Page 54 of Formula Freedom
Lara
From the airplanewindow, I stare slack-jawed at the endless stretch of Mediterranean so clear it almost doesn’t look real. The plane dips lower, skimming just above the sparkling water, and for a second, it’s as if we’re going to land right in the bay. But then tarmac replaces surf, and we touch down with a smooth bounce and a rush of engines.
Even as we taxi, I can see yachts bobbing in the distance and the curve of the coastline studded with sun-washed villas and terraced gardens. It’s all so surreal—the kind of place people dream about but never actually visit.
The salty air greets me as we step off the plane at the Nice Côte d’Azur Airport. The journey from Melbourne was long, but my excitement kept me energized. I’m eager to soak up all the Riviera’s promised charm.
Reid strolls through the terminal with a familiarity that suggests this is routine for him. In the parking garage, he leads us to a sleek, impossibly low sports car with glossy red paint. I can’t tell you what it is—only that it’s the kind of vehicle that looks like it should come with a security escort or its own movie score. Long, muscular lines and an engine that you know will growl, I’m sure it comes with a price tag I probably shouldn’t ask about.
Reid pops the trunk with a click of his key fob, revealing a surprisingly roomy cargo area, and I blink. “Wait, this thing has actual luggage space?”
He grins. “It’s a Ferrari GTC4Lusso. V12.”
I stare at him blankly. “And… that means?”
“It goes fast and still fits your shoe collection,” he replies with a grin as he hefts our suitcases inside.
I can’t help but laugh. “Sounds expensive.”
He hesitates like he’s deciding whether to lie. “About three hundred grand.”
My jaw drops. “In what world is that a casual airport pickup car?”
“This one,” he says, opening the passenger door for me like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Welcome to Monaco. Impressed?”
I nod, speechless. “This was not what I expected.”
He chuckles. “The French Riviera has its standards.”
The engine purrs to life, and as we glide along the coastal highway from Nice to Monaco, the scenery is blindingly spectacular. Around every curve, my breath is robbed over and over again. The road twists through sleepy hillside towns, every turn revealing another postcard-perfect view of shimmering water, pale stone buildings, and the frequent luxury car.
By the time we descend into the polished streets of Monte Carlo, it seems like another world entirely. One where the air smells not so much like sea salt but rather extreme wealth.
I understood it in theory. I’ve seen pictures of Monaco. But being here now, seeing the yachts, the high-rise terraces, the gleaming supercars parked like they belong on every corner? It hits different. This isn’t just Reid’s home base—it’s a whole other world, and I would have never thought he’d be comfortable here. It doesn’t reconcile with the fun-loving surfer boy who races cars at breakneck speed and pounds beers with his friends at night.
As we pull into a narrow, pristine street lined with towering palms and sleek glass structures, Reid says, “Welcome to Larvotto. It’s the beachfront district—tons of high-rise luxury towers, private terraces, rooftop pools. You’ve probably seen it in a Bond movie without realizing.”
I gawk at the buildings, the fashionably dressed pedestrians. “I think I’m going to be seriously underdressed here.”
He shoots me a sideways grin. “Trust me… all these fancy people wear their joggers and T-shirts in the privacy of their own homes.”
I chuckle, but I highly doubt what he’s saying. “You live in a postcard.”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “It’s quiet and I can walk to the beach in about thirty seconds.”
I glance out again, stunned by the sparkling sea framed between ultra-modern buildings. “Well, it can’t be all that bad if it has a beach. I want to go sit in the sand and pretend I belong here.”
“You do,” he says simply, and I don’t know if he’s talking about Monaco… or something more.
Reid pulls in front of a clean-lined structure with expansive glass windows. A valet greets us as we exit and Reid hands him money, saying something in French.
I’m stunned he speaks the language and I ask him about it as he leads me inside, his hand on my elbow.
Reid laughs. “I know just enough to get by, but I can’t carry on a long conversation. Don’t worry, English is common enough here.”
Reid’s apartment is a study in understated opulence. I practically have to pick my jaw up off the floor when we walk in. Marble floors, minimalist décor and floor-to-ceiling windows offering an uninterrupted view of the sea. His furniture though is plush, covered in a soft white material I’ve never felt before. It looks like you could sink into it and never get out.
The living area flows seamlessly into a state-of-the-art kitchen, and a grand piano sits in the corner, hinting at a side of Reid I hadn’t known.
