Chapter 1 Escape
Eleanor
It was precisely 4:07 a.m. when Eleanor slipped her feet into her favorite Italian loafers—practical yet elegant, like most of her choices. The Beaufort estate was eerily quiet, considering the final three contestants were all there; even the usual hum of the heating system seemed muted as if the house itself was holding its breath. She’d left a note for Travis propped against the mixer in the English Basement kitchen, knowing he would find it when he arrived at five to begin breakfast preparations. The envelope contained detailed instructions about Tabitha the cat, a salary offer to ensure Brooke and Kathy would be well supported, and the location of various household items that only Eleanor knew about. After decades in one place, you accumulate secrets.
Oliver waited at the bottom of the grand staircase, quiet as a mouse. His mostly silver hair caught what little light filtered through the thickly curtained windows, and Eleanor’s heart did a familiar flutter. Even after all these years, he had that effect on her. That, and she was on edge trying to ensure their escape went unnoticed. He held her leather carry-on in one hand and gestured with the other.
They had planned this meticulously: the private car waiting around the corner on Fifth Avenue instead of in front of the house, their luggage arranged ahead the day before, the early hour to avoid the prying eyes of Brooke, Kathy, and Henry, who slept on edge, unsure who would win the mansion. The thought of their inevitable gossip made her smile. What would they think when they answered Andrew’s summons to announce the winner, and she wasn’t there? Let them talk—she’d decided gleefully, she owed them no explanation – not when she was gifting them a 70-million-dollar estate and a generous endowment to make their dreams come true. She was entitled to a bit of privacy.
“Ready, my dear?” Oliver mouthed the words more than spoke them.
Eleanor nodded, touching the pocket of her tailored traveling suit to ensure her passport was still there. She’d chosen the suit carefully: a sophisticated navy stretch wool blend that wouldn’t wrinkle, paired with a vintage Chanel scarf in coral silk. If one was going to make a grand escape, one should dress the part.
They moved through the darkness like dancers, Eleanor’s hand resting lightly palm down in Oliver’s upward palm. At the front door, she paused for just a moment before opening the thumb-press latch of the ornate front door, allowing herself one last look at the foyer where she’d spent so many years greeting guests, hosting parties, and building a life. The antique mirror on the wall reflected two figures that looked remarkably composed for people committing what her lawyer would surely call an act of madness.
The cool May air hit her face as they stepped outside, carrying the scent of early spring saplings in Central Park and possibility. Their shoes made soft clicking sounds on the steps—Eleanor had always loved that sound. The car was exactly where it should be, the driver standing at attention just outside the black sedan, and within moments, they were gliding through the subdued streets of Manhattan.
“I half expected Andrew to be waiting at the curb,” Oliver whispered, his French accent more pronounced in the intimate space of the car’s backseat.
Eleanor laughed softly. “That dear man is probably having nightmares about what I’ve asked him to do. Henry will be a wild card when he finds out he didn’t win – no doubt.” She reached for Oliver’s hand, intertwining their fingers. “Andrew will just have to accept that I’m not the type to sit in that house and wait for death to find me. I’ve been cooped up way too long, and now that I’ve made up my mind, there’s no use staying a moment longer. Besides, your uncle deserves a visit.”
The drive to JFK airport was surprisingly quick at this early hour. Their first-class tickets to Nice were booked under Oliver’s surname—a small detail that amused Eleanor enormously. She’d spent decades being “Miss Beaufort,” and there was something delicious about temporarily becoming Madame Dubois. It was as if her alter ego was finally free.
Security was a breeze, as Eleanor had arranged for expedited processing. The first-class lounge was nearly empty, just a few frantic stock brokers hunched over laptops on their phones. Eleanor accepted a glass of champagne; they were celebrating, after all. Then watched the planes taking off through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Each one carried hundreds of stories, hundreds of possibilities. Today, finally, one would carry hers.
“Your sister would have hated this,” Oliver observed, his eyes twinkling.
“Edith?” Eleanor took a sip of champagne. “Oh, she would have been apoplectic. Giving away my family legacy and then running off with the chef? And at my age?! Simply not done.” She affected her sister’s pinched tone perfectly, then allowed herself a wicked grin. “Which makes it all the more delightful, don’t you think?”
When they finally boarded, Eleanor settled into her first-class pod with astonished delight at how far airplanes had come. The last time she had flown was on Pan-Am, and smoking was still considered healthy. Oliver took the pod next to hers, and as the plane began its taxi, she reached across to squeeze his hand.
“Tell me about your hometown,” she said softly, resting her head on an upright pleather cushion on her chair and gazing lovingly into his eyes. “Paint me a picture of where we’re going.”
Oliver’s face softened with memory. “It’s in Le Suquet, the old quarter of Cannes, where the streets wind up the hill like ribbons. From the top, you can see the entire bay and the Lérins Islands floating like jewels on the Mediterranean. The cottages climb the hillside, all warm stone and blue shutters, and the alleyways between them are so narrow you can touch both walls if you stretch out your arms. There’s a boulangerie nearby that’s been in our family since the war—I’m told the smell of fresh croissants still wakes the neighborhood at dawn, just as it did when I was small. My cousin Amélie tends the ovens there now – she also lives with my uncle in the house.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “It’s not Manhattan. It’s not the same kind of glamour as La Croisette below. But up there, away from the festivals and the tourists, it’s still the real Cannes.”
“It sounds perfect,” Eleanor said, and she meant it. After a lifetime in the city, she was ready to experience a real hometown.
The plane lifted off the runway, and Eleanor watched the lights of her city fall away below them. She thought of Kathy and Brooke and imagined them reading her letter in a few hours in front of Henry. They would do well with the estate; she knew that in her bones. Youngblood, new ideas—that’s what the old place needed just as she needed this: the thrill of escape, the promise of adventure, the warmth of Oliver’s hand in hers as they soared over the ocean.
She’d spent her entire life being Eleanor Beaufort of the Upper East Side. Now it was time to simply be Ellie, as Oliver privately called her, embarking on whatever chapters remained in her story with the man who’d always seen past her name to her soul.
“Champagne, madame?” the flight attendant asked softly.
“Yes, please,” Eleanor replied. “We’re celebrating.”
“Oh? What’s the occasion?”
Eleanor exchanged a conspiratorial look with Oliver before answering.
“Freedom,” she said simply and raised her glass to the flight attendant and the dawn she could see breaking over the ocean below.
