On the third day of our trip to Nice, I returned to our hotel room to find my diamond ring missing. I accused the staff, but the manager calmly showed me security footage: a woman with a keycard entered, took the ring, and left—no signs of a break-in.

I asked my fiancé Dorian who she was. He claimed not to know her, but his reaction said otherwise.

Later, I checked his phone. Her name was Lourdes—someone from his past. Their recent messages were flirty. One said: “Do you still have that hotel key from last time?”

I watched them meet at a café that night. No kiss, but enough.

The next morning, I packed and left him a note:
“You had a choice. You made it. I deserve someone who always chooses me.”

A week later, I got an envelope with a ring inside—but it was fake. The real one, engraved “Yours always – D,” was gone.

That confirmed it: lies on top of lies.

Today, I live in Arles, running a ceramics shop and honoring the woman I’d buried under compromise.

Trust your gut. Real love doesn’t sneak around.

And peace is worth far more than any diamond.