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I brace one hand on the back of a chair and focus on the grain of the wood beneath my palm.

Breathe in.

Hold. Out again.

"She left the papers at the estate," Christian says. "On the kitchen counter. Didn't sign anything. Everly doesn't know when she's coming back. Or if she's coming back."

Cannes.

She left. She actually left, and I shouldn’t be surprised.

Levi is looking at me now. I don't know what my face is doing, only that it must be bad enough to kill whatever joke was halfway to his mouth.

I swallow against the pressure building in my throat and force my voice flat.

"Three days," I say. "You've known for three days and you're telling me now?"

"I found out this morning. And I wanted to have all the facts before I called you, because the last thing any of us need is you making decisions with half the information."

I close my eyes.

The panic is still there—chest tight, hands wrong, the whole thing trying to climb—but there's no room for it now. Not with Aria on another continent. Not with Gabriel already there. Not with the invitation still sitting in my briefcase because I couldn't bring myself to let her future out of my hands.

I straighten.

"I need to borrow your jet."

Levi mutters, "Finally," into his coffee.

Christian exhales.

"Are you sure you should go alone? You might fuck this up again."

"I’ve got it under control. Can you bring me the divorce contract to the airstrip."

I hear Christian pause. "That’s not exactly how I thought this was going to go."

"Just meet me with them. Please."

Then, resigned, "Alright, I’ll see you there, and I'll text the pilot."

He hangs up.

I'm moving before the line even fully disconnects.

"Where are you going?" Levi asks, though we both know that isn't really the question.

"Cannes."

He blinks. "That was fast."

"She didn't sign."

"I heard that part."

"She left."

"That part I also heard."