Date: Friday Night, August 8, 2003
Monte-Carlo Hotel Suite
The room wasn't silent. It breathed.
Soft city sounds filtered in through the window—motorbikes echoing off stone walls, the hush of distant waves beyond the harbor, a glass clink from some rooftop bar two blocks away. The air conditioner whirred quietly in the corner, but it wasn't enough to cool the heavy warmth pressed against the ceiling. The room lights were dimmed to two soft bulbs. Shadows stretched longer than they should have.
Clara sat by the window at a slim writing desk. Her hair was tied back in a loose twist, strands escaping against her cheek. She wore a silk blouse, half-buttoned, with the sleeves rolled to her elbows. One leg curled under the other. The glow of her laptop illuminated her features in fragments—sharp cheekbones, flickering concentration, the quick twitch of her lips when a phrase didn't sit right.
She was editing. Cutting. Rewriting.
Steam rose from the untouched cup of tea beside her, now barely warm.
Demien sat on the edge of the bed behind her, shirtless, back straight, forearms resting on his thighs. The room light caught the lines across his shoulders, the tension in his jaw. He wasn't watching her.
He was watching nothing.
His fingers tapped lightly on the inside of one knee. Then stopped. Then again.
Clara didn't look back when she spoke. Her voice was smooth, but the edges were sharp.
"So... how do you plan on explaining that second half?"
Demien didn't answer immediately. One second. Two.
His fingers stilled.
"They're still adapting," he said, calm but flat. "I'm not changing the system. They'll catch up."
Another few keystrokes. Then a pause.
"You sure the media will wait for that?"
She still didn't turn. But her head tilted slightly.
Demien stood.
There was no sound when he moved. Just the soft shift of the bedsheet as he stepped forward. He reached her without touching her, leaning just slightly near the curve of her shoulder. Close enough to feel the warmth from her skin. Close enough for her to pause breathing, just once.
"I'm not coaching the media," he said.
Clara turned slowly. She didn't lean away. Her eyes met his—searching, but not interrogating.
"That's not the question," she said quietly.
Demien didn't respond. Just leaned in and kissed her.
No rush. No show. Just lips on lips. Her hand hesitated on the desk, then slid up to his wrist.
When they parted, she watched him a second longer.
He reached past her gently, closed the laptop. The click was soft. Then he lifted her hand.
"You can publish what you want in the morning," he said. "But tonight—"
He stepped back, tugging her with him.
"Tonight, you're mine."
She followed.
No resistance. No questions. Just her palm against his.
The desk lamp switched off.
The room turned gold with city light.
The curtains stayed half-drawn, and the window open. And somewhere down below, Monte-Carlo hummed like it always did—alive, careless, watching.
Saturday Morning, August 9, 2003
Location: AS Monaco Headquarters –
Rain tapped lightly against the windowpanes, soft as breath. The city outside moved slow—drizzled rooftops, silvered pavement, an occasional honk swallowed by mist. Inside the club's glass-walled conference room, Demien sat alone. Lights off. Jacket draped on the back of the chair. One ankle rested over his knee, his hands folded, and his eyes locked on a single page of newsprint folded at an angle.
Clara's article.
"Brilliance or Breakdown?" the headline read in bold type across the top of the Nice-Matin sports spread. His photo was underneath—frozen in motion, arms crossed pitch-side, jaw tight, eyes watching a game that wasn't visible in the frame. Just beyond the edge.
He read the lead twice.
"…A tactical first half, commanding and composed, undone by second-half slippage that reawakened memories of Feyenoord. Monaco flirted with brilliance—but stepped close to fracture."
He exhaled once. Not at the critique. At the truth in it.
Michel entered with his raincoat still on, shaking water from his sleeves as he shut the door behind him.
"You read it?" he asked.
Demien tilted the page just slightly. "She pulled the punch."
Michel moved to the table, took the chair across. "Not by much."
Silence folded between them. Rain ticked at the window like fingers. Somewhere down the hall, a boot bag zipped.
"She gave us credit," Michel said. "And warning."
Demien didn't nod. Just stared at the next line.
"The system shines—but only when the minds don't melt."
---
The second meeting of the morning wasn't quiet. Paper shuffled. Coffee cups clicked against ceramic.
General Manager Léon Marchand leaned back in his chair as the screen behind him blinked through budget lines.
"The defensive coach is confirmed," he said. "Pascal Vennin. Serbian league last season. Knows how to hold a line under pressure."
Demien gave a short nod. "He'll start next week?"
"After international clearance."
Stone took over next. The Sporting Director's folder was thicker—contracts, emails, highlighted faxes.
"River Plate raised the valuation again. Wolfsburg's circling. If we don't move, we lose D'Alessandro."
Demien's reply came instantly.
"Pay the ten."
The GM raised an eyebrow. "That's steep for a South American in his first European year."
"He's a needle," Demien said, fingers tapping the table once. "He unlocks the pocket behind the press. He makes us vertical again."
Stone nodded slowly, flipping another page. "And Alonso?"
Demien straightened.
"Offer the loan fee. 1.5 million. Include visibility clauses. Offer an 8 million buy clause if he starts more than fifteen games."
Stone lifted his head. "You're tying nearly 20 million into two midfielders."
"Then we better give them the ball," Demien said. "I don't want potential. I want execution."
A beat.
"Give me execution—or give me silence."
---
Meeting ended. Doors opened.
And just before he could step into his office, Julien—the youngest scout on the staff, rain still in his hair, windbreaker half-zipped—hurried toward him.
"Coach," he said, slightly out of breath. "You need to watch something."
Demien didn't break stride. Just lifted a brow.
Julien held up a wet notebook, tapped the first name on the list.
"Rio Mavuba. The Bordeaux kid. Nineteen. Played holding mid against us."
Demien took the notebook. Flipped to the next page.
The handwriting was messy—but the notes weren't.
"Positioning like he's older. Never overcommits. First touch always toward space. Doesn't panic."
Demien's eyes stopped on one line.
"Wears the game like skin."
He passed the notebook back. "Set up the tape."
Then turned into his office, the door swinging soft behind him