The Mediterranean off the coast of Monte Carlo was a sheet of liquid obsidian beneath a moonless midnight sky, its quiet swell breaking softly against the sheer cliffside below the Avenue Saint-Martin.
High above the harbor, the private cliffside terrace of the Villa La Vigie commanded an unobstructed view of the glittering Principality. The air was cool, fragrant with coastal pine, crushed rosemary, and the sharp, salted bite of the Ligurian Sea. Below us, luxury yachts rocked gently in their berths, their warm amber deck lights casting shimmering golden ribbons across the dark water.
I stood at the edge of the stone balustrade, holding a slender flute of vintage Dom Pérignon. I wore a backless, floor-length gown of midnight-silk velvet that clung to every curve before cascading into a
