Chapter 1: The Watch That Changed Everything
My ZF RM-055 got me invited to a billionaire event. I shouldn’t have gone.
I’ve been into reps for a while now. Quietly. No flexing, no wrist shots. I just love the craftsmanship. My collection’s pretty solid: CF Daytonas, VSF Subs, a ZF Sky-Dweller. But my crown jewel? The ZF Richard Mille RM-055 NTPT.
Skeleton dial. Forged carbon. Featherlight. I only wear it when the moment calls for something louder than words.
A few weeks ago, I was at a rooftop party in London. One of those invite-only affairs where you get a text, not a ticket. I tagged along with a friend a hedge fund type, a genuine collector. He was wearing an Aquanaut. I had the RM on full display.
About an hour in, she approached me.
Elise.
Mid-forties, elegant, and effortlessly confident. Tailored cream blazer, silk scarf, no logos. She glanced once at the watch, then looked me straight in the eye.
“The RM-055 NTPT. Beautiful grain. That forged carbon looks even better under city lights.”
She knew exactly what she was looking at.
We talked watches, design, architecture but nothing too deep. She had that quiet confidence that tells you she’s seen more than she says. Before she walked away, she handed me a cream-coloured card. Thick stock. No branding. Just an address in Mayfair and a time.
“A few of us are meeting tomorrow. It’s not public. But I think you’d feel at home.”
That night, I found myself outside an unmarked townhouse. Two Bentleys sat parked out front. Security dressed sharply in suits guarded the door. I said Elise’s name. They let me in without question.
It was another world. Ambient music emanated from nowhere. Marble floors gleamed under soft lighting. Crystal barware shimmered, yet no bottles were in sight. A solid marble statue of a woman stood purely for atmosphere. Everyone was wearing quiet money—the kind of wealth that doesn’t shout, but is impossible to ignore. People with names that probably show up in footnotes of Forbes articles.
And they noticed the watch.
Not with suspicion. With recognition. A nod here. A subtle smile there.
One man leaned in and said,
“Not many your age can wear an RM without looking like they’re trying to.”
I smiled.
“Sometimes the right things find you.”
Then he approached.
Late forties. French. Black turtleneck, grey coat, sharp beard. The kind of man who makes small talk feel like an interrogation.
He glanced at the RM.
“ZF?”
Just that.
I laughed softly, suddenly unsure.
“You’re funny.”
He said nothing. Just lifted his glass and melted back into the room.
That’s when Elise returned. She touched my arm gently and said,
“Come. There are a few people I want you to meet.”
We walked toward the fireplace. She introduced me to three others—each older, distinguished. One ran a private equity group in the UAE. Another dealt in “specialist aviation.” The third wore a diamond Nautilus and never uttered his last name.
They asked what I did.
I bluff.
“Digital asset placements. Quiet clients. Mostly cross-border.”
It landed. Heads nodded. Someone mentioned family offices in Singapore. I said,
“We tend to stay off-grid.”
We talked for a while, everything and nothing. The kind of conversation where words are currency and everyone trades gently.
As the evening wound down, Elise slipped a small envelope into my hand.
“If you’re ever in Geneva… Rue des Moulins 14. But only if you’re serious.”
Then she disappeared behind a velvet curtain like a magician ending her act.
Outside, the night was colder. I walked toward the end of the street when I heard him again.
The Frenchman.
Leaning casually against a blacked-out car, drink still in hand. Same calm stare.
“Funny thing,” he said, nodding at my wrist. “That model, the one you’re wearing, was never supposed to leave Dubai.”
I stopped.
“There were three made. Only one was personalised. Slight grain flaw near 10 o’clock. Rotor engraving. You’ve seen it.”
I froze.
“The original owner?” he continued. “He doesn’t exist anymore. At least not on paper. Sanctions. Seized assets. Frozen accounts.”
He stepped closer.
“Interpol still has the case open. Private auction pulled mid-sale. That watch?”
“Never recovered.”
My voice caught.
“That’s not possible. I bought this from...”
“Tony,” he finished with a shrug. “And Tony asks where his stock comes from?”
He raised his glass one last time.
“Be careful who you pretend to be. Sometimes… the world plays along.”
Then he was gone.
I got home. Stripped off the blazer. Placed the watch under my desk lamp.
I unscrewed the caseback, slowly.
And there it was.
A.R.C.—1 of 3
The same rotor engraving from the listing. The same grain pattern. I started digging. Private auction archives. RM-055. Custom. Engraved. Withdrawn.
Owned by a now-vanished Russian oligarch. Known only by those initials.
Only three made. All disappeared.
Until now.
I haven’t worn it since. And I haven’t opened the envelope. But last night, a note was slipped under my door.
Same cream paper. Same ink. Just one line:
“Monaco. July. You’re already in.”
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