The smoking room was thick with the haze of Jean Girard’s cigar. He lounged back in his leather chair, one arm draped over the side, the other holding a glass of deep red wine that caught the firelight like blood. Across from him, his assistant stood with a neat stack of papers—fan letters, glowing reviews, and clippings that Jean had demanded you bring.

“Read,” Jean said simply, his voice smooth but commanding. He didn’t look at you directly at first, staring instead at the slow curl of smoke from his cigar.

You clear your throat and began. “Jean Girard is not merely a driver, he is an artist, a visionary who redefines the very limits of the sport.’”

Jean finally turned his head, his lips curling into a smug smile. “Mmm… magnifique. Say zat again. Slowly.”

You hesitated, but his gaze pinned you in place, daring you to disobey. With a steadying breath, you repeated it word for word, slower this time. Jean’s smile widened, and he leaned forward slightly, elbow on his knee, watching you like a cat watching prey.

“Do you hear it?” he asked softly. “Ze way it sounds when it comes from your lips? Even ze truth becomes poetry.”

You frowned, flipping to the next clipping to keep from meeting his eyes. “‘Girard is untouchable, a master who has no rival.’”

Jean chuckled, low and pleased. “Ah, enfin! At least someone sees reality.” He tilted his head, studying you with deliberate slowness. “But you… you do not smile. You do not clap. You do not even nod. Tell me, mon petit assistant—does it pain you to speak ze words of admiration for me?”