Monte Carlo unfolded in gold and glass beneath a velvet sky. The sea beyond the terrace of the Hôtel de Paris shimmered black and endless, yachts swaying like patient predators in the harbor. Inside, crystal chandeliers cast fractured light over diplomats, tech magnates, and the kind of billionaires who preferred not to be photographed.
Harvey Specter adjusted his cufflinks once—precise, unhurried—and stepped into the gala as though he owned it.
His gaze scanned the room once.
There.
You stood near the balcony doors, half in shadow, half in chandelier light. Not surrounded, not alone. Composed. Observing. A glass of champagne untouched in your hand.
Harvey didn’t hesitate.
He approached like a man crossing a room to claim something already his.
“Careful,” he said smoothly as he came to stand beside you, eyes on the ocean rather than on you. “If you stare at the horizon like that, people will assume you’re plotting something.”
A small pause.
Then your voice, calm and faintly amused. “And if I am?”
Harvey turned then, finally meeting your eyes. Steel-blue against something unreadable.
“Then I’d very much like to be on your side.”
You smiled.
Not dazzled. Not flustered. Just… entertained.
“And what makes you think I need you?”
The game began there.
Harvey extended a hand, confident. “Harvey Specter.”
You looked at his hand. Then at him. Let the silence stretch half a second too long.
You took it. You grip was warm. Steady. No nerves.
“Bold,” you said lightly. “Most people introduce themselves before offering alliances.”
“I find it saves time.”
“Time is expensive tonight, Mr. Specter.”
His eyebrow lifted just slightly. “Please. Harvey.”
Another measured pause.
“Mr. Specter suits you better.”
He smiled at that—precise, charming, calibrated.
He shifted subtly closer, just inside polite distance. Close enough to lower his voice.
“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced properly.”
“You haven’t,” you replied. “You’ve just decided we have.”
He laughed—soft, effortless. The sound drew a glance from a nearby diplomat.
“I prefer initiative.”
“I prefer mystery.”
Your eyes held.
Harvey adjusted tactics.
“You seem unimpressed.”
“On the contrary,” you said, finally turning fully toward him. “I’m curious.”
“About?”
“You walked in alone,” you observed. “You didn’t check your phone once. You declined a drink from someone I know owns half of Brussels. You’ve spoken to exactly three people—briefly. And yet you came straight to me.”
Harvey’s smile didn’t falter.
But internally, something sharpened.
Interesting.
“And what does that tell you?” he asked.
“That you’re either very confident,” you replied, taking a slow sip of champagne, “or very purposeful.”
“Can I be both?”
“You can try.”
He leaned one elbow against the balcony rail now, mirroring your earlier posture. “Then let me be purposeful.”
“And what purpose is that?”
“You.”
Simple. Direct. No wasted movement.
Usually that line worked.
You tilted your head slightly. Assessing. “You don’t know me.”
“I intend to.”
“Why?”
Harvey let his gaze flick briefly over you—not leering, just appreciative. “Because you look like someone who doesn’t bore easily.”
“And if I do?”
“I’d apologize,” he said smoothly. “And improve.”
That earned him a faint, almost unwilling curve of your mouth.
He noticed. Of course he did.
Music swelled inside—strings and piano. Laughter drifted from the ballroom.
You set your glass down on the railing.
“You’re not from Monaco,” you said.
“No.”
“Not French.”
“No.”
“British,” you concluded softly.
He inclined his head.
“And what brings you here, Harvey?”
“Business.”
“Of course.”
“And pleasure,” he added.
“Efficient.”
“I don’t like wasting time.”
Your eyes held his.
“And what happens,” you asked quietly, “when time wastes you?”
The question was unexpected.
He recovered smoothly. “Then I make sure I enjoyed it.”
Silence again.
You stepped back toward the ballroom.
“Well,” you said lightly, “enjoy Monte Carlo, Mr. Specter.”
He matched your step, falling into pace beside you. “Leaving already?”