Eleanor's departure was sudden—but necessary.
After the gala, after the sex, after the fire… she felt the afterburn in her chest. The need to breathe differently. Alone. She needed clarity. Reinvention. And silence—something she hadn't known since Daniel walked into her life.
The invitation had come weeks ago. A textile summit in Florence. High-end design, natural dyes, experimental fabric tech. She had declined initially. But after Chloe, after the fights, after the wedding plans became too polished and predictable, Eleanor changed her mind.
She kissed Daniel goodbye in the early morning.
"I need this," she said softly.
His arms tightened around her. "Promise me you won't fall in love with Florence."
She smiled. "Not Florence. Maybe the silk."
He didn't say goodbye—just watched her disappear into the airport crowd, silent, as if trying not to hold too tightly.
---
Florence was a dream. The air was warm with lavender and espresso. The streets hummed with history. Every building felt like it had secrets. Eleanor wandered the narrow alleys, sketching shadows, textures, cathedrals, even cracked stucco walls. She tasted wines, fabrics, and the soft silence of solitude.
Then she met Julian Devereux.
He was French-Italian, with a devil-may-care smirk, linen shirts always half-open, and fingers stained with indigo dye. He was a textile alchemist—blending technology with ancient techniques. They met during a panel on "Emotion in Fabric."
"I've seen your work," Julian told her afterward, eyes piercing and amused. "It breathes. Like it's alive."
Eleanor raised an eyebrow. "You flatter easily."
He grinned. "Only when I want something."
"And what do you want?"
"To see how you draw when you're tipsy."
---
That night, they drank Chianti at a rooftop bar. Julian spoke of color memory, of fabric that responds to touch, of lovers he stitched into his work.
Eleanor laughed more than she had in weeks.
"You love him," Julian said out of nowhere.
Her smile faltered. "How can you tell?"
"You only look at me when you're thinking about him."
There was silence.
Then she whispered, "We're planning a wedding."
"And yet you came here."
She took a sip of wine, slower now. "Because even love needs breathing room."
Julian didn't press. Instead, he reached into his bag and pulled out a strip of silk—dyed with crushed rose petals and oxidized copper. The pattern shimmered under moonlight.
"Take it," he said. "A reminder of softness."
---
Back in her hotel room, Eleanor stared at the silk Julian gave her.
Then she opened her phone and searched Daniel's name. The latest post from his art page made her heart stumble.
A painting—unfinished—of her.
Nude. Hair loose. Eyes red-rimmed.
It was titled: "My Muse Left Me."
Her fingers trembled.
Underneath it, his caption read:
"She went to find herself. But I keep finding her in everything."
Eleanor lay down on the bed, silk clutched in her hands, and wept quietly—half from guilt, half from longing.
---
The next day, she didn't text Daniel.
She boarded a train to Rome, spent the afternoon touring a textile museum, and returned by dusk. Her mind buzzed with ideas, fabric samples, textures that felt like memory.
But in her heart, there was only Daniel.
She tried to sketch him again—his jawline, his hands, the tattoo on his ribs. But everything she drew ended up being her. Not Eleanor-the-designer. Not Eleanor-the-icon.
Just Eleanor. The woman who didn't know how to exist without him.
---
On the third night, Julian invited her to a final dinner. He cooked himself. Lemon risotto. Black olives. Candles.
"I don't sleep with muses," he said, watching her across the table.
Eleanor blinked. "What makes you think I'm your muse?"
He sipped wine. "Because even your silence teaches me things."
She smiled, softly. "And what do you want to learn tonight?"
Julian leaned forward. "How to let go of what you can't keep."
She stood. Walked to the balcony.
And under the stars of Florence, Eleanor whispered, "I don't want to be someone else's almost."
---
She booked an early flight home.