After a week in Èze, Alina found the right house.
She fell in love with it the first time she saw it—not in the dramatic, breathless way people talked about in novels, but with a quiet certainty that settled deep in her chest. The kind that didn't ask questions. The kind that didn't hesitate.
It was a stone house, standing slightly apart from its neighbors, as if it had always preferred its own company. The façade was pale and weathered, softened by age rather than damaged by it. Sunlight touched its walls generously, slipping through wide windows that faced the gardens. It was spacious without being excessive, elegant without trying too hard.
Inside, there were two vast bedrooms, each with its own fireplace. The ceilings were high enough to let air move freely, the walls thick enough to keep the world outside at a respectful distance. The kitchen was modern, functional, thoughtfully designed—not something grafted awkwardly onto an old structure, but a careful evolution. The bathroom facilities were the same: clean, understated, indulgent in a way that spoke of comfort rather than display.
There was a porch. A verandah. And gardens that wrapped around the house like an afterthought from nature itself—wild in some places, gently tamed in others. Lavender bushes grew near the steps. Olive trees stood at the edges, old and patient.
It looked lovely.
Tranquil.
Idyllic.
Alina walked through the house slowly, her footsteps echoing softly against stone and wood. She touched the mantel of one fireplace, ran her fingers along a windowsill warmed by the afternoon sun. She opened a door, then another, memorizing the way light moved through the space.
For the first time in years, she wasn't imagining how someone else would live here.
She was imagining herself.
She finalized the rent a week later.
Two weeks after arriving in Èze, she settled into that pretty little house with three suitcases, a quiet determination, and no sense of ceremony. There was no moment of triumph. No dramatic pause. Just the practical work of unlocking the door, setting her bags down, and standing in the entryway long enough to breathe it in.
The house was empty then.
But it did not feel hollow.
The first night, she slept deeply.
Not the restless, half-waking sleep she had grown used to in the last years of her marriage, where her body never fully trusted rest. This was different. She slept as if her nervous system had finally received permission to stand down. No dreams that woke her abruptly. No instinctive listening for footsteps that would never come.
She woke the next morning to sunlight filtering through unfamiliar curtains and felt—briefly—disoriented.
Then calm.
It took another week to furnish the house properly.
Alina chose each piece with care, but without obsession. A solid wooden desk for the office. Bookshelves that reached almost to the ceiling. A dining table large enough to host people if she ever wanted to—but not so large that it felt accusatory when left unused.
She bought a couch that invited lingering, armchairs that faced the garden, lamps that cast warm light instead of harsh brightness. The bedroom remained intentionally sparse. A bed. Side tables. A rug. Space to breathe.
The internet took longer than she would have liked. The technician arrived late, apologized profusely, left, returned again. When it finally ran properly, she watched the small green indicator light blink to life with more relief than she cared to admit.
Once everything was done, she set up her office in one of the rooms.
She chose the room with the fireplace.
The desk faced a window overlooking the garden. From there, she could see the lavender sway when the breeze passed through, could watch the light shift as the day aged. She placed her laptop at the center of the desk, stacked a few notebooks beside it, and arranged a pen holder with unnecessary precision.
Then she sat down.
For three weeks, she had barely touched her emails.
At first, it had been intentional. A clean break. A pause she had never allowed herself before. Then it had become something else—an avoidance she didn't quite want to name. Work, after all, meant stepping back into a version of herself that had existed parallel to her marriage. A self that had been competent, decisive, respected.
A self she had been forced to compartmentalize. A self she hid by choice.
The inbox was relentless.
Unread messages climbed into the hundreds. Subject lines blurred together: updates, confirmations, questions that needed answers. She scrolled slowly, grounding herself in the rhythm of it. No panic rose. No guilt. Only a steady recognition: this, too, belonged to her.
She opened the most recent email.
From her team.
Short. Efficient.
1992 is ready for opening day.
Alina leaned back in her chair, eyes lifting briefly to the garden beyond the window.
The project had been hers long before she left Darius. An idea that started right after she graduated NYU with a magna cum laude in MBA.
At first it was just a dream. Then slowly, she found a good team, then prepared to make it a reality.
She didn't smile.
She didn't need to.
She typed her reply with deliberate calm.
"Proceed as planned."
That was all.
She hit send, closed the laptop, and sat there for a long moment afterward, hands resting loosely in her lap.
There was no rush to do more. No compulsion to prove anything by working late into the night. The house remained quiet around her, not oppressive, not expectant. Just present.
Later that afternoon, she walked through the garden with a cup of coffee warming her hands. The air was mild, carrying the faint scent of herbs and earth. Somewhere nearby, voices drifted faintly—neighbors living their own lives, at a distance that felt respectful.
She thought, briefly, of New York.
Of apartments that had never truly belonged to her, no matter how carefully she had decorated them. Of rooms that felt provisional, as if she were always a guest in her own life. Of a marriage that had required her to negotiate her presence, her tone, her needs.
Here, there was nothing to negotiate.
The house did not ask her who she was married to.
It did not care what she had lost or left behind.
It simply held her.
That evening, she lit one of the fireplaces—not because it was cold, but because she could. She cooked a simple dinner in the modern kitchen, eating slowly at the table by herself. She did not distract herself with her phone. She did not fill the silence with noise.
The quiet was enough.
When night fell, she moved through the house turning off lights, pausing once more at the threshold of the office. The desk waited. The laptop rested closed. Work would continue tomorrow.
For now, she went to bed.
As she lay there, listening to the subtle sounds of a house settling into the night, Alina realized something with a clarity that did not frighten her.
This place had no history with her pain.
No memories of arguments spoken softly to avoid conflict.
No echoes of indifference dressed up as logic.
It belonged to no one but her.
And for the first time in a long while, that felt like more than enough.