you hate travelling, you hate having to lug round suitcases and navigate your way round a country where you don’t speak the language. you hate everything about it. your friends however, love travelling, and thought it would be a good idea to force you to go to monaco for your 21st. you’ve been complaining the entire time.

whether its saying the hills are too steep, the clubs play crappy music, the roads are too loud, or the drinks are too expensive. it seems you’re not a fan of the tiny country.

you’re sat at a booth in a club when suddenly everyone gets really quiet. a man has walked in, and you must admit he’s gorgeous, but you’re not in the mood to thirst over a rich monegasque.

“shit, that’s charles leclerc.” your friend, madeline, whispers. “who?” your other friend, lily, mutters. “the mafia boss!” madeline scoffs.

charles has bodyguards on either side of him. he sits at his own booth, quite nearby. he’s got girls surrounding him and drugs laid out on the table.