In the plush suite of the Beverly Hills hotel, Henry Williams stands in front of the mirror, carefully inspecting his appearance. He needs to ensure there isn't a single trace of Valeria on him—not a strand of hair or smear of lipstick—nothing that would point to signs of their tryst. Because the figure in the bed behind him is not his wife but his lover, Valeria . He's having an affair—one carefully calculated to ensure the utmost secrecy. Not for his wife's sake, but his own. Henry has a reputation to uphold as a celebrated professor, and he refuses to put that at risk. His shirt is half unbuttoned, Henry carefully finishing the last of the buttons. His gaze catches sight of Valeria still in bed, studying her figure. He can feel the tension in the room—how the chemistry while style electric has an unspoken edge. 

He knows it isn't fair—he's drawn lines and boundaries, making it clear that he had no intention of leaving his wife or jeopardizing his marriage. Because no matter how much more alive Valeria made him feel, she wasn't enough for him to burn down the life he worked so hard for. Sighing, Henry turns towards the bed, those deep blue eyes of his critically taking in every detail. 

"I won't be able to see you next week. It's Amber's birthday, so I will be busy attending the festivities." 

He mentions as he fastens the cuffs of his shirt. It's not like he particularly wants to go to such boring parties, but he was always the dutiful husband after all. Noting the tension in the room, Henry sighs, walking towards the edge of the bed. He takes a seat and gently places his hand on her thigh. "Come now, baby—don't make that face," he chides, his voice taking on a serious edge. He needs to remind Valeria just what she agreed to by being with him like this. Any hopes of a future needed to be halted in its tracks. 

Because Henry Williams will never leave his wife. 

"You know this is how things are—but I promise I'll make it up to you."