Leo had been in Monaco for two weeks before the Grand Prix. He had trained relentlessly, pushing himself through hundreds of laps, simulations, and strategy meetings. But now, just four days before race weekend, he needed a break. He wanted to escape the circuit, the engineers, and even the team. He was almost sick of racing. Almost.
Racing was his passion, his dream since childhood. Growing up in an orphanage, opportunities like his were rare. He got lucky—at seventeen, an illegal street race put him on the radar of a talent scout, who pushed him into rigorous training. Now, at nearly thirty, he was at his peak. He had to seize every moment before age made him ineligible, before his reflexes dulled, before the next hotshot driver replaced him. Big teams had already lined up with offers—Mercedes, Red Bull, and others. But today, none of that mattered. Today, he just wanted to get away.
Money was never an issue. He had more than he needed— five latest sports cars, a chopper and a private plane. More than enough. At least, that's what he told himself. He made his way to the hotel bar, sliding onto a stool.
"Scotch. Neat," he told the bartender.
The bartender nodded, pouring the amber liquid into a glass. Leo lifted it, taking a slow sip. It had been a long time since he'd had a drink—his F1 training regime kept him on a strict diet. He only had a small window before pre-race testing, where every driver was screened for substances. He scanned the room, but nothing caught his interest.
"If you 're looking for fun, try the bar downtown. Sass Café," the bartender suggested. Leo nodded, thanked the bartender, finishing his drink before heading out. At Sass Café, he was greeted by the owner, Mr. Calderon.
"Leo, my boy! Good to see you," the man boomed, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Come, enjoy yourself. We've got a cabana if you want privacy, drinks at the bar, or—you could join the elite crowd." Leo hesitated before choosing the latter. He wasn't in the mood to drink alone.
The conversation among the elites revolved around an underground art auction at La Galerie Noire. The centerpiece was a painting called Tsuki, created by an anonymous artist known only as Stars.
"I think the artist was once an architect. The detailing of the structures is too precise," a man in a sharp Dolce & Gabbana suit mused.
"No, no. It's a widow painting in grief," another argued.
"I believe it's a traveler, someone who only paints what they see under moonlight," a woman added.
Leo leaned in, intrigued. "What's the artist's name?"
Mr. Calderon smirked. "The alias is Celeste Nocturne, but because of the star signature on every piece, people just call them Stars." he said to him.
"How does one buy this painting?" He is curious.
After a lot of passing glances, suddenly, a woman in a sleek black dress slid a card across the table. "Come to La Galerie Noire tomorrow night," she said, giving him a knowing smile. "Show this card at the door."
The following night, Leo dressed in a tailored suit and arrived at La Galerie Noire. The entrance was discreet, the kind of place only those in the know could find. A bouncer checked his invitation before handing him a mask and a bidding paddle marked 17.
The anonymity was part of the thrill—no one knew who was who. He took a seat in the dimly lit room, observing as piece after piece went up for auction.
Finally, near midnight, the announcer introduced Tsuki. "Bidding starts at €500," the man declared. Immediately, offers flooded in. €600. €750. €1,000. Within ten minutes, the price had surged past €8,000.
Leo stood, trying to get a better look. But unlike the other paintings, Tsuki wasn't displayed. Whoever won would have it delivered privately. He caught a glimpse of the artwork on someone's phone—a hauntingly beautiful nighttime panorama bathed in moonlight but from under the lake point of view. Something about it pulled at him.
"€14,000," someone bid.
Without thinking, Leo raised his paddle. "€20,000!"
A murmur rippled through the room. The announcer smiled. "€20,000, going once... going twice... SOLD! To the gentleman in the corner." Applause followed. Leo smiled while nodding.
The next morning, Leo followed his usual routine: two hours in the gym, an hour of swimming, followed by an early lunch at a quiet café. By noon, he was swamped with interviews for local news. By the time he returned to his hotel, the lobby was overflowing with tourists. His security team had already arrived—standard procedure as the Grand Prix drew closer.
He signed a few autographs, posed for pictures, then excused himself, heading toward the elevators. As the doors slid open, a woman rushed in. She wore a floral cap, a face mask, and carried an A2-sized package wrapped neatly in brown paper. She pressed the button for the 29th floor—one floor below his. Leo caught a faint scent—nectar, mixed with peach or strawberries. Something sweet but not overpowering.
She didn't make eye contact, simply nodded politely as she stepped out. As the doors closed, he noticed something on the floor.
A card.
The same invitation card he had received for La Galerie Noire. His grip tightened around it.
Had she bought a painting there, too?
Or...sell it? His lips curled into a smirk. He wasn't sure why, but he had a feeling they'd meet again.