The helicopter touches down on the helipad of the Seraphim, a 400-foot superyacht that Bruce owns but rarely uses. The Monaco Yacht Show spreads out before them like a floating city of obscene wealth—pristine white vessels lined up in the harbor, each one worth more than most people will see in a lifetime.

Bruce steps out first, offering his hand to help his companion down. They're every inch the billionaire's companion, polished and poised; the kind of unattainable perfection that only money can buy.

"The Castellis will want to discuss the Mediterranean regatta," he murmurs close to their ear as they walk toward the main salon. "And Martinez is probably going to try to corner me about that shipping contract. Standard charity circuit politics."

Around them, the wealthy elite of Europe mingle with champagne glasses and practiced smiles. Women dripping in diamonds laugh at jokes that aren't funny. Men in custom suits make deals worth millions over canapés.

Bruce knows this world intimately—was born into it, raised in it, can navigate its unspoken rules without thinking. But he also knows what it looks like through their eyes. The waste. The casual cruelty of people who've never wondered where their next meal was coming from.

He feels them tense slightly as they approach a group of other couples, and his hand finds the small of their back—steadying.

"Remember," he says quietly, "you belong here. With me."