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T wo Years Ago – Margot stared up at the ceiling of her boyfriend’s bedroom,

listening to the bustle of Paris below, normal people rushing to work, pastry
and coffee in hand, late as usual. She enjoyed not being normal and considered
last night’s revelation, that her boyfriend, Aubin, just closed a huge deal with investors
in London, selling his intellectual property, and, for all she knew, a bit of his soul, for the
happy sum of 7.2 million Euros, a wonderful example of it. The number boggled Margot’s
mind, but to Aubin, who grew up on the outskirts of Nice just minutes from the Cote
d’Azur on the Guillory Estate nearly the size of Monaco itself, that deposit would just be
another drop in the family’s now very full bucket.
Aubin got up as usual, like a success-obsessed jockey mounted at the gate, chomping at the
bit like the horse he was about to ride, eager for his next race. He pulled on his black briefs,
blew Margot a half-hearted kiss from a few meters away (not bothering with the customary
hand gesture – who had time for that?), and, in between brushstrokes, slurred out, “Hey
babe, can you leave? I have a conference call in ten.” Margot nodded and slipped on her
slinky dress from the night before. On her way out the door she took Aubin in one last
time, admiring his chiseled face and dirty blonde hair, not too far from her own hair’s color.
She had never seen Aubin work out, run, lift weights, or move with the intent of sweat at
any point during their nearly eleven months together, but he had a body like a god. And, as
any semi-religious girl should, that body was worshiped on a regular basis.

Below the window of Aubin’s penthouse, which was on the other side of the Seine near
the Champs-Elysees but far enough away from the silly Grande Roue de Paris to be taken