Prologue – Vivian
Monaco glitters like temptation.
The Grand Prix roars beyond the terraces, but up here—behind velvet ropes and glass barriers—the world is muted into something curated. Polished. Controlled. A fantasy built on obscene wealth and old bloodlines that pretend they still matter. Some of them still do.
I stand in the VIP enclave overlooking the private paddock, my champagne-silk dress catching the Riviera sunlight like liquid gold. The wide-brimmed hat angled over my golden-brown bob gives me the exact kind of polished anonymity my mother perfected: Everyone sees you, but no one sees too much.
I feel the eyes, of course.
I always do.
It comes with the name.
Vivian Laurent.
Old-money royalty.
An heirloom wrapped in silk.
The daughter of Henri Laurent, king of a dynasty carved from banking and oil, built long before the rest of these men learned to pretend at power. Even now, as things quietly crumble behind closed doors due to several failed investments, the Laurent myth still holds. The crowd still parts for my father like he’s wearing a crown.
My father isn’t here, but I have his name, so wherever I go, I’m accorded the same respect. Everyone keeps glancing at me as if I were a mythical being. As if being near me might grant them access to something divine.
Meanwhile, I sip champagne from a crystal flute and let my gaze trail over the spectacle that people pretend is a charity event.
They aren’t here for the horses.
Or the cause.
Or even for the race.
They’re here for the display.
The Formula 1 cars gleam like artifacts—museum pieces worth more than a small nation’s GDP.
A blood-red Ferrari sits on a raised marble platform, roped off with gold stanchions. Its body reflects the crowd like a mirror. Men circle it reverently, whispering about aerodynamics and engine mapping as though discussing sacred scripture.
Farther down the promenade, a sapphire-blue Mercedes W14 rests under a canopy, polished so perfectly it doesn’t even seem real. Guards keep people from getting too close. These machines aren’t meant to be touched; they’re meant to be worshiped.
The air is thick with the scent of engine oil, sea salt, and thousand-dollar perfume.
A waiter glides by with trays of caviar blinis and truffle canapés.
Cameras flash as old-money daughters pose beside the cars, their gowns sweeping over the marble like water. I watch quietly, absorbing it all.
This is the part I’ve always liked: the cars.
Pure engineering. Pure power.
No pretense. No politics.
Speed doesn’t lie.
Unlike people.
A photographer leans toward me and whispers my name to his assistant, preparing to ask for a photo-op.
I angle my body slightly, a silent no.
