Chapter Text
“Have a great day!” Marta, the elderly waitress at the downtown Monaco café, says with a friendly smile.
“I highly doubt it, but thank you,” Charles replies softly and politely, attempting a faint smile.
He grabs the paper bag from the wooden counter and moves away, dodging customers entering the shop with sugary smiles and whispered phrases; another couple. He’s lost count of how many he has encountered in just the first few hours of the morning, yet he remains certain that on any ordinary day, he’d never see this many. He isn’t bitter—or at least, he likes to think he isn’t—but this date is truly dreadful.
As he passes through the double doors, he steps to the side to avoid blocking the flow of pedestrians and looks around. The freezing weather is punctuated by a sharp breeze that shakes the treetops in the concrete planters, sending their frailest leaves on a journey to nowhere. His response is to hug himself and grumble; even beneath his beige overcoat, his skin prickles in protest against the temperature.
Scanning the row of cars ahead, he spots the Aston Martin DB12 not far from where he stands. He quickens his pace without hesitation, fumbling in his pockets for his keys. Once inside the car, he pulls the door shut and a sigh of relief escapes his lips, which are slightly pinker from the cold. He drops the paper bag onto the passenger seat, adjusts the rearview mirror, and turns the key in the ignition, savoring the low purr of the engine for a brief moment before carefully pulling out of the spot and onto the avenue.
With his mind drifting, clouded by daydreams, his body remains on autopilot, navigating the usual turns—the same route as every other day. Monotony was slowly catching up to him; that was the grim truth. Even if he pretended not to notice or forced himself not to care, his conscience betrayed him in mundane moments like this, dumping all his thoughts onto his shoulders at once. Routine, while comfortable, betrays adrenaline and gathers dust on the excitement of adventure.
Gripping the steering wheel tighter, Charles lets out a dry, disdainful chuckle. He had never been one for adventure, and his greatest moments of adrenaline had come from the worst possible situations. It was a bit late for anything now, anyway. Madness and adventure are gifts of youth, and he is no longer young. His years had been dedicated to failed relationships, studies, and work.
People see him with this face, this posture, and assume a million things when the truth is so simple it’s disappointing: he is pathetically ordinary, uninteresting, and even a bit reclusive. Well, he knows how to take photos, and he does it very, very well—and being a photographer, what else could he possibly need?
He gradually slows the car as he approaches the gate of the private parking lot. “Good morning, Monsieur Leclerc,” the watchman greets him while adjusting his reading glasses. The man wears the same grayish-blue uniform, has the same dark circles under his eyes and the same messy mustache, yet he always sports a warm smile. Leclerc wonders if there is real happiness there or just a very well-constructed facade.
It’s trivial. He returns the greeting, places his ID card on the dashboard, and drives slowly for a few more meters until parking in his usual spot under the shade of a tree. Before stepping out, he grabs the paper bag and his MacBook from the passenger seat, struggling slightly to balance both.
After shutting the door, he walks briskly toward the reception of the building—a modern structure blended with minimalist, luxurious decor. He is about to pass through the revolving door when, suddenly, someone yanks him by the collar of his overcoat.
“You’re late!” It’s Joris, appearing as if from thin air—or more likely, straight from hell.
“Am I?” Charles asks with a scowl, freeing himself from the grip and straightening his clothes.
“Yes!” The other man brushes off Charles’s shoulders and snatches the paper bag and the MacBook. “Give me these. You need to go straight to the meeting room. You didn’t forget your appointment with the FIA representative, did you?”
“I didn’t forget that I refused any appointment with them,” he huffs, crossing his arms. “Their email was a plea. I can’t believe you agreed to schedule a meeting.”
“I know what I’m doing,” Joris asserts, looking him up and down. “They said it would be something international and long-term—exactly what you don’t usually do, and therefore, exactly what you need.”
Need is a strong word, Charles thinks. However, he understands his friend’s perspective and knows Joris would never do him harm. He is his best friend, his right hand, and his partner at Side Quest. If there is anyone in the Principality besides his family he would trust blindly, it’s Joris. So, he swallows his bitterness and pragmatic complaints and takes a deep breath.
“I’ll see what they have to offer. After all, they’re already here,” he mutters reluctantly.
The path to the meeting room—a cold elevator and somewhat deserted hallways adorned with breathtaking photographs—is not the most interesting part of the morning. His posture as he stands before the pale double doors is guarded; his stomach flutters with a hint of anxiety. It wasn't his first negotiation with a major company—his resume included Dior, Versace, Aston Martin, Alo, and the NFL—but it was his first contact with the world of motorsport. Add to that the old pressure of the international stage... ah! What an experience awaited him.
He sighs and reaches for the handle, pushing through the final barrier before the corporate jungle that precedes his art.
•
Three hours have passed. Joris is comfortable in his office swivel chair, leafing through a jewelry catalog, when a strangely resigned Monegasque enters the room. Charles collapses into one of the padded chairs in front of the desk.
“How did it go?” Joris sets the catalog aside.
“I signed,” Charles answers bluntly. “You’re right; I need to leave my comfort zone. It’s a yearly contract, the support is good, the pay is great, and well, opportunity knocked, I suppose.”
“That’s great!”
Charles nods, remaining slumped in the chair, silently hoping he won’t regret his decision. In a month, he’ll be leaving for Australia—where the first Grand Prix of the year is supposed to take place, whatever that means. He knows nothing about racing and, frankly, intends to remain ignorant.
“Are you anxious?” Joris speaks up again.
“Not exactly. Just bored.” Charles shifts his gaze to the distant glass pane, catching a glimpse of the Monaco harbor on the horizon. There’s a small circular table there, where a crumpled paper bag catches his eye. “Where are my croissants?”
The other man gives a mischievous laugh and returns to his catalog. Charles shakes his head and offers a small, resigned smile.