Long before yachts and summer lights, Saint-Tropez learned what it meant to protect its own and to honor courage, to shelter what the world tried to break. The village didn’t take his name lightly; it carried the promise that even after violence and loss, the sea gives back what was taken, and memory becomes belonging. I knew I couldn’t let this happen in my home any longer, and with that, I took a deep breath and became the version of myself I need to be to go into that poker game, unafraid and determined.
Parking above us is Mateo is his black Mercedes and Damien pulling over on his black Harley with Artemis at his back. She strides a few steps and links her arm through mine, her vanilla perfume mingling between us, and kisses my forehead. I have to look up as she’s definitely a lot taller than me in her heels.I’ve always felt safe around her, she has this magnetic field that soothes. It’s as if she always knows what to do, and while I’m trying to hide my nervousness, I’m an absolute wreck inside.
Liam kisses me, softly, and I don’t think he’s ever kissed me in front of a group of people, not just anyone either. A claim I’m cherishing.
He lifts my chin to gaze up at him. “Remember,” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear. “I’m right here, baby. If you want to back out of this, say the word. I’ll shut everything down, and we will find another way.”
I nod, simply and truthfully the only thing I can manage before I overthink the possibility of not being back in his arms.
I squeeze his hand one more time, and Artemis and I head toward the unassuming wooden door nestled between a bakery and an antique shop. My hand trembles slightly as I reach for the brass knocker. Three sharp raps, as instructed and the door creaks open, revealing a tall, intimidating man.
“Pendants,” he grunts, eyes flickering to our necks. I touch Charles's necklace, feeling its weight against my collarbone. The man's eyes narrow, then he nods, stepping aside.
“Are you ready?” I whisper to Artemis as we cross the threshold into a cramped, dimly lit pathway foyer.
“Always.” She looks at me like a promise and laces her hand in mine, grounding me.
“I’m sorry.” I stop her as we’re taking a few steps ahead, and she spins back to me in surprise.
“About what?” Her head tilting, pushing away a strand of my hair.
“Dragging you into this…” I swallow hard, looking over my shoulder, checking if the man that let us in is paying attention to us at all but he’s on his phone scrolling.
She laughs, just a little, “You can ask for forgiveness over pizza and Kiri cheese at your place and get Damien off my back.”
I smirk and her eyes widen like saucers when the sultry voice in our ears speaks, “I heard that…” Damien says.
“Good,” she firmly whispers under her breath.
“Liam, are you there?” I ask, whispering, needing to hear his voice.
“I’m here, baby,” he responds calming my heart and mind.
“Alright, let’s fucking go before I barf.” Artemis pulls me in under her arm holding my shoulder close to her and we continue walking which, I’m unsure if it’s the anxiety or if this entrance is a never-ending narrow hallway, the old stones covering the walls, taking us more and more underground making me feel claustrophobic by the second. I didn’t even know Saint-Tropez had underground “tunnels?”
What the fuck is this place?
We finally arrive at a centered room where the scent of dampness, perfume, expensive cologne, cigar, smoke, and wine, hits me as we step into the chamber. The ceiling vaults upward at least twenty feet, rough-hewn stone glistening with moisture that catches the amber glow from scattered wall sconces. It's like we've walked into the belly of Saint-Tropez itself, a hidden cathedral beneath the cobblestone streets I've walked all my life.
“Holy shit.” Artemis breathes beside me, her grip tightening on my arm.
At the center, sits an enormous round table, polished mahogany gleaming under suspended lights that cast pools of gold across green felt. Men in suits occupy most of the chairs, their faces a mix of concentration and casual arrogance. Women draped in revealing dresses lounge around them with some perched on laps, others standing with practiced poses, their hands resting on shoulders or trailing manicured fingers across suit jackets.
I watch as a man with silver hair gestures to a woman in a gold dress, who immediately moves to fetch his drink from acorner bar where bartenders in crisp white shirts pour drinks into crystal glasses. It all feels like a twisted wealth, power, and ostentatious display of pretense and crimes masked under luxury.
My stomach tightens as Artemis guides me toward the table, when Charles materializes before us, cutting off our path to the table. His presence is magnetic, commanding attention without effort.
“Sara.” He greets my name rolling off his tongue as if we're old friends in his British accent. “I was hoping you'd come.” He’s undeniably handsome in a crisp white button-up shirt with the sleeves meticulously rolled to reveal tanned forearms. His blond hair is perfectly styled, as he runs his hand through it, pushing it back from his forehead.
“And who might this be?” His eyes travel to Artemis with undisguised interest, though his smile remains fixed and practiced.
“This is Elina,” I say, finding my voice and not divulging Artemis’s real name. They most likely know who she is, but I'll take my chances. “My friend.”
“Enchanté.” He welcomes her by kissing her hand with a royal grace. Now I’m the one who’s going to barf. Charles's smile widens showing his perfect teeth.
“Can I get you ladies a drink? Something special perhaps? I have connections with a lovely little distillery that makes the most exquisite vodka. Or champagne? We're celebrating tonight, after all.”
“Champagne would be lovely,” I say, forcing my lips into what I hope is a convincing smile. My fingers instinctively touch the pendant at my neck, and I notice how his eyes follow the movement with satisfaction.
