Evenings, Alina realized, used to belong to other people.
They used to require posture.
Tone.
Awareness.
They used to be curated—like a room that had to impress before it could be lived in.
Now, they simply arrived.
And she entered them without rehearsal.
Her social life in Èze did not ask her to be impressive. It did not demand sparkle, or strategic conversation, or the kind of alertness that disguised itself as charm. It asked for presence. Nothing more.
And so she gave that.
On Tuesdays, she often had dinner at Isabelle's home. The house smelled faintly of rosemary and warm bread, and Elodie always pretended she had not cooked too much.
"I miscalculated," Elodie would say, though no one believed her.
They ate at a sturdy wooden table that had likely witnessed decades of laughter and arguments and reconciliations. The conversations were rarely linear. Isabelle would begin speaking about her children in Nice, then drift into commentary about a documentary she had watched, and somehow end with a story about a failed cake she once baked during a heatwave.
Alina laughed easily there.
Not politely.
Not carefully.
But openly.
Her laughter did not feel like a tool.
It felt like something that happened to her naturally.
On Thursdays, she often met Claire and Thomas. They would continue discussing a novel long after the meal ended, sometimes disagreeing gently, sometimes defending characters as if they were mutual acquaintances.
Claire never pressed her. Thomas never tested her.
Their conversations were curious without being invasive.
They spoke about sentences that lingered, about pacing, about the comfort of rereading something familiar. Once, Thomas said, "I think some books are like houses. You don't need to own them forever. Just visit."
Alina had smiled at that.
She understood.
And then there were the evenings she chose to remain alone.
Half of the time, she returned to her aesthetic stone house after sunset, unlocking the door to quiet that felt like shelter rather than vacancy.
She would light a candle.
Sometimes she would cook something simple—pasta with olive oil and herbs, roasted vegetables, a small piece of fish from the market. Other nights she ordered nothing and ate bread and cheese and fruit on the verandah, watching the sky turn indigo.
Dinner alone no longer meant isolation.
It meant permission.
She would read for an hour. Or sit without reading. Or step into the garden and water plants that did not require watering, simply because she enjoyed the ritual.
Her evenings were filled.
But not crowded.
That Friday night, while Alina was washing dishes in a rhythm that felt almost meditative, Luc Fournier was driving back toward Èze.
The road curved along the coast, headlights cutting through darkness. Luc rested one hand on the steering wheel, the other drumming absently against his thigh.
He told himself it was practical.
His mother needed help with something.
There were things to check at the restaurant.
He happened to have the weekend free.
But beneath those reasonable layers was something simpler.
He wanted to see her again.
The countess-like woman, he had once thought privately. Not because she was distant or aristocratic—but because she carried herself with quiet sovereignty.
She did not lean toward anyone.
She did not lean away either.
She simply stood.
Luc smiled faintly as he drove.
Perhaps this time, he would ask her to have coffee.
Not dinner.
Not something elaborate.
Just coffee.
He had learned enough from his sister's glare to understand that subtlety was required.
In New York, that same night unfolded very differently.
The ballroom glittered.
Crystal chandeliers reflected against polished floors. Women in sculpted gowns moved with deliberate grace. Men in tailored suits exchanged strategic smiles beneath controlled lighting.
Darius stood at the center of it all.
He danced with a socialite whose name he had already forgotten. She laughed at something he said, tilting her head at the precise angle that cameras favored. Around them, billionaires and board members exchanged business cards and coded compliments.
The music was expensive.
The wine was curated.
The conversations were rehearsed.
Darius moved through the room seamlessly. He networked. He nodded at the right moments. He delivered short, sharp observations that suggested intelligence without vulnerability.
Everything functioned as it should.
And yet—
Inside, he was bored.
Annoyingly bored.
He excused himself from the dance floor and stepped toward a quieter corridor, glass in hand.
He did not feel triumphant.
He did not feel victorious.
He felt… disengaged.
He told himself it was fatigue.
Too many events.
Too many obligations.
Too much repetition.
He returned to the ballroom anyway.
Back in Èze, Alina finished washing her dishes and dried her hands slowly.
She stepped outside onto the verandah, wrapped in a light sweater. The night air was gentle, cool but not cold. Somewhere in the distance, someone laughed. Somewhere else, a door closed.
She inhaled deeply.
The scent of lavender lingered faintly.
She did not feel watched.
She did not feel evaluated.
She did not feel the need to report her evening to anyone.
Her phone remained inside.
There were no invitations she was obligated to accept.
No appearances to maintain.
No image to curate.
Her social life was not a stage.
It was a series of rooms she entered willingly.
And she liked that.
Luc reached Èze just after ten.
He parked near his mother's home first, just to confirm the lights were off. They were.
Then he drove a little further.
Not directly to her house.
He was not reckless.
He parked at a distance, stepping out into the quiet street.
He did not intend to knock.
He did not intend to intrude.
He simply wanted to confirm that she was real in this setting—that she was not some projection of calm conjured by candlelight and shared meals.
From where he stood, he could see the faint glow of a lamp inside her house.
A silhouette moved briefly across a window.
Luc exhaled slowly.
Tomorrow, he decided.
He would ask her for coffee tomorrow.
In New York, Darius found himself standing near a window overlooking the city skyline.
The lights were endless.
Impressive.
Indifferent.
The socialite reappeared beside him, slipping her arm lightly through his. She was beautiful. Strategic. Ambitious.
"You're very quiet tonight," she said.
"Am I?" he replied.
"You seem distracted."
He looked back at the ballroom.
The laughter. The networking. The alliances forming beneath polished smiles.
"No," he said finally. "Just thinking."
She studied him, perhaps sensing something she could not categorize.
He returned to the dance floor when expected.
He performed when required.
And still—
Beneath it all, the boredom remained.
Back in Èze, Alina closed her door and turned off the lights one by one.
Her house settled into night.
She brushed her teeth slowly. Applied a small amount of her perfume—Fly High—to her wrist, inhaling the scent as it warmed against her skin.
She looked at herself in the mirror.
No performance.
No expectation.
Just a woman in a quiet house.
She smiled softly.
Evenings filled without performance were not loud.
They did not announce themselves.
They did not glitter.
But they were complete.
She had learned that completeness did not depend on who was watching.