controlled, but edged with something raw.
“You were very friendly with the photographer.”
Mia turned to him slowly. “And you were very friendly with the model.”
“She was flirting. I was being polite.”
“Polite.” Mia let out a short, humourless laugh. “She had her hand on your arm for half the take. You didn’t exactly pull away.”
“I was working,” he said, teeth gritted. “It’s a campaign. I smile, I pose, I don’t make scenes. You know that.”
“I know.” Her voice cracked just a fraction. “But it still looked like… like you enjoyed it.”
