Monaco – Day One
"I feel like I'm about to give birth to a Chanel bag..." Bea groaned, dragging her suitcase out of the Rolls-Royce like it weighed the sins of her past.
Amara tried not to laugh. "You packed four pairs of heels for seven days."
Bea waved her off with freshly manicured fingers. "You never know when you'll need a backup stiletto. Monaco is like... a runway, Amara. One broken heel and you're socially bankrupt."
The doorman at the Hôtel Hermitage opened the grand doors for them, offering a polite, professional nod. He didn't flinch when Bea winked at him dramatically and whispered, "Merci, monsieur!" in a sultry accent that was definitely more Moulin Rouge than Monte Carlo.
Amara trailed behind her, one hand still gripping her Zara tote, the other holding onto the trembling inside her chest.
She had never seen anything like this.
The lobby was a dream in gold and ivory. Chandeliers glittered above like constellations trapped in crystal. The floor was marble, so polished it mirrored her boots. She felt like she was walking inside a jewelry box. A silent orchestra of elegance swirled around her—heels clicking softly, hushed conversations in French, the faint scent of jasmine and polished wealth.
Bea twirled once on the pristine floor, causing a few heads to turn. "Do I look like old money or trophy wife?" she asked.
"You look like a TikTok girl pretending to be rich..." Amara whispered.
"Perfect!" Bea grinned. "That's the aesthetic."
—
Their suite was beyond anything Amara could've imagined. French doors opened to a terrace overlooking the Mediterranean, and the sea stretched out endlessly, blue as a daydream. The walls were cream and gold, the headboards upholstered in velvet, and even the light switches looked like they cost more than Amara's entire wardrobe.
A glossy welcome card sat on the table beside a small bottle of champagne and a tray of macarons, each one looking too perfect to eat. Amara stared at them like they might evaporate.
Bea dropped onto the king-sized bed and immediately kicked off her boots. "Okay, Sleeping Beauty, listen up. Tonight, we dine with the gods."
Amara raised an eyebrow. "What gods?"
Bea rolled over dramatically. "Rich ones. Gorgeous ones. Possibly drunk ones."
Amara opened the wardrobe, running her fingers over the silky bathrobes. "I feel like I'm going to ruin this entire place just by existing."
Bea sat up, suddenly serious. "Stop that."
"What?"
"That thing you do. Like you're not allowed to enjoy things, like you have to apologize for breathing expensive air."
Amara looked down. "I'm not used to this..."
"No one is, babe. People who grew up with this are used to it, but they're boring. You—" Bea paused, looking her dead in the eyes, "—you're grateful. You're in awe. That's magic."
Amara swallowed hard. "You really think I belong here?"
Bea grinned. "You belong wherever you walk in like you do."
—
Later that night, they sat at a candlelit restaurant tucked into the side of a cliff overlooking the marina. Boats glittered below like stars had fallen into the sea. The city's glow wrapped around them like a velvet scarf.
Bea wore a black satin dress with a thigh slit that could cause accidents. Amara had borrowed a soft champagne-colored slip from her, paired with her own vintage coat. Her cheeks were pink from the sea breeze and the low hum of nerves.
"You keep looking around like someone's going to call security," Bea whispered over her wine.
"I'm just... taking it in?"
"Well, take it in while holding your head high. These people probably inherited their yachts. We earned this dinner by existing."
Amara sipped her sparkling water and looked out at the bay. "Do you ever think about what your life could've been if you were born into all this?"
"No." Bea said immediately. "Because then I wouldn't have met you."
Amara smiled.
"And besides," Bea added, licking butter off her finger, "rich girls don't know how to sneak extra bread into their purses. That's a skill."
The night went smooth, allowing Amara to breath in the air that felt like new beginnings and expensive...decisions.
—
The next morning arrived with sunlight spilling across the marble floors and the sound of seagulls echoing from the cliffs below.
Bea emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel turban and a fluffy robe, holding an espresso like a trophy. "Today is the day!" she said ominously.
Amara yawned. "The day for what?"
"The day we find out if Monaco is ready for us."
They got dressed slowly, carefully. Bea picked out her outfit like she was choosing battle armor. Amara stood by the window, soaking in the scent of salt, sun and roses, her heart still catching up to her body.
She eventually settled on a soft, floral midi dress and the same thrifted coat she always wore—the one Bea insisted gave "mysterious heiress energy."
Downstairs, the air smelled like citrus and sea breeze. The city was already moving, purring quietly under the weight of wealth.
They explored Monaco with eyes wide and pockets careful.
The markets were filled with lavender soap and glittering earrings that looked deceptively affordable. Amara resisted the urge to buy everything with her heart instead of her wallet. Every little detail of the city seemed kissed by elegance—even the shadows looked expensive.
They stumbled into a boutique café where the waiter looked like he could model for Armani, and Bea immediately asked him what his star sign was. ("Scorpio. Dangerous." she purred, while Amara nearly choked on her espresso.)
At the Jardin Exotique, they took selfies under towering cacti and posed like Vogue interns on lunch break. Bea dramatically narrated their walk like she was hosting a reality show.
"This is episode one." she announced, pausing beside a sculpture. "Two girls. One thrifted coat. Zero sugar daddies—yet."
Amara, despite herself, laughed more than she had in months.
She felt... alive.
Different.
Like someone who could actually be the main character. Like someone who, just maybe, had finally stepped into the life she was meant for.
—
Later that afternoon, as they passed the harbor on their way back to the hotel, Amara paused.
There, walking toward them across the boardwalk with the kind of casual elegance that couldn't be taught, was a boy.
No. A man.
Young. Tall. Effortlessly golden.
He wore a grey hoodie and sunglasses. A cap pulled low. And even still, heads turned.
Bea stopped mid-sentence. "Is that—?"
Amara blinked.
It was.
Lando Norris.
She froze.
Their eyes met—just for a second. Maybe it was the wind. Maybe the sunlight. Maybe she imagined it entirely, but in that heartbeat, something shifted.
He looked away first.
Walked on.
Bea clutched her arm. "Okay. I'm sorry. WHAT just happened?"
"I... I don't know..." Amara whispered.
Bea's jaw dropped. "Amara! You just got eye contact from a Formula 1 driver. A rich one. A hot one at THAT."
"It's not a big deal..."
"It is a massive deal! Do you know what this means?"
"That I should wear more lip balm?"
Bea's eyes sparkled. "No. It means you just unlocked Monaco Level Two."
Amara laughed, breathless, unsure whether she was dreaming or dizzy.
The moment replayed over and over in her head like a glitch in time.
His eyes were a storm. His expression unreadable and something in that one second—the way he looked at her, and not through her—felt too deliberate to be nothing.
But that night, back on the terrace with Bea beside her and the city below, she stared at the stars for answers she couldn't name.
She remembered his eyes.
Sharp.
Curious.
And—for just a moment—looking straight into hers.
To be continued...