Lyndon remained motionless, watching until the car disappeared from view. Only then did he avert his eyes and make his way to his own vehicle.

Standing there, his tall stature cut a solitary figure against the vast emptiness.

He settled into the driver's seat, enveloping himself in silence.

Moments later, he retrieved a wallet from his pocket and took out a photo.

Captured within it was a lanky youth in his late teens, standing beside a small, enchanting girl with a luminous grin.

He whispered to himself, "Rosa, are you doing well up there? It was you who sent her, wasn't it?"

His fingers, long and slender, caressed the photo tenderly, while a complex blend of love and sorrow shadowed his dark eyes.

Meanwhile, in the Bentley, Rosalynn, seated beside the driver, her tone icy, instructed, “Please, take me back to the Owmale Hotel.

Thank you."

She then turned her gaze to the window, her silence a clear barrier to any conversation.

She had no interest in engaging with him.

Brian, the driver, pressed his lips together, his mood sinking.

To her, was he nothing more than a driver?

And what of Lyndon?

Had she expected him to be her ride home?

Did she forget that she was a married woman?

A chilly tension filled the car, the atmosphere as frosty as the air seemed.

Just as Brian mustered the courage to break the silence, Rosalynn's phone interrupted with its ring.

She glanced at the screen, her expression softening instantly.

“Hello, Mrs. Moreno," she answered.