A choked sound came from the other end of the phone. “Eve.”
“I’m going to Paris, Dad. The flight is at seven a.m.”
He was crying. She had not heard her father cry since the day they had lost the house. “I knew it,” he wept. “I knew your talent. Your mind. I thought my failures had ruined you. I thought I dragged you down with me.”
“You never ruined me, Dad,” she said, tears now streaming down her own face, dripping onto her old comforter. “You trained me. Everything I did tonight, I learned it from you. How to be strong. How to be honest. How to read the room. How to host.”
“Oh, ma chérie,” he said, switching to their private language. “I am so proud. So incredibly proud. Go for it, Eve. Go. Don’t look back.”
“I love you, Dad. I’ll call you from Paris.”
“I love you. Fly safe.”
She hung up and sat in the silence of her tiny, cluttered room. She zipped her single, half-empty suitcase. She did not belong here anymore. She walked out, not even bothering to turn off the light. The chauffeur was standing by the open door of the Mercedes, as if she had only been gone for a minute.
“JFK, mademoiselle.”
“JFK,” she confirmed.
At 4:30 a.m., the airport’s private-aviation terminal was a world away from the chaos of the main terminals. It was a quiet, hushed lounge with leather armchairs and soft lighting. Antoine and Genevieve were already there, sipping espresso and reading the morning’s financial papers.
“Eve,” Genevieve said, standing to greet her. “You look lighter.”
“I feel it,” Eve said.