2 weeks in France Isla never imagined that silence could be so deafening.

The sterile walls of the Marseille rehabilitation center were nothing like the luxury suites she was used to. Gone were the velvet drapes, the scent of roses, and the silver-spoon elegance of the Richard mansion.

Now, her days were marked by the screech of wheelchair wheels on linoleum floors, the rough voices of nurses coaxing her into daily routines, and the quiet hum of regret that had become her only companion.

Every morning, she woke up to an unfamiliar body. No matter how long she stared at the empty space beneath her hospital blanket, her brain couldn’t...