The morning Alina decided to tell Elodie and Isabelle, Èze looked painfully beautiful.
Sunlight spilled across the stone village in soft gold, warming the pale walls and terracotta roofs that climbed the hill above the Mediterranean. Bougainvillea curled around balconies in explosions of pink and orange. Somewhere below, church bells rang lazily through the summer air while tourists drifted through the narrow streets carrying pastries and cameras.
It looked like the kind of place people escaped to.
Not the kind of place they left.
Alina stood outside Elodie's house for almost two full minutes before knocking.
Which was ridiculous.
She had walked into billion-dollar galas with steadier nerves than this.
But somehow, telling these women she was leaving felt harder.
The door opened before she could knock again.
Elodie stood there in a flowing cream linen dress, silver hair elegantly pinned back, reading glasses hanging from a chain around her neck.
The older woman smiled immediately.
"There you are. I was wondering if Luc had finally kidnapped you permanently."
Alina laughed softly despite herself.
"Not yet."
"Disappointing. Come inside."
The house smelled like lavender and fresh bread.
Warm.
Lived-in.
Safe.
The kind of home Alina once believed only existed in novels.
Isabelle's voice drifted from the kitchen.
"Maman, where's the olive oil—"
She appeared mid-sentence, then brightened.
"Alina!"
Before Alina could react, Isabelle walked over and kissed both her cheeks dramatically.
"You disappeared yesterday."
"I worked."
"Liar. You were brooding."
Elodie glanced over immediately.
"She was what?"
"She's been mysterious all week," Isabelle declared, pointing accusingly while walking back toward the kitchen. "Very tragic heroine energy."
"I hate both of you."
"No, you adore us."
Unfortunately true.
Alina followed them into the kitchen slowly.
Sunlight streamed through open windows overlooking the sea below. Herbs hung drying near the shelves while fresh tomatoes and peaches sat scattered across the counter.
Elodie poured coffee calmly.
"You're quiet today," she observed.
Alina sat down slowly at the wooden table.
For one strange moment, she couldn't speak.
Because suddenly she realized something terrifying:
This place had become real to her.
Not temporary.
Not healing.
Not exile.
Home.
And now she was about to fracture it.
Isabelle noticed her expression first.
The teasing disappeared immediately.
"What happened?"
Alina looked down at her coffee cup.
"I need to go back to New York for a while."
Silence.
Not dramatic silence.
Worse.
Genuine surprise.
Elodie blinked slowly.
"Back?"
"For business," Alina said carefully. "Temporarily."
Isabelle frowned.
"But… now?"
"Yes."
"But it's summer."
Alina almost smiled at the absurdity of the objection.
As if business crises should politely avoid Mediterranean weather.
"I know."
Elodie sat across from her quietly.
"When?"
"Soon."
"How soon?"
Alina hesitated.
"A few days."
This time Isabelle actually looked offended.
"A few days?"
"I only confirmed things recently."
"That is not an answer."
Alina sighed softly.
"I know."
Isabelle stared at her for a long moment.
Then suddenly:
"You just got here."
The words landed unexpectedly hard.
Because technically, she had been in Èze for over a year.
But Isabelle didn't mean physically.
She meant emotionally.
You just started living again.
Elodie reached for her coffee slowly, eyes thoughtful behind her glasses.
"The restaurants?"
"Yes."
"Expansion?"
"Yes."
Again—
partially true.
Isabelle crossed her arms.
"And this absolutely cannot wait?"
Alina thought of Helena's voice.
He's vulnerable now.
Not destroyed.
Vulnerable.
The board instability.
The silent acquisitions.
The timing.
No.
It could not wait.
But she couldn't explain that.
So instead she said softly, "No."
The kitchen fell quiet again.
Outside the windows, gulls cried somewhere above the sea.
A scooter passed through the street below.
Normal life continued while something inside Alina slowly tightened.
Elodie studied her carefully.
Then, in that calm terrifying way older women sometimes possessed, she asked quietly:
"Are you unhappy here?"
Alina looked up immediately.
"No."
Too fast.
Too honest.
Elodie softened slightly.
"Then what is it?"
God.
That question again.
What is it?
Alina wished the answer were simpler.
Because how could she explain this without sounding consumed by ambition?
Without sounding obsessed?
Without revealing that part of her still needed Darius to see what he had discarded?
"I built things in New York," she said finally. "Things I can't ignore forever."
Elodie nodded slowly.
That, at least, she understood.
But Isabelle still looked dissatisfied.
"You sound like someone walking toward a firing squad."
Alina laughed quietly.
"I'm not."
"You are a terrible liar lately."
"That's because you've become annoyingly observant."
"Occupational hazard."
Elodie's gaze remained fixed on Alina's face.
Then softly:
"You're afraid."
The statement nearly stole the air from her lungs.
Because nobody used that word around her anymore.
Strong women were never allowed fear.
Only determination.
Only strategy.
Only resilience.
But Elodie said it simply.
Without judgment.
And somehow that made it worse.
Alina looked away toward the sea glittering outside the windows.
"Yes," she admitted quietly.
The room fell still.
Not because they pitied her.
Because they understood how serious something must be for Alina to confess fear aloud.
Isabelle's expression softened instantly.
"Oh."
Alina swallowed carefully.
"I think… I forgot what my old life felt like."
No one interrupted.
So she continued quietly.
"Everything here is slower. Kinder." Her fingers tightened around the coffee cup. "And now I have to go back into something that isn't."
Elodie leaned back in her chair slowly.
"You know," she said softly, "when you first arrived here, you looked like someone who had escaped a war."
Alina blinked.
"I wasn't that bad."
"You barely slept."
That startled her.
"You noticed?"
"My dear," Elodie said dryly, "I survived two husbands and forty years in French society. Of course I noticed."
Isabelle nodded immediately.
"You used to flinch every time your phone rang."
Alina looked down quietly.
Because they were right.
In the beginning, she had been exhausted in ways sleep could not fix.
Hyper-alert.
Emotionally numb.
Always waiting for disaster.
Èze had slowly peeled those layers off her without her realizing it.
Morning coffees.
Market walks.
Teaching children.
Cooking with Isabelle.
Reading by the sea.
Luc.
Especially Luc.
And now she had to willingly walk back into the world that created those scars.
"You don't have to go alone," Isabelle said suddenly.
Alina looked up.
"What?"
"I said you don't have to go alone."
"You're volunteering to enter Manhattan corporate warfare?"
"I'd look fabulous doing it."
Despite everything, Alina laughed.
"There she is," Isabelle declared immediately, pointing at her. "That's the face I like better."
Elodie smiled faintly too.
Then her expression turned gentler.
"Luc knows?"
"Yes."
"And?"
Alina hesitated.
"He knows something is wrong."
"But not what."
"No."
Elodie hummed quietly, unsurprised.
"That man looks at you like he's trying to solve a language he respects too much to force."
The words hit unexpectedly hard.
Because that was exactly it.
Luc never cornered her.
Never demanded explanations.
Never tried to control access to her mind.
He simply stayed.
Patiently.
Steadily.
And perhaps that frightened her too.
Because she was beginning to understand how much she could lose.
Isabelle walked toward the counter, cutting peaches with unnecessary aggression.
"I still think this is unfair."
"Life is unfair," Elodie said calmly.
"Yes, but usually less personally insulting."
Alina smiled faintly.
Then the smile faded again.
"I'll come back."
Both women looked at her.
And suddenly Alina realized she sounded like she was trying to convince herself.
"I mean it," she added softly.
Elodie's expression turned unbearably knowing.
"My darling," she said gently, "sometimes people leave places because they want to."
A pause.
"And sometimes they leave because part of their soul still belongs somewhere else."
The words settled heavily in the room.
Because Alina didn't know which category she belonged to.
Maybe both.
Maybe neither.
Maybe New York still owned the parts of her she never fully healed.
Isabelle finally sat beside her with a sigh.
"Well. I hate this."
"I know."
"You'll call?"
"Yes."
"You'll visit?"
"Yes."
"You'll let us know if New York tries to murder you emotionally?"
Alina laughed softly. "I'll try."
Isabelle narrowed her eyes.
"That was not reassuring."
Elodie reached over then, resting her hand over Alina's quietly.
"You know what I think?"
"What?"
"I think Èze became brighter because of you."
The words hit so suddenly that Alina forgot how to breathe for a second.
No one had ever described her that way before.
Not useful.
Not intelligent.
Not capable.
Brighter.
Her eyes burned instantly.
"Oh no," Isabelle groaned dramatically. "Now I'm emotional too."
Alina let out a shaky laugh.
"This is your fault."
"It usually is."
But even Isabelle's voice sounded thick now.
Elodie squeezed Alina's hand gently.
"You brought life back into yourself here," she said softly. "Do not let New York take it from you again."
That nearly broke her.
Because beneath all the strategy and planning and ambition—
that was exactly what she feared most.
Not failure.
Not Darius.
Not the boardroom.
Losing herself again.
Outside, the Mediterranean shimmered endlessly beneath the summer sun.
Beautiful.
Peaceful.
Golden.
And for the first time since deciding to return to New York—
Alina wondered whether she was making the worst mistake of her life.