Champagne Problems

S I X

"Do you want some... uhm... fish eggs on toast?" Yves asks awkwardly, holding out a silver tray with small, neatly arranged caviar toasts. The girl standing before him, dressed in a chic cocktail dress, barely gives him a glance before rolling her eyes.

"It's caviar," she corrects, her tone dripping with condescension. She waves her hand dismissively as though shooing a fly, signaling him to leave.

Yves shrugs, mumbling under his breath as he walks away, "No fish eggs for you then." He can't stand these people. The yacht is beautiful, the party lively, and the music much better than the stiff atmosphere in the Arnault hotel, but the guests? They're insufferably rude.

He sighs, weaving his way through the crowd, balancing the tray in one hand. He glances around the yacht's deck, marveling again at the luxury. The wooden laminate floor gleams underfoot, and the furniture is both modern and cozy—an unusual balance. The yacht is a palace on water. Yves briefly wonders how someone could ever live like this, with no real home, just floating on luxury. He's never been surrounded by this much wealth before, and though he doesn't envy it, he can't help but admire it.

Spotting a girl standing by the railing, her long, dark brown hair cascading down her back and subtly fading into blonde at the ends, Yves decides to try his luck again. Her peach-colored dress sways in the soft breeze, paired with bright yellow sandals that stand out. She sips white wine, looking out over the calm ocean.

"Do you want some fish eggs on toast?" Yves repeats, though this time with a little more confidence and a wry smile.

The girl turns to him and laughs—a soft, genuine sound that catches him off guard. "I like your subtle description," she says with a grin, her dimples showing. "Fish eggs," she repeats, clearly amused. "That's exactly what I would call them too. I hate that fancy term 'caviar.' They're just fish eggs, right?"

Yves blinks, momentarily stunned. He's talking to Chantal Montoya, the sister of the famous Formula 1 driver, Remy Montoya. He'd seen her in interviews, always poised, always classy, yet here she is, laughing about fish eggs. She's not what he expected—so down to earth.

"Yeah," Yves chuckles nervously, adjusting the tray. "People love to dress things up with fancy names." He pauses, realizing he's still holding out the tray. "But... are you sure you don't want one? They say it's, uh, delicious."

Chantal smiles and shakes her head. "No, thanks. But I appreciate the offer." Her tone is friendly, and Yves can't help but feel at ease in her presence. She doesn't look at him like most of the guests here do—like he's just another servant.

"So," she says, tilting her head, "are you working for the Arnaults?"

Yves laughs, scratching the back of his neck. "Yeah, you could say that. But more like 'working off a punishment.'" He grimaces, realizing how odd that must sound.

"Punishment?" Chantal raises an eyebrow, intrigued.

"It's kind of a long story," Yves explains, glancing down at the tray. "Let's just say playing music in front of the wrong hotel led to a lot of scrubbing floors and... fish eggs." He grins, trying to lighten the mood. "You sure you don't want to try one?"

Chantal laughs again. "I'm sure." For a moment, they stand there, a slight breeze moving between them. Yves is acutely aware of the awkward silence that follows. He's never been great at making small talk, especially not with someone like her.

"Well, I should probably go find my brother," Chantal says eventually, giving him a polite smile. "But I'll see you around?"

"Yeah, sure," Yves nods, watching her walk away. What a woman, he thinks. Her brother is one of the top Formula 1 drivers in the world, and yet she's so normal, so down-to-earth. He didn't expect that. For a moment, Yves feels a strange mix of admiration and a tiny spark of something more—something he can't quite put his finger on.