Shane twirled the stem of his whiskey glass between his fingers, the amber liquid shimmering like molten gold beneath the low light. His lips held a faint, knowing smile as his steady gaze drifted between Coward and Lawrence, two of New York's most eccentric socialites.
"In fact," he began, his voice calm yet cutting through the hum of conversation, "the reason I'm heading to London is to finalize a profit-sharing deal for the European distribution rights of The Circus with Mr. Harry Crocker—Chaplin's manager."
For a moment, silence fell. Even the smoke seemed to pause midair.
Lawrence froze, her silver cigarette holder poised halfway to her lips. The cigarette burned slowly, a thin blue curl rising unbroken toward the ceiling.
Coward's hand halted mid-sip, his glass trembling slightly. The whiskey inside shimmered with tiny ripples before settling again.
"Good Lord!" Lawrence finally gasped, her catlike eyes flashing with excitement. "Chaplin's new film? The one he shot last year in that godforsaken circus out in California?"
She leaned forward suddenly, her manicured hand grasping Shane's sleeve. "I spent two weeks on that set! Charlie filmed that tightrope scene seventy-nine times—seventy-nine!"
Coward placed his glass down gently, the bottom making a soft clink on the polished wood. His long, elegant fingers began to tap the tabletop rhythmically, each beat soft and deliberate.
"How interesting," he murmured, his usual theatrical flair gone. "Crocker rejected my offer to compose music for the film just last month. Said the copyright matters were 'too complicated.'"
Lawrence leaned closer, her perfume with a hint of tuberose—rising softly between them. Her fingers, nails painted scarlet, rested on the cuff of Shane's dark suit.
"My dear boy," she whispered, her breath brushing his ear, "you've no idea what kind of man Harry Crocker is." Her grip tightened slightly. "That old fox loves to drop Chaplin's name like divine authority—'Mr. Chaplin insists,' he'll say."
She gave a low, bitter laugh. "Truth is, Charlie barely glances at those contracts. He's too busy chasing perfection through his camera lens."
Her pearl earrings shimmered as she tilted her head, the light catching the movement.
Coward stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I saw Crocker once at the Claridge Hotel lounge—deep in talk with a United Artists man. The very next day, The Times printed a rumor that Chaplin might change distributors."
He sighed dramatically. "By then, of course, Lawrence and I had already sailed for New York."
The ship rocked gently beneath them. The crystal pendants of the chandelier tinkled like distant bells.
Lawrence drew nearer to Shane, lowering her voice to a near whisper. "Crocker has one fatal flaw—he's terrified of being seen as uncultured. Last year at the Ritz, a sommelier merely looked at him funny, and he bought three cases of 1893 Lafite on the spot—just to prove he knew what he was drinking."
Across the table, Coward resumed carving an ice sphere with a small silver knife. "You know," he said idly, "Hollywood's new color bands are remarkable, but Paris is gossiping about some multi-layer tinting method—realistic enough to make blood look real. Rather unsettling."
He finished carving and held the small ice sculpture up to the light. It caught the glow—a tiny figure of Chaplin, bowler hat and all. "To Charlie," he said, grinning. "May his new film be as extraordinary as the man himself."
The Next Morning – First-Class Dining Room
Sunlight spilled through the round portholes, scattering soft gold across the linen-draped tables. The murmur of breakfast conversations mingled with the clinking of china and the rustle of newspapers.
Shane sat by the window, his knife gliding cleanly through a slice of smoked salmon. The faint squeak of metal against porcelain was almost musical.
Opposite him, William Catterson—his fastidious lawyer—sorted through a pile of contract drafts arranged in perfect order.
"Crocker sent revisions last night," Catterson muttered, pointing to a penciled note. "The percentage split's been altered. The numbers are deliberately faint—as if meant to be misread."
Shane's fork paused midair.
A few tables away, businessmen in tailored suits discussed Wall Street in booming voices. The scent of coffee and buttered toast filled the room.
Mikhail, Shane's stoic companion, nursed a cup of black coffee. His thick fingers rested loosely on the handle as his eyes swept the room, watchful.
"The ship docks in Cherbourg tomorrow night," he said in his heavy Eastern European accent. "I've arranged for Olki and Jay to disembark and head to Geneva through Paris. They'll wire us the details once they arrive."
Shane's gaze shifted toward the entrance.
Lawrence appeared, arm in arm with Coward. She wore a cream silk gown, her hair pinned with pearls that shimmered in the sunlight. Coward, ever the gentleman, sported a fresh edelweiss pin on his lapel.
As they passed, Coward gave Shane a conspiratorial wink, flicking the pin so that it trembled lightly.
"Don't forget the Captain's Jazz Ball tomorrow," Lawrence whispered, her voice soft as champagne fizz. "Don't be late."
Her fingertips brushed the back of his chair, leaving behind the faint trail of Chanel and mischief. Then, the two vanished into the cheerful hum of the dining room.
Shane lifted his coffee cup, eyes steady and unreadable through the rising steam.
"Tell Olki and Jay," he said quietly to Mikhail, "their safety comes first. No unnecessary contact—unless there's no other choice."
Outside, seagulls glided low over the waves. The deep horn of the ship sounded in the distance, echoing across the Atlantic—marking the beginning of another day.