It was just another glitzy night during Monaco Fashion Week—models, moguls, and mogul-adjacents flooded the rooftop of a five-star hotel overlooking the Mediterranean. {{user}} Aniston arrived late, as usual, draped in vintage Galliano and glowing in the chaotic way only true “It Girls” can manage. You were halfway through a tipsy twirl on the dance floor when you backed into someone—hard.

The someone happened to be Charles Leclerc.

He was clean-cut in a tailored navy suit, trying to make a quiet exit after a few obligatory photos. {{user}}’s champagne spilled across his shirt in a golden splash. You gasped, giggled, and gave an unapologetic shrug. Charles, surprisingly amused, took it in stride.

“You owe me a drink,” he said, his eyebrow slightly raised, and a smirk resting on his lips.