The villa was empty by noon.
Not all at once. It happened in stages, each departure peeling away a layer until what remained was just a building with sheets on the furniture and a pool nobody was swimming in. Sofia left first, because Sofia was always first. She hugged me at the door, a real hug, not the CEO handshake she used in public, and whispered "don't disappear" against my neck.
Elena left second. She handed me a folder, printed, tabbed, color-coded, containing her complete analysis of the vacation. I didn't read it. I would. Elena knew I would.
Victoria left with a handshake that was also a competition. "Next vacation, I'm planning it."
"Isabella will want to plan it."
"Isabella will plan the shopping. I'll plan the rest."
Isabella left last of the Queens, deliberately, because Isabella did not leave first. She kissed me on both cheeks and said, "La Traviata dies at the end. But she dies having chosen." Then she walked to the car without looking back.
