The Laurent princess must always appear in demand but elusive—my mother’s words. I turn my attention back to the cars.
The next display features a vintage 1969 Ford GT40, painted deep midnight. The placard claims it competed once, decades ago, in an exhibition lap on this very circuit. It looks like something a man with too much money and too many secrets would drive at night just to feel alive.
A strange sort of peace settles over me whenever I stare at machines like this. I inhale deeply, reminding myself to breathe.
This whole event is a game of masks and power displays, and the wealthy adore it. Here, alliances are formed with a handshake over champagne. Engagements are arranged behind lace fans. Reputations rise and fall faster than the race cars below.
I’m supposed to be part of that world.
Poised. Elegant. Silent.
The perfect Laurent daughter. Yes, I try my best. Even though half the time it feels like a cage. I embrace it, waiting for the day the shackles break and I’ll finally be free.
“Vivian Laurent?”
I turn, lifting my chin with polite interest.
A man approaches, young but distinguished, the kind of polished power you see only in Swiss boardrooms and GQ spreads. I don’t recognize him, but I smile anyway.
He offers a hand. “Jerry Wright. Wright Global Holdings.”
Ah.
That name carries weight—American industrial real estate conglomerates, European tech acquisitions, quiet influence in circles my father courts. Very powerful. Very dangerous, in a respectable way.
I place my hand in his. “Mr. Wright. A pleasure.”
“Please,” he says, voice smooth as velvet, “call me Jerry. Your father speaks very highly of you.”
Of course he does.
The perfect daughter is also the perfect advertisement.
“Then I should hope to live up to his words,” I say lightly.
His gaze warms, appreciative yet controlled. “You already do, Miss Laurent. You look exquisite today.”
I give him the polite, practiced smile I’ve worn since childhood. “Thank you. Monaco tends to bring out the best in everyone.”
He laughs softly. “Some people. Not all possess your kind of presence.”
A compliment, delivered with the ease of a man who does this often. We fall into conversation effortlessly—because I was trained to do so.
He asks what I think of the event. I answer gracefully:
“It’s beautiful. Complicated. A little performative, but the cars make up for it.”
He chuckles. “I’d have assumed you preferred the horses.”
“I prefer anything honest,” I reply, surprising even myself. “Machines don’t lie.”
Jerry tilts his head, intrigued. “And people do?”
“Frequently,” I say, lifting my glass. “Especially here.”
He laughs and carries the conversation forward with the smooth confidence of a man used to being listened to. But I’m already bored.
I prefer to be alone. Quiet. Observing. But these aren’t the type of people you shut down, so I persevere, nodding in the right places, offering polite interest I don’t feel.
