---- Chapter 21 21 Liam stood in the picturesque Tuscan village, the sun setting behind the rolling hills. It was beautiful, peaceful. The kind of place Maya would love. He'd been so sure this was it. The informant had been so convincing, But the small cottage was empty. No sign of Maya. Only a small, hand-painted sign on the gate, left by the "previous tenant." A single, elegant white rose, flawlessly rendered. And beneath it, one word: "Adieu." Goodbye. In French. A deliberate, mocking echo of her Parisian "sighting." She was playing with him. Leading him on a futile, expensive dance across continents. The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow. She wasn't just hiding. She was actively, intelligently, cruelly, rejecting him. He sank onto a stone bench, the carefully wrapped pastry he'd bought for her - her favorite sfogliatella from a famous Florentine bakery - falling from his numb fingers. He remembered their dreams of traveling through Italy together. ---- The promises he'd made, the future he'd painted for them. All ashes now. He had failed her in every conceivable way. He returned to his hotel, a broken man. That night, a beautiful woman approached him in the hotel bar. Young, sophisticated, with an air of Maya's quiet intelligence. Another plant by Marc's lingering influence? Or just a random encounter? He didn't care. He looked at her, saw Maya's ghost, and felt a wave of self- loathing so intense it almost choked him. He fled. He locked himself in his room, filled the bathtub with scalding water. He scrubbed his skin raw, trying to wash away the filth of his betrayals, the phantom touch of other women, the stench of his own deceit. It was no use. The stain was too deep. He knelt by the tub, water soaking his expensive suit, and prayed. To a God he wasn't sure he believed in. For a forgiveness he knew he didn't deserve. "Maya," he sobbed. "Forgive me."