WHAT NOW? Some wounds never truly heal.

A shrill scream of burning rubber tore through the silence of the night, echoing against the rocky walls of the mountain road. Suddenly, the BMW’s LED headlights pierced the darkness. As though driven by some dark force, Anna exulted, releasing her nerves in a succession of perfectly adjusted drifts.

The image of that guy, with his magazine tattoos and his facade of confidence, remained etched on her retina like an indelible stain. A sharp turn of the steering wheel threw the rear of the car toward the parapet before snapping it back into a perfect trajectory. "What was I thinking, agreeing to a date on an app," she raged internally.

The roar of the engine saturated the cabin as she floored the accelerator. Despite the speed and the rushing cool air, the rancid smell of the pub still seemed to cling to her skin—a mixture of lukewarm beer and banality. Her only respite came from the memory of the young man’s stupor, frozen on the sidewalk, when she had abandoned him without a word. The cold contact of the leather beneath her fingers and the resistance of the wheel finally soothed her heartbeat. — Apps are over.

Anna opened one eyelid: 10:30 AM. She extracted herself with calculated slowness from her white satin sheets, a silk cocoon she struggled to tear herself away from. With a press of a button, she activated the automatic blinds. The Bay of Cannes revealed itself, bathed in a raw light, almost aggressive in its perfection. In this region, the azure was a monotonous routine.

Her gaze fell on the previous night’s dress, lying on an armchair like an abandoned skin. A dry, joyless laugh escaped her. — All that elegance for that… What a waste.

She moved toward the bathroom, her light and silent steps brushing the floor like those of a ballet dancer. There, she began her sacred ritual, a choreography of precise gestures she repeated every morning: moisturizer, serum, protective care. Her face, a smooth mother-of-pearl oval with imperturbable features, reflected back at her. She brushed her blonde hair, a short, structured bob with clean lines. She slipped out of her lace lingerie to enter her dressing room. Her body, athletic and sculpted by a discipline of iron, was reflected in the mirrors lining the room. She observed herself for a few seconds, without narcissism, but with the cold distance of an engineer inspecting a high-performance machine. This beauty, which sparked so much lust and misunderstanding, left her deeply indifferent. She slipped into a pure white swimsuit and left the room.

She crossed the long corridor of raw concrete, the cold walls of the modern villa absorbing the sound of her footsteps. The staircase seemed to float, suspended over the void. After swallowing a simple glass of water, she slid open the massive glass door to reach the pool. The basin, a twenty-five-meter lap pool, contrasted with the artificial green lawn, mown to the millimeter. Anna stood on the edge, motionless. In her white swimsuit, she looked like an angelic figure frozen in a David Hockney composition. She sliced through the water with absolute grace and began her laps. She swam for an hour, a mechanical and metronomic movement, her rhythm never faltering.

Later, as she remained pensive, chin resting on her knees facing the horizon, her phone vibrated. She watched the screen for a long time before picking up. Julia’s name was flashing.

— Yes…

— You could make an effort to sound enthusiastic, Anna. So, about that boy?

— Nothing to say, Julia. An abyssal void.

— You’re insufferable... I know it’s hard to open up again, but you can’t stay buried alive. Mom is worried, too. You have everything to be happy, and yet you stay alone…

— You’re all just eager to see me settled down to reassure yourselves. I have to go.

She cut the call without waiting for an answer. She hated these intrusions into her solitude. After a meal consumed in a cathedral-like silence, the device came to life again. This time, it was Céline.

— Again? she whispered.

— Hello? Are you going into town? Julia told me about your fiasco last night…

— You should consider a career in espionage. I’m going out, but on one condition: not a word about my love life.

— Message received. See you at the usual cafe in two hours.

Anna remained leaning against the living room wall, her gaze captured by the white grand piano. In the vastness of this minimalist room, the instrument stood like an altar. She approached and let her hands run over the ivory. She began a Chopin nocturne. Her touch was of surgical precision, a total symbiosis between mind and matter. She did not merely play the music—she translated it into an architecture of sound with absolute rigor. Lost in the harmonies, time seemed to suspend itself.

Despite her outward contempt for the opinions of others, Anna spent an infinite amount of time on her preparation. She chose her outfit and applied her makeup with neurotic exigency. Every line, every fold had to meet her visceral need for symmetry. For her, this balance was not vanity; it was a morbid obsession, the only bulwark against the chaos rumbling beneath the surface.