The farewell dinner was supposed to be small.
That was what Isabelle had promised.
Naturally, she lied.
Alina realized this the moment she arrived.
The restaurant was closed to the public.
Candles glowed along every windowsill.
Fresh flowers decorated the tables.
Music drifted softly through the dining room.
And somehow half of Èze seemed to have appeared.
"Isabelle."
The woman looked entirely unapologetic.
"What?"
"This isn't small."
"It is by French standards."
"There are thirty people here."
"Exactly."
Alina laughed despite herself.
The restaurant overlooked the Mediterranean, and tonight the sea reflected hundreds of scattered lights from boats anchored below the cliffs.
Everything glowed.
Golden.
Warm.
Beautiful.
Painfully beautiful.
The kind of evening that already felt like a memory while it was happening.
Which made it harder.
Much harder.
People kept hugging her.
That was the first problem.
Apparently nobody in Èze believed in casual goodbyes.
Every conversation somehow turned emotional.
Every goodbye became dramatic.
Every hug lasted longer than expected.
By the time Alina reached her seat, she was already exhausted.
Claire immediately slid into the chair beside her.
"You're still leaving."
The accusation sounded fresh despite Claire having repeated it daily for the past week.
"Yes."
"You could stay."
"I could."
Claire brightened instantly.
"Then stay."
Alina laughed.
"Oh, sweetheart."
That answer alone made Claire's expression wobble.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
Claire was twenty-two, emotional, dramatic, and incapable of hiding feelings.
Meaning tears could happen at any moment.
Alina reached over and squeezed her hand.
"I'll come back."
"You keep saying that."
The words weren't angry.
Just scared.
And somehow that was worse.
Dinner began with food.
Naturally.
Because Luc and Isabelle had apparently decided to communicate through cooking tonight.
Course after course arrived.
Fresh bread.
Seafood.
Vegetables.
Wine.
Desserts.
Everything made from local ingredients.
Everything connected somehow to memories Alina had built here.
At first she didn't notice.
Then Luc quietly pointed it out.
"The peaches are from the market where you got lost."
"I was not lost."
"You called me three times."
"Directions are different from being lost."
"Of course."
His smile made it clear he wasn't convinced.
Alina rolled her eyes.
The next dish arrived.
Luc looked suspiciously pleased again.
"What?"
"You complained about this recipe the first time."
"I was right."
"You were wrong."
"The herbs were overpowering."
"They were balanced."
"They were aggressive."
Across the table, Thomas nearly choked laughing.
"There it is."
Alina blinked.
"There what is?"
"The married-couple argument."
Luc groaned immediately.
"We're not—"
Thomas ignored him.
"You two have been doing this for months."
"We absolutely have not."
"You absolutely have."
The entire table immediately agreed.
Traitors.
Every single one of them.
The evening stretched on.
Stories appeared.
Memories appeared.
Laughter appeared.
And slowly, almost without warning, Alina began realizing how much of a life she'd built here.
Thomas told the story of her first disastrous attempt to order seafood in French.
Everyone laughed.
Claire nearly fell off her chair laughing.
Alina defended herself.
Badly.
Then Isabelle reminded everyone about the time Alina accidentally became the unofficial therapist of half the village.
"People tell her everything."
"It's true."
"Completely true."
"Terrifyingly true."
Alina buried her face in her hands.
"You people are impossible."
"You're kind."
Claire said it so simply that the entire table quieted slightly.
Alina looked up.
Claire smiled sadly.
"You listen."
The words landed heavily.
Because they weren't talking about listening.
Not really.
They were talking about belonging.
About becoming part of each other's lives.
And suddenly Alina wished they weren't.
Because every reminder made leaving harder.
Outside, the sky slowly darkened.
Inside, candles flickered warmly.
Someone opened another bottle of wine.
Someone else started singing softly near the bar.
The restaurant felt less like a business and more like a family dining room.
Which was exactly why Alina loved it.
Halfway through dessert, Thomas stood.
The room immediately groaned.
"Absolutely not."
"We're doing speeches."
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
Thomas ignored everyone.
Especially Alina.
Which was unfortunate because she was the primary victim.
He lifted his wine glass.
The room gradually quieted.
Thomas glanced toward her.
Then smiled.
And suddenly his expression became unexpectedly sincere.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
"I met Alina because Isabelle wouldn't stop talking about her."
Laughter.
"That's true."
"Completely true."
Thomas pointed toward Isabelle.
"She spent three weeks saying, 'You have to meet this woman.'"
Isabelle nodded proudly.
"I was right."
"You were."
The room softened.
Thomas looked back at Alina.
"When I finally met her, she looked like someone carrying a hundred pounds she refused to put down."
Silence.
Not uncomfortable.
Just thoughtful.
Thomas continued quietly.
"Then she stayed."
A pause.
"And little by little…"
He smiled.
"…she started laughing."
The room became very still.
Alina looked down at her wine glass.
Because somehow that observation hurt.
In the best way.
Thomas raised his glass slightly.
"To Alina."
Everyone followed.
"To Alina."
"To Alina."
"To Alina."
Thomas smiled.
"Thank you for becoming part of our village."
The toast ended.
People drank.
Claire immediately started crying.
"Oh no."
Claire waved her hands frantically.
"I'm fine."
She was not fine.
Not remotely.
Tears streamed down her face.
Alina laughed helplessly.
"Claire."
"I said I'm fine."
"You are actively crying."
"I'm emotionally expressive."
"You're leaking."
The entire table dissolved into laughter.
Even Claire laughed through her tears.
Which somehow made everything worse.
Because beneath the humor sat something genuine.
She didn't want Alina to leave.
Neither did most of them.
And everyone knew it.
Later, after dessert plates had been cleared away and conversations broke into smaller groups, Elodie quietly approached Alina.
"Come."
The older woman's voice was gentle.
Alina immediately followed.
No questions asked.
Elodie led her toward a quieter corner of the restaurant overlooking the sea.
Away from everyone else.
Away from the noise.
The Mediterranean stretched beyond the windows, dark and endless beneath the stars.
Beautiful.
Ancient.
Patient.
Elodie handed her a small wrapped package.
"What is this?"
"A gift."
Alina frowned.
"You didn't need to—"
"Open it."
Experience had taught her that arguing with Elodie never worked.
So she obeyed.
Inside the wrapping sat a small leather-bound notebook.
Old.
Beautifully worn.
The edges softened by decades of use.
Alina looked up.
"What is it?"
Elodie's smile turned unexpectedly emotional.
"My mother's recipe book."
Alina froze.
"What?"
"Not all of it."
A pause.
"The important ones."
She opened the cover carefully.
Handwritten French filled the pages.
Recipes.
Notes.
Small comments in the margins.
Tiny pieces of family history preserved in ink.
Alina stared.
Speechless.
"Elodie—"
"My mother taught me."
A pause.
"I taught Isabelle."
Another pause.
"And now I'm giving a copy to you."
Alina swallowed hard.
Because suddenly this wasn't a recipe book.
It was inheritance.
Trust.
Family.
Belonging.
Her vision blurred slightly.
"Oh."
The word came out embarrassingly weak.
Elodie reached over and closed the notebook gently.
Then she took something else from her pocket.
A small antique brass key attached to a blue ribbon.
Alina blinked.
"What is this?"
"The original key."
"The original key to what?"
Elodie smiled softly.
"The apartment above the restaurant."
Alina stared.
The apartment.
The one where Isabelle had grown up.
The one where generations of women in their family had lived.
Her throat tightened immediately.
"Elodie…"
The older woman pressed the key into her hand.
Firmly.
Deliberately.
"You don't need to use it."
The metal felt cool against her skin.
"But if you ever return…"
A pause.
"…you already have a door waiting for you."
That nearly destroyed her.
Completely.
Because suddenly she understood what Elodie was really giving her.
Not access.
Not property.
Not a room.
A place.
A belonging.
A home.
Tears burned instantly behind her eyes.
The key felt impossibly heavy.
Elodie looked toward the sea briefly.
Then back at her.
And finally said the sentence Alina would remember for the rest of her life.
"Every woman deserves a home she chooses herself."
Silence.
The words settled somewhere deep.
Somewhere permanent.
Because Elodie knew.
She knew about Darius.
Not the details.
Not the business war.
But enough.
Enough to understand that Alina had spent years living inside a life she never truly chose.
A marriage.
A role.
A version of herself built around other people's expectations.
And now?
Now she was building something different.
Even if she didn't fully realize it yet.
A life chosen.
Not assigned.
Elodie squeezed her hand gently.
"You found one here."
The tears finally escaped.
One.
Then another.
Alina laughed shakily.
"Oh, this is unfair."
"It is."
"I hate emotional French people."
"We know."
Elodie smiled.
"We're magnificent."
And despite everything—
despite New York waiting.
Despite Helena.
Despite White Clover.
Despite the boardroom looming somewhere in her future—
Alina laughed.
Because for one beautiful evening in Èze, she wasn't a strategist.
Or an investor.
Or a future corporate threat.
She was simply a woman surrounded by people who loved her.
And that might have been the most valuable thing she had ever built.