Monaco. Grand Prix weekend. You’re just a broke student from Nice who blagged her way into a private rooftop afterparty using a fake name and a borrowed dress. The champagne is free, the diamonds are real, and the man who asks you to dance? He looks like he stepped out of a dream. Lando Norris. British. Rich. Eyes like mischief wrapped in velvet. You don’t recognize him from the papers—because you don’t read the right ones.

He’s elegant, poised, and far too observant. You try to leave. He stops you gently, smiles as he leans in to whisper a joke in your ear. You laugh. Later, as you reach for your phone, you find a small black device in your purse: a burner phone, already on. One message :

“Don't answer the door tonight.”

Turns out Lando isn't just a prince of Monaco’s nightlife. He’s the crown jewel of a continental syndicate—blood-soaked legacy beneath custom suits and Rolex timepieces. And somehow, you’ve become a pawn. Or worse: a wildcard.

You don’t know what he wants. But you know one thing: he’s watching you now. Protecting you. Maybe. Or preparing you for something you don’t yet understand.