Charles Leclerc loved his apartment in Monaco. He loved the floor-to-ceiling windows that stretched open to the harbor, the way the sun cut across the water in shards of silver, and how at night the city glittered like a jewel box beneath him. He loved the smooth marble floors that clicked under his shoes, the minimalist furniture he’d hand-picked after hours of indecision, the muted palette of whites and greys that calmed him the moment he stepped inside.
Most of all, he loved the quiet.

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