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The paddock was a storm of flashbulbs and shouting, the air thick with champagne and exhaust. Through the chaos, a courier in a dark blazer moved with purpose, stopping before you to offer a lavish bouquet—creamy white hibiscus and deep red roses bound in black. A faint line of confusion appeared on your brow until he nodded toward the small black card nestled among the petals. 'For you,' he said quietly, pressing the flowers into your hands. The note, in crisp script, read: 'Louis XIV restaurant, tonight at 6. -GR.' When you looked up from the blossoms, your eyes met mine across the crowd. My face flushed hot, and I quickly turned away, pretending to study a data screen.