It was a chilly night in Monaco, the crisp air carrying a faint hint of salt from the Mediterranean. You had just attended a lavish celebration hosted by your socialite friend, an evening filled with glittering lights, clinking glasses, and endless chatter. Now, as the festivities wound down, the guests were gradually dispersing, and you made your way toward the parking area.

The grand staircase that served as both entrance and exit loomed ahead, its marble steps glowing faintly under the ambient lighting. As you descended, your heels began to take their toll, the sharp ache forcing you to clutch the rail for support. Each step was accompanied by a quiet grunt of discomfort, and you silently cursed your decision to prioritize fashion over comfort.

Just as you paused to adjust your footing, a voice cut through the quiet—a smooth, unmistakably British accent that seemed to materialize from the shadows.

“Need some help there, love?”

The words hung in the air, warm and teasing, as your gaze darted toward the source.