There was nothing romantic about the smell of her flat.
It was damp towels and yesterday's coffee and the faint musk of loneliness.
Amara stood in front of the chipped bathroom mirror, running a finger beneath her tired eyes. She looked the same as always—plain. Ordinary. Her skin was soft but dull. Her eyes were kind but tired. Her hair was thick but wild, barely tamed into the messy bun she always wore. She didn't have time or energy for 'pretty' anymore.
The overhead light buzzed, flickering once.
Outside, rain tapped on the window like a reminder: You're still here.
Her shift at the hospital had been long, and the people had been ruder than usual. She'd had to smile through it all, bite her tongue when the new junior doctor made one of his snide jokes about the "invisible staff," or when the ward manager ignored her request for new gloves. She wasn't slow—just exhausted and somewhere else in her head. Always somewhere far away. Always somewhere softer.
Her phone buzzed.
Bea: "BITCH. CHECK YOUR EMAIL. RIGHT NOW."
She frowned, grabbing the cracked device from her dresser. Her inbox was cluttered with unread newsletters and promotional spam. But then she saw it.
Subject: CONGRATULATIONS: Trip to MONACO CONFIRMED
Her heart stopped. She clicked.
"You have been selected as the winner of our luxury Monte Carlo Holiday Giveaway! 7 nights at the Hôtel Hermitage. Helicopter transfers from Nice. All expenses covered. You may bring one guest."
She reread it five times. Then again, just to be sure.
Her phone buzzed again.
Bea: "We're going. You. Me. Monaco. Fancy AF. Pack your Zara best.
YOU DESERVE THIS."
Amara sat down slowly on her bed, which squeaked under her. The ceiling leaked in the corner. Her slippers were damp. She'd just eaten instant noodles for the third night in a row. The contrast between this room and the words "Monte Carlo" almost made her laugh.
She hadn't been on a plane since she was fifteen. Her passport was expired. Her bank account had £347.05 in it.
But even as she stared at the chaos of her room, she felt something bloom in her chest.
Something defiant.
Something soft.
Something like hope.
"You deserve this."
No one had said that to her in years.
⸻⸻⸻⸻
Present Day – Arrival
The day of departure came wrapped in nerves and the lingering scent of lavender fabric spray she'd misted over her suitcase. Amara barely slept. Her shift at the hospital ended late, and she spent the night repacking three times—unsure whether Monte Carlo wanted more heels or more hope.
Bea had booked them an Uber to Heathrow at 5:00 AM sharp. The driver gave a silent nod as they slid into the backseat, the city still yawning awake. Bea wore sunglasses even though the sun hadn't risen, sipping iced coffee like this wasn't the biggest moment of their lives.
Amara clutched her new passport the whole ride there, like it might disappear if she let go.
She wore her best jeans, a beige trench she'd thrifted last winter, and the boots Bea had insisted she bring. Her suitcase, modest and scuffed, looked out of place next to Bea's sleek black luggage. But she told herself: no one was judging. At least, not yet.
The airport was chaos. But in a surreal, cinematic way and yet...it felt like a soft ending and a roaring beginning. On the plane, she was quiet. Window seat. Headphones in. She watched the world shrink beneath her: the greyness of London fading into clouds and light.
Bea fell asleep halfway through the flight, but Amara couldn't.
Her thoughts were everywhere—on the outfits in her bag, the passport in her pocket, the idea of landing somewhere that sounded like old money and silk sheets.
The pilot's voice eventually crackled through the intercom.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we'll be landing at Nice Côte d'Azur Airport shortly. Local time is 12:05 PM."
Her heart flipped.
From the airplane window, the coastline looked unreal—water like liquid sapphire, dotted with white sails and sun-bleached villas. She pressed her fingers to her lips to stop herself from gasping.
They landed.
Heat hit her as they stepped onto the tarmac, even in December. There was a breeze, sure—but it was the kind that carried salt and promise. Amara adjusted her coat and looked around.
Nice was already beautiful, but it wasn't the final destination. Bea pointed ahead toward a private transfer lounge marked with gold letters.
"That's us," she grinned.
Amara blinked. "Us?"
Bea nodded like it was no big deal. "The giveaway included heli-transfers. First class, baby. Come on."
That's when it hit her all at once.
This wasn't just a trip. This was a shift. A once-in-a-lifetime moment. She wasn't just passing through wealth—she was stepping into a world that had never once held the door open for her, now it had. And it waited behind glass walls, velvet armchairs, and a helicopter humming quietly on the horizon.
⸻⸻⸻⸻
The first thing Amara noticed was the silence.
Not the kind of silence she was used to—the hollow kind that echoed through her small studio flat when the neighbors weren't arguing. This silence was padded in velvet. Expensive. Heavy with the absence of chaos.
The floor beneath her didn't creak. Her footsteps didn't echo. Everything was too soft, too elegant, too... unreal.
The check-in concierge at the private lounge smiled at her with eyes that had probably looked into royalty. His name tag read "Lucien." Of course it did. She handed him her passport with fingers that trembled slightly, but she masked it with a smile. She always smiled. Especially when she was nervous.
"Welcome to Côte d'Azur Executive Flights, Miss Vale," he said in an accent that sounded like silk. "Your helicopter transfer to Monte Carlo will be ready within the hour. Would you care for a glass of something chilled?"
Amara blinked.
Not water. Not juice.
Not still or sparkling.
But "something chilled."
"I—um—just water. Please."
She almost apologized for it.
Lucien gave her a polite nod and gestured to the velvet armchairs near the window. She sat down, clutching her tote bag—£39.99 on sale at Zara, though it looked like it tried really hard to be designer. She placed it carefully on her lap like a protective shield.
From the floor-to-ceiling window, she could see the private runway stretching out like a promise. A sleek black helicopter waited beyond the glass. It gleamed under the winter sun like a jewel with wings.
This was not her world.
She had grown up in hand-me-downs. Had never stepped foot in a five-star anything. The fanciest dinner she'd ever had was a microwaved salmon ready meal she treated herself to after one of her night shifts. £3.49. No sauce included.
But this...
This trip? This dream?
It was a gift. A crazy, once-in-a-lifetime gift from her friend Bea, who had somehow won a contest neither of them remembered entering. One week in Monaco. Flights, hotel, all expenses paid. Two tickets. She could've taken anyone.
But she'd taken Amara.
"You need to see what it feels like," Bea had said. "To feel like a main character. Like you belong to the world you dream of."
Amara had laughed then. It sounded ridiculous. She was not Monaco material. Her nails were never done. Her makeup was always minimal, half because of budget and half because she didn't know what she was doing. Her hair had a mind of its own. She liked warm socks and oversized hoodies, not heels and backless dresses.
But... a part of her had always craved this.
The kind of craving you bury beneath grocery lists and tube schedules. The kind of longing that builds quietly while you scroll through lives on Instagram that seem impossibly, intoxicatingly perfect.
Monaco.
Even the name sounded expensive.
The announcement for her transfer came over the speakers like a hush. She stood, adjusting the belt of her thrifted coat—navy, slightly faded at the collar. She followed a staff member through glass doors and down a hallway that smelled like white orchids and money.
The helicopter pilot was waiting. "Miss Vale?"
She nodded, and he smiled, motioning her into the seat like she was a regular. Like she did this every weekend. She didn't even know how to put on the seatbelt. But she fumbled through it with grace, tucking her coat under her thighs and praying her knees didn't start shaking.
When they took off, her breath caught in her throat.
Below her, the coastline unraveled like a ribbon. The water was silver, the buildings honey-gold. Mountains stood like silent guardians in the background, kissed by the December sky. And Monte Carlo—glorious, glamorous Monte Carlo—began to bloom into view like a fantasy.
Amara bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to cry.
She wasn't supposed to be here.
Not the girl who mopped hospital floors at 3 a.m.
Not the girl who scrubbed biohazard bins and sanitized bed rails while people passed her like she was invisible.
Not the girl who used to think "caviar" was a skincare brand.
But now?
Now she was floating above the Riviera, looking down on yachts the size of football fields. And for the first time in her life, she didn't feel small. She felt like a secret, a secret the world hadn't discovered yet.
The helicopter touched down on a private rooftop helipad. Someone opened the door for her. She stepped out into air that smelled like sea salt and power. The sun glittered off every surface, from the chrome railing to the distant water.
A Rolls-Royce was waiting at the bottom of the staircase.
She actually laughed out loud. "This is insane!" she whispered to herself.
A man in a black suit opened the door for her. "Hotel Hermitage, Miss Vale?"
She nodded again, barely finding her voice. "Yes... thank you."
The ride was smooth. The streets were clean like they'd been polished. People walked slowly here—like they had nowhere to be. Like time bent for them.
To be continued...