They left Èze early, the road winding gently downward as the hills gave way to the sea.
Isabelle drove with relaxed confidence, one hand on the wheel, the other tapping lightly to a song playing low in the background. Alina watched the landscape change—the stone giving way to glass and light, the air growing saltier, brighter. Nice unfolded slowly, a city that did not announce itself so much as reveal itself in layers.
Alina checked into a small hotel near the old town. The room was simple and airy, windows opening onto a narrow street where voices drifted up in overlapping languages. Isabelle helped her carry one bag upstairs, then kissed her cheek quickly, already halfway back to the car.
"I'll see you tonight," she said. "Dress comfortably. My brother pretends to be formal, but he isn't."
Isabelle stayed at her brother's place—a short walk from the restaurant—while Alina took the afternoon to wander. She walked along the Promenade des Anglais, sat briefly on a bench facing the water, let the sun touch her face without checking the time. There was no rush. The city did not demand it.
That evening, she walked to the restaurant.
It stood on a quieter street near the edge of the old quarter, its façade understated but deliberate. Inside, the space opened into something elegant without being stiff—soft lighting, linen-covered tables, an open kitchen visible beyond a glass partition. The kind of place that trusted its food enough not to distract from it.
Isabelle waved to her the moment she stepped inside.
"Alina," she called, already standing. "Come."
Introductions were quick.
"This is my brother, Luc Fournier," Isabelle said, placing a hand lightly on his arm. "Luc, this is Alina."
Luc was tall, dark-haired, with an easy confidence that came from competence rather than charm. He shook Alina's hand warmly, his gaze lingering just a second longer than necessary—not invasive, but unmistakably attentive.
"Welcome," he said. "You're staying with us tonight."
"For dinner," Alina corrected gently.
Luc smiled. "That's what I meant."
They were seated at a table near the kitchen, close enough to hear the rhythm of work without being pulled into it. Plates arrived in thoughtful succession—nothing rushed, nothing overwhelming. Alina tasted dishes that were precise and generous at once, flavors layered without trying to surprise.
"This place is beautiful," she said honestly.
Luc inclined his head. "It belongs to the family. We try not to disappoint it."
Isabelle laughed. "He means himself."
As dinner progressed, the conversation shifted naturally, flowing the way it always did between Isabelle and Alina—unforced, attentive. Somewhere between the second course and dessert, Isabelle set her fork down and leaned back slightly, her expression thoughtful.
"You know," she said, "coming here always makes me reflective."
Alina waited.
"My divorce," Isabelle continued. "It happened here, in a way. Or at least… it finalized here."
Alina met her gaze, open but uncurious.
"The love just died," Isabelle said plainly. "We fought too much. It got to the point where our children begged us to divorce."
She smiled faintly. "Imagine that. Children asking for peace."
"And after?" Alina asked softly.
"He and I became friends," Isabelle said. "Not immediately. But eventually."
Alina considered her words before asking, "But you loved each other at the beginning?"
Isabelle nodded. "Passionately. For a decade."
She paused, then exhaled. "Then we just… grew apart. We were both seeing other people, then tried to get back together again. Over and over. But at the end, we became… toxic."
Luc listened quietly, not interrupting, not reacting.
"So divorce was the best for us," Isabelle finished.
Alina felt a question rise—Did you regret it?—but she let it pass. Some answers arrived on their own.
"I don't regret the marriage," Isabelle said, as if hearing the unasked thought. "We loved each other. And we have two amazing children together. But sometimes… a relationship just… expires."
She lifted her glass slightly, not in celebration, not in mourning.
"It was best not to force it."
Alina nodded.
There was relief in hearing it said so simply. Without tragedy. Without moral weight.
After dinner, Isabelle excused herself briefly to speak with someone from the kitchen. Luc remained at the table, pouring wine.
"You like Nice?" he asked Alina.
"I do," she said. "It feels… expansive."
He smiled. "You seem suited to it."
Before she could respond, Isabelle returned—and caught the look on her brother's face immediately.
Her expression cooled.
Luc noticed too. "What?"
"She's not for you," Isabelle said calmly.
Luc raised an eyebrow. "I didn't say anything."
"You didn't need to," Isabelle replied. "She just survived a bad marriage. She's in Èze to heal herself."
Luc leaned back in his chair, amused. "Perhaps I'm her healer."
Isabelle turned to him fully, her voice dropping into something precise and lethal.
"If you make her your plaything," she said, "I'm going to kill you and cook you into a stew."
There was no humor in her eyes.
Luc burst out laughing. "You always exaggerate."
"I never do," Isabelle said flatly.
Alina watched the exchange with quiet curiosity, neither flattered nor disturbed. There was something oddly reassuring in the boundary being drawn so clearly—on her behalf, without her having to ask.
The evening ended gently.
Luc walked them to the door, his charm dialed back into something respectful. "You're welcome here anytime," he said to Alina. "Individually or together."
"Thank you," Alina replied.
Back at the hotel, Alina stood for a moment at the window, the city humming below. She thought about what Isabelle had said—about love that had been real, and endings that didn't require regret.
She slept easily that night.
Not because everything was resolved.
But because nothing was being forced.
And that, she was learning, made all the difference.