The sleek, dark-hulled Riva yacht sliced quietly through the sunlit waters, closing the distance until it was cruising parallel to their vessel.
At the stern stood Claude Auclair.
The summer wind caught his thick blond hair, tossing it casually over his forehead.
He leaned against the polished teak railing in a tailored navy blazer, a thin trail of smoke rising from the cigarette held loosely between his fingers.
His piercing blue eyes were locked directly onto their deck, unblinking, cool, and devastatingly composed.
André shaded his eyes with a manicured hand, squinting across the water before taking a shameless, slow sip of his champagne.
“Mon dieu,” André murmured, entirely without filter.
“Say what you will about the Auclair family politics, but Claude is a ridiculously fine specimen of a man.
The lighting on him right now is practically religious.”
Marceline felt her heart hammer a violent rhythm against her ribs.
She stared fixedly at her manicure, her jaw locked tight, trying with every ounce of her remaining sanity not to look up.
Kate leaned back against the leather cushions, her dark sunglasses reflecting the blue water.
“Honestly?
I prefer Maximilian.
Or Allard.”
Allard offered Kate a smooth, lazy tip of his glass in quiet acknowledgment.
“I’m not into the ridiculously charming guys with pretty faces,” Kate continued shamelessly, gesturing vaguely toward Claude.
“Give me a cold, mysterious, dark-haired man who looks like he’s plotting a quiet coup any day.”
Kate turned her head, propping her chin on her hand as she looked at the women.
“What about you, Vivienne?
What’s your type?”
Vivienne offered a enigmatic, practiced smile over the rim of her glass.
“Competent.
And fun.”
“Bor-ing,” Kate teased, before sliding her gaze directly onto Marceline.
“And our dear Celine?
What is the secret formula?”
“I don’t have a type,” Marceline replied instantly, her voice flat and defensive.
Yet, as if pulled by a magnetic force she loathed, her grey eyes involuntarily drifted back across the churning water.
Claude was still watching her.
He took a slow drag from his cigarette, the embers glowing in the shade of the yacht’s canopy, his intense blue gaze burning straight through her dark sunglasses.
She didn’t have a type.
She had spent her entire adult life insisting she had no time for men, no interest in romance, and no patience for foolishness.
But as she stared at the tall, blonde, charming corporate prince across the water, a terrifying thought crossed her mind.
Claude Auclair might actually be the exact blueprint.
She bit the inside of her cheek and held her tongue, desperate to keep the thought buried.
It was useless.
André looked from Claude, back to Marceline, and then threw his hands up.
“Oh, please.
It’s glaringly obvious.
Claude Auclair is literally her exact type.”
“Architecturally built, infuriatingly charming, and lethal in a suit,” Kate agreed cheerfully.
“It’s text-book Celine.”
Lucien, who had been listening with his chin resting on his hands, immediately sat up.
He pouted dramatically, patting his own dirty-blond hair.
“Wait!
What about me?
Which category am I in?”
Marceline turned her head, offering him a dry, lingering look.
“Lucien, you are in an entirely separate, uncategorized phenomenon.”
Lucien beamed, completely unbothered.
“Honestly?
I’m completely fine with that, Marcie.
Even if your type is an Auclair, I am still very much available and extremely grateful if you’d ever like to step on my face.”
That was the final straw.
Allard, who had spent his entire life mastering the art of absolute, unbreakable Laurent composure, suddenly choked on his own breath.
He let out a sharp, uncharacteristic snort, losing his dignified posture entirely as he covered his face, his broad shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
“Putain, Marcie,” Allard gasped, tossing his unlit cigar onto the table and shaking his head in total disbelief.
“You are collecting the most deeply unique men in Europe.”
“I am not collecting anyone!” Marceline defended herself furiously, her face burning hot as she glared at her cousin.
“I didn’t ask for any of this!”
Beside them, Vivienne lost her battle with restraint.
She leaned back against the cushions and laughed so hard her eyes began to water, her melodic laughter carrying straight across the open water to the dark yacht trailing beside them.
“You absolutely are, Marcie,” Vivienne wheezed softly, wiping the corner of her eye.
“You truly, unequivocally are.”
André, whose gossipy flair and flamboyant commentary usually fueled the drama, set his champagne flute down with an unprecedented, heavy thud on the glass table.
His jaw hung open as he stared at Lucien, completely breaking character.
“Okay, no.
Stop,” André said, throwing his hands up in genuine, unscripted horror.
“I don’t even know what to say to you anymore, Lucien.
This isn’t even amusing gossip—this is just deeply, wildly weird.
You need professional intervention.”
Kate snorted into her napkin while Lucien simply offered André a cheerful, totally unapologetic shrug.
Marceline rubbed the bridge of her nose, her face still burning a brilliant shade of crimson under her oversized sunglasses.
The absolute absurdity of the deck was giving her an immediate migraine, especially with the heavy, dark shadow of Claude’s boat still lingering on the water nearby.
“Lucien, please,” Marceline groaned, swatting at his arm and pointing toward the opposite end of the yacht.
“Go sit near Allard.
Go discuss cigars, or maritime stocks, or literally anything else.
You are distracting everyone and ruining my oxygen.”
“I am simply expressing my devotion, Marcie!” Lucien protested smoothly, though he dutifully scrambled up from the leather bench.
“Go,” she ordered, waving him off.
Lucien slid down the deck to plant himself beside Allard, who was still quietly chuckling to himself.
As Lucien immediately launched into a passionate monologue about jet-ski rentals, Marceline sank deeper into her cushions, taking a long, desperate sip of ice-cold champagne.
She took a slow breath, praying the chaos was finally over—until her eyes involuntarily flicked back toward the dark Riva yacht, wondering just how much of that ridiculous spectacle Claude had managed to see.