Chasing the Anchor

Chapter 4: The Sound of Monaco

The transition from a humid Singapore skyscraper back to the sun-drenched, rocky coastline of the French Riviera always happened in a blur of long-haul flights and heavy legal briefs.

After successfully unmasking the midnight telemetry leak inside his engineering bay weeks ago, my workload with Lewis had officially skyrocketed.

I had spent this entire thirteen-hour flight to Nice Côte d'Azur Airport with my laptop balanced tightly on my knees.

I was meticulously editing the non-disclosure agreements for Lewis's upcoming global brand launch. It was a massive corporate structure that required my absolute, independent legal supervision.

But the second I stepped out of the arrival terminal, the crisp, Mediterranean breeze hit my face. It instantly carried the faint, unmistakable scent of saltwater and absolute wealth.

I pulled my rolling suitcase toward the arrivals curb, adjusting the dark sunglasses on my nose as a wave of fatigue washed over my shoulders.

My phone suddenly buzzed in my palm.Lewis Hamilton: Just left the garage. My driver, Marcus, is waiting for you at the terminal three exit in a matte-black luxury van. I'm stuck in a final strategy debrief, but I'll meet you at the apartment as soon as the wheels stop turning.

A quiet smile broke across my face. Even from a distance...

The drive from Nice to Monaco along the Moyenne Corniche was breathtaking. The cliffs cut sharply into the sparkling blue expanse of the sea, and as the car dipped into the tunnels leading into Monte Carlo, the environment shifted. The streets were immaculately clean, lined with towering palm trees, high-end designer boutiques, and the low, throaty growls of supercars echoing against the concrete walls.

Marcus, a polite and intensely discreet British driver, pulled the sleek vehicle into the private underground garage of a secure luxury complex overlooking the harbor.

"Sir Lewis requested that I bring you straight up, Ms. Winters," Marcus said, retrieving my luggage with a respectful nod.

"He should be arriving any minute."

The private elevator opened directly into a penthouse apartment that left me momentarily breathless. It wasn't gaudy or filled with over-the-top racing trophies. Instead, it was an architectural masterpiece of minimalism—floor-to-ceiling glass windows offering a panoramic view of the million-dollar yachts docked in Port Hercule, plush cream rugs, striking contemporary art pieces, and a grand piano sitting quietly in the corner.

It was stunning, but it felt incredibly quiet. Incredibly isolated.

I set my legal folder down on the marble kitchen island, stepping out onto the expansive terrace. The late afternoon sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the Monaco sky in shades of deep violet and burnt orange.

The heavy, soundproofed glass door behind me slid open with a soft click.

I turned.

Lewis stood in the doorway. He was dressed in a tailored black jacket over a simple white shirt, dark trousers, and a pair of clean sneakers. His hair was meticulously styled, but his shoulders were slightly dropped. The moment his dark eyes locked onto mine, the rigid, professional posture he usually held for the public completely vanished.

"You're actually here," he said softly. His voice carried that familiar, raspy warmth, but hearing it offline—without the digital distortion of a laptop speaker—sent a sudden, sharp thrill straight through my veins.

"I don't break my legal promises, Lewis," I murmured, offering a soft smile.

He walked across the terrace, closing the distance between us in three deliberate strides. He didn't hesitate. He stepped into my space and brought his arms around me, pulling me firmly against his chest.

This hug wasn't like the desperate, breathless sanctuary of the Singapore paddock. It was grounding, slow, and deeply intentional. He buried his face into the crook of my neck, inhaling deeply, his hands flat against the small of my back. I could feel the solid, rhythmic thud of his heart against my ribs, melting away the lingering fatigue of my twenty-four hours of travel.

"You have no idea how long this week felt," Lewis whispered against my skin, his grip tightening just a fraction, anchoring me to the Mediterranean floor.

"Every time I looked at the simulator screen, I was just counting down the hours until you landed."

I stepped back slightly, keeping my hands resting on his forearms, looking up into his face. At forty-one, his features carried a profound maturity that the cameras often missed—the fine lines of experience around his eyes, the absolute stillness in his gaze.

"The flight was long, but your contracts are airtight," I teased gently, trying to inject a bit of professional normalcy into the heavy emotional tension stretching between us.

"So, technically, I am officially on the clock, Sir Lewis."

Lewis let out a low, genuine laugh, his eyes crinkling beautifully at the corners. He didn't let go of my waist.

"We can worry about the corporate empire tomorrow, Eliana. Tonight, the only thing on the schedule is getting you some proper food away from the noise."

He gestured toward the sparkling lights of the harbor below.

"No cameras, no press, no racing talk. Just you and me. Deal?"

I looked at the global icon holding me like I was his entire world, and for the first time, the legal lines on my pages faded into the background. "Deal," I whispered.