CHAPTER [he fernweh (n.) an ache for a distant place Wila BreatH RAGGED FROM THE RUN, I dropped my heels on the grass and padded barefoot across our manicured lawn, not stopping until I’d climbed onto the rocky embankment and felt the cool waves lapping at my toes and the hem of my evening dress. I panted as sweat glistened on my skin beneath the heavy moon. A gentle breeze tousled my long hair, rustling the palm trees and my lacy cap sleeves, but the paradise constrained me as tightly as the Dior belt around my waist. The five-mile run wasn’t enough to shake the combustible feeling that expanded inside—though, as always, the sea held me back. I itched to rip the pearls from my neck, to tear my dress to shreds like Cinderella’s stepsisters had, but doing so would demolish a facade Pd maintained for so long I wasn’t sure what lay beneath. So, instead, I dug my French-tipped nails into my palms. There had to be more than this, more than a world behind The Moorings’ gates, but the desire for more than a life of opulence inflated a kernel of guilt in my stomach. Staring out at Biscayne Bay, the wide, glittering path that led to the endless ocean, I felt as adrift and stagnant as the buoy that bobbed in the water. The only difference was, I was floating on a mundane sea of expectations. I closed my eyes and mentally recited, Je vais bien. Tu vas bien. Nous allons bien. I am okay. You are okay. We are okay. I was allowed only a few seconds alone before Ivan’s familiar presence caressed my back. He moved to stand beside me, his suit jacket touching