Late February in Saint-Tropez was still off-season. The sea breeze carried a lingering chill from winter’s end, but that did nothing to dull the deep blue of the water or the lively scene of yachts docked in the harbor.
On one yacht that had just set out from shore, a group of socialites lounged under the sun, sipping champagne and letting the sea air tousle their hair—all women, no men.
Grace leaned against the railing, staring blankly at the endless blue. Dana approached, two flutes of champagne in hand, one of them still cool from the ice. She nudged Grace’s arm lightly with the glass. “Here.”
It had only been a few days since their tense exchange in Berlin—“not exactly a friendly goodbye”—but somehow, they were already back to acting like nothing had happened. On the surface, at lea
