The presidential terrace suite of the Carlton Hotel was an oasis of silent, dark luxury high above the neon-lit frenzy of Cannes. Outside on the Boulevard de la Croisette, the late-night traffic hummed along the palm-fringed avenue, while the Mediterranean waves crashed against the sandy beach in a rhythmic, ancient cadence. Inside the suite, the darkness was illuminated only by the silver glow of the three-quarter moon streaming through the…
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