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"And the American woman?" Camille asked, watching her closely. She knew better than to say her name.

Even without hearing it aloud, a sharp ache flared behind Emma’s ribs. It wasn't an old bruise; it was a fresh cut that refused to close, no matter how many hours she spent scrubbing stainless steel in Laurent’s kitchen. Every time she closed her eyes at night in the quiet flat, she still heard the crunch of gravel on the driveway and the cold certainty of Victoria's voice through the parlor door, reducing her dream to a brochure in a drawer.

"She played her hand," Emma said, her voice tight as she set the mug in the sink with a hard clack. "She was a shark who did what sharks do. She got her deal, and I got my exit. I'm not letting her take the rest of my life with her."

Camille smiled, a fierce flash of teeth. "Good. Then you can stop wearing your melancholy like a scarf. Put your coat on. We have reservations at Le Casse-Noix."

Before leaving the apartment, Emma’s phone buzzed on the entryway table. The screen lit up with an incoming video call.

Rosebrook Crew.

Emma answered, asking for five minutes before heading out and stepping onto the tiny balcony that overlooked the courtyard while Camille searched for her keys.

The screen split. On the left, Lucy was sitting in her flower shop, surrounded by buckets of orange dahlias, wiping dirt from her cheek. On the right, Nate was standing in the café kitchen, wearing a grease-stained apron, holding a spatula like a gavel.

"Look. At. Her!” Lucy screamed into the microphone. "She looks chic. Did you buy a beret? If you bought a beret, Emma, I am revoking your village citizenship."

"You’re impossible, no I didn’t buy a beret Lucy, calm down," Emma laughed, leaning her forearms on the wrought-iron railing. "How is the village?"

"Miserable," Nate deadpanned. "Gary tried to bake the scones for the weekend crowd. Flat as hockey pucks. People took one bite, left them on their plates, and asked where the hell you went."

"Serves them right for taking my mornings for granted," Emma retorted, grinning. She shifted the phone in her hand. "What else is new? Did Mrs. Marble finally retire? I remember she was telling me she couldn’t leave until she found another baker to take over her activity before leaving."

On the screen, a very sudden, very awkward silence fell.

Lucy clearly lost a fight with a pair of pruning shears halfway through a stem. Nate aggressively began scraping a perfectly clean section of his grill. They exchanged a rapid, wide-eyed glance that transcended the digital delay.

"Uh, yeah. Actually," Lucy stammered, suddenly finding the orange dahlias absolutely fascinating. "She closed up shop. Retired. Yep."

Emma frowned at the screen. "Already? Who bought the space?"

"Corporate!" Nate shouted, way too loud. "Some corporate developer thing. It’s a whole renovation mess. Noise everywhere. Unimportant. Look at you, though."

Lucy eagerly jumped on the distraction, leaning closer to her camera. "Exactly. You look different, Em."

"Different how?" Emma asked, narrowing her eyes at her friends' bizarre behavior.

"Less like you're about to jump out of your skin," Lucy said, her tone dropping into something genuine. "The first two weeks, every time you picked up you looked like a ghost waiting for bad news. Today you just look like you."

"Chef Laurent made me throw three batches of pastry into the garbage today," Emma said, resting her chin on her hand. "I am definitely tired."

"Yeah, but it's a good tired," Nate noted, abandoning the grill. "You're not carrying a crisis on your face anymore. When are you coming back to visit?"

Emma looked out over the zinc roofs of Paris, watching the chimneys catch the last orange light of the September dusk. The question didn't sting anymore. It didn't make her chest tighten with guilt.

"I don't know yet," Emma said honestly. "The course ends in six weeks. After that... I will probably need to find a space for my café? I guess I’m doing it for real."

Lucy winced. She bit her lower lip, glancing off-camera again. "Right. Well. Finding a space. That shouldn't be... hard."

"We'll figure it out," Nate jumped in, though he was tapping his spatula against his leg with nervous energy. "Plenty of spaces. You just focus on passing the class."

Emma reached into her bag, pulling out her notebook, completely missing the second panicked look Nate shot to Lucy. She angled the camera toward a fresh sketch on the page.

"Look at this," Emma said, her voice hushed with excitement. "A dedicated lamination room with marble tops. Four display cases. Seasonal tarts only. No breakfast fry-ups, no catering to tourists who want instant coffee. My café. My menu."

She turned the book slightly, running a thumb over the penciled outlines of deep armchairs and low wooden shelves.

"I don't want people grabbing paper cups and rushing out the door," Emma added, her eyes softening as she traced the lines. "I want floor-to-ceiling bookshelves along the brick wall. Big, worn leather armchairs by a hearth where someone can sit for three hours with a book and a pot of tea and not feel like they're taking up space. A pastry shop, a café, but also a sanctuary. A place that feels like coming home."