Chapter 6: The Dinner

The estate was outside Madrid. Far enough to lose signal. Stone walls. Cypress trees. The kind of quiet that gets inherited.

I arrived early. On purpose. A habit I was developing. Not to impress but to observe.

A housekeeper let me in and offered nothing but a glance at my shoes. No names were exchanged.

Inside, the ceilings were impossibly high. Art everywhere. Not gallery pieces, lived-in pieces. Layers. Age. Money.

Alexandre was already there, sitting near the garden with two guests I didn’t recognise. One American, one Spanish. Both carried themselves like men who’d never had to explain themselves to anyone.

He stood when he saw me, smiling with that effortless familiarity he wore like a cologne.

“You came. Good.”

He introduced me not by name, but by domain.

“He works with asset-backed collections. Very discreet. Serious taste.”

I nodded, offered small words, kept the tempo light.

They didn’t press. In these circles, mystery is more valuable than biography.

---

Dinner was outside, beneath twisted iron lamps and thick tree cover. Wine flowed. Stories meandered. No one checked their phones.

The RM stayed tucked under my cuff, but I caught one of the guests glancing. Not at me but at the curve of carbon when I raised my glass. Noticed. Not spoken of.

Halfway through the meal, Alexandre disappeared inside. He returned with a small wooden box, plain, but clearly important. He placed it gently on the table.

“Something I never show anyone,” he said.

The table leaned in, just slightly.

He opened the lid.

Inside: a Richard Mille.

White strap. Forged carbon. Skeleton dial. Older. Untouched. Not worn. Not displayed.

Loved, in a very specific kind of way.

“My uncle gave it to me,” Alexandre said. “Didn’t tell me anything about it. Just said to keep it close, even if I didn’t know why.”

The Spanish man leaned in.

“You ever wear it?”

Alexandre smiled faintly.

“Never outside. It doesn’t feel like mine. But it… fits. Somehow.”

His eyes shifted to me.

“You seem to know how to wear yours. What do you make of this?”

I took a beat, then spoke.

“It reminds me of mine. Not because they look the same. But because neither was made to be passed around.”

He tilted his head.

“Go on.”

I kept my tone quiet.

“Most watches are meant to be seen. This one feels like it was meant to be held. Certain pieces… they carry history that wasn’t written down. You feel it, even if you don’t know why.”

He stared at it, then back at me.

“You think people would care?”

“The ones who know what they’re looking at? They’d care a lot.”

There was a pause.

Later, as guests filtered back inside for dessert, Alexandre lingered.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just turned the watch over in his hand, slowly like he was reading something that had always been there.

Then:

“If I ever wanted to part with it… I wouldn’t sell it. I’d give it to someone who understood it.”

He didn’t look at me when he said it. But he didn’t need to.