Inside the envelope was a short note written in my grandfather’s familiar hand.

“Trust the journey, Jade.”

I left the office without a word. I knew that if they saw my pain, they would only enjoy it more.

That night, I packed my bags in my small Cincinnati apartment, wondering whether I was foolish for following the instructions of a man who was no longer alive. I had only four hundred dollars in savings and no job to return to after quitting the family firm in a rare moment of clarity.

The flight to the Riviera of San Maro lasted almost twelve hours. I spent most of it staring out at the endless blue Atlantic, too nervous to drink the expensive champagne the flight attendant kept offering me.