⋄ “ would you mind helping me ? ” the question came out before viviènne could stop herself . not that she would have , there rarely was a moment where approaching people was a problem for the chef after all , even if those were strangers . her heels noisily hit the floor as she took a couple of steps closer . “ this is meant to be a present . ” her hand raised to show the item the french had been holding and trying to decide whether to buy or not for perhaps a tad too long . “ but i need to know that it will suit them before i buy , i have this whole thing about always making sure every present i give is perfect . enfin , you sort of look like them , so …. could you model it for me ? just for a second . ”
“would i mind?” she echoed softly — then a beat later, louder, turning on her heel. her kitten heels clicked neatly against the tile as she crossed the room, the little tempura labubu charm bouncing against her hermès with every step. bonnie tilted her head, studying the dress like a critic appraising a gallery piece before reaching out to feel the fabric between her fingers. “well,” she hummed, lips curling. “you’re lucky i happen to enjoy playing dress-up.” she smoothed the material thoughtfully, brows lifting as the quality sank in. “oh la la,” bonnie murmured, glancing up with a knowing smile. “this must be one very special friend.”
bets are haphazardly dispersed between odds & evens , blacks & reds , poker chips stacked aplenty in a showcase of fortune & wealth . there's chatter amongst the table , porcelain teeth spouting nonsensicals only the elite can get away with , as keon makes a performance out of placing his easy earned dollars atop the roulette board . one chip on red . two on two . anticipation climbing with each bet made , his dance around the board no less strategic than the last . money just money . a disposable thing . until , finally , it's time for his best & final . a poker chip thrown across the table where they reside , gaze catching gaze , a spark alighting in keon's eyes when he screws his mouth into a smirk & says , 〝 dealer , on double zeroes , please . that is , if my friend , 〞 he nods in the other's direction , 〝 gives the honor of kissing my chip for good luck . 〞 the challenge is set . . . will the other match ?
she knew mahjong, paigow, even those noisy pachislot machines with dante sparda plastered across the front. roulette, though? that one escaped her. bonnie had mostly planted herself at the table because the dealer was cute and the champagne was free, not because she had any idea what the hell the board meant. still, she played along — blowing across dice that weren’t hers, tapping chips like she’d seen in movies, preening beneath the kind of attention that evaporated the second you checked out of the hotel. when the chip skidded across the felt toward her, bonnie blinked up at the man like he’d just handed her a prop in a play she hadn’t rehearsed for.
“hmmm,” she hummed, tapping a lacquered nail against her chin with exaggerated thought. her gaze flicked from the chip to him, slow and assessing, before a crooked smile tugged at her mouth. “you’re asking a complete stranger to bless your gambling addiction?” she said lightly. “bold strategy.” she leaned forward anyway. bonnie plucked the chip between two fingers, lifting it like it might bite, examining both sides with theatrical suspicion before bringing it just shy of her lips. her eyes stayed on his the entire time. “if you lose,” she murmured, voice honeyed with mischief, “i’m blaming your technique.” then she pressed a quick kiss to the edge of the chip and slid it back across the table toward him. “there,” she said, settling back in her chair like she’d just done him a tremendous favor. “go win me something expensive.”
it wasn't every day that it rained in monaco. especially when her and all of her favorite friends where on her family's yacht for the day. she had organized this years bubbles, truffles and caviar. the forecast said nothing about rain. the perfectionist in her was starting to simmer in her chest, right beside her heart. as her friends linger towards the inside cabin, a few enjoy the downpour. the smiles on their faces bring her back to when she was a child. always swimming when it rained, it was one of her favorites. slowly, fingers find her most expensive jewelry to put aside. a look of pure mischief crosses her lovely pink lips. two hands reach for the bottom of her dress, lifting, and tossing aside. ❝ who's going to join me? ❞
the rain here was different. lighter somehow, slick and cool. it slid off beau’s skin instead of soaking through, rolling down the back of his neck and disappearing into the collar of his shirt. he reached up, tugging the brim of his backwards cap forward, the bill angled low enough to keep the rain from spotting his sunglasses. the corner of his mouth twitched as he watched her fingers move, slow and deliberate, each button coming undone like she knew damn well he was looking. and of course he was. beau leaned his weight onto one hip, arms loose at his sides like he wasn’t even remotely invested in the show. “swimmin’?” he scoffed, voice thick shaking his head like the very suggestion offended him. “that might be the stupidest idea i’ve heard all day.” his gaze dropped again, lingering for a second longer than it probably should’ve before drifting back up to her face, smug amusement settling easy across his features. “rain’s cold. ocean’s colder. you tryin’ to catch pneumonia or just lookin’ for an excuse to make me jump in after you?”
[ … ] well , my girl's in the next room , sometimes i wish she was you … i guess we never really moved on.
( paul anthony kelly . him/his .) ⊹ ₊ ⋆ was that beauregard langford i just saw at the mississippi stud table ? the thirty8 year old investor has been living in monaco for eight months and this may be the first time i’ve seen them play without their lucky teddy bear plush charm . talk around the tables is that they can be a bit unfaithful , but most would agree it’s a gamble worth taking if you catch them feeling disciplined . chatter across the casino floor describes them as the weight of a hand resting briefly on your shoulder, mirrors in dim light, love that lingers like humidity. but i’m not sure how much of that i buy . just know, the next time you hear lips of an angel by hinder playing around you , beau is probably hitting their lucky streak .
[ ✦ ] 𝗅𝗈𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 . . . . 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝘁𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗰𝘀.
﹟ 𝗯𝗮𝘀𝗶𝗰𝗶𝗻𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗺𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻.
full name: beauregard langford.
nickname(s): beau.
age: thirty nine.
date of birth: october 23.
zodiac: scorpio sun, capricorn rising.
place of birth: new orleans, louisana.
ethnicity: white.
nationality: american.
gender: cis man.
pronouns: his, him.
occupation, current: investor, venture captalist.
occupation, previous: -
﹟ 𝗿𝗲𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗽𝘀.
mother: vivienne langford.
father: russell langford senior.
siblings: russell langford junior ( older brother, deceased ), elizabeth “bitsy” langford ( younger sister )
spouse / partner: none, single.
children: none.
pets: none.
﹟ 𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲.
face claim: paul anthony kelly.
hair color: brown.
eye color: brown
height: six foot four.
tattoos: none.
piercings: none.
[ ✦ ] 𝗅𝗈𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 . . . . 𝘀𝘁𝘆𝗹𝗲.
dresses like a man who was taught early that appearances are armor. his suits are almost always dark—charcoal, ink black, deep tobacco brown in the colder months. nothing flashy, nothing loud. the kind of tailoring that doesn’t beg for attention but holds it anyway. slim through the waist, structured in the shoulders, always impeccably pressed. he prefers softer fabrics, cashmere blends and fine wool, things that move with him instead of against him.
his shirts are usually white or pale blue, sleeves rolled just once when he’s working late, tie loosened but never fully removed unless he’s alone. he favors simple ties, muted colors, silk with a faint texture you only notice up close.
there’s always a watch. understated. expensive if you know what you’re looking at, meaningless if you don’t. a gift from his mother, one of the few pieces he never takes off. his hair is kept neat but not severe, dark and slightly too long at the front like he forgets to cut it until someone reminds him. when he’s tired or distracted, he runs a hand through it absentmindedly, pushing it back only for it to fall forward again.
he smells faintly of cedarwood and something warm—amber, maybe, or tobacco leaf. not overpowering. the kind of scent you only notice when he leans in to hear you better. off duty, the look softens but never disappears. dark denim. worn leather boots. button-down shirts with the top button undone, sleeves pushed to the forearms. there’s still a quiet neatness to him, like he was raised in rooms where wrinkled clothes meant carelessness.
[ ✦ ] 𝗅𝗈𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 . . . . 𝗮𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘁𝗶𝗰𝘀.
feels like spanish moss swaying in still air, slow as a held breath, like the smell of rain rising off warm pavement at night and porch lights left burning long after everyone’s gone to bed. half-empty whiskey glasses sweating into dark wood, cicadas screaming somewhere far off and endless, tailored suits hanging in quiet closets with their sleeves brushing together in the dark. late-night city windows glowing like distant stars and the low hum of an air conditioner in a room too big for one person, old money estates where the paint peels just beneath the grandeur. fog rolling over black water at dawn. cufflinks placed carefully beside a watch on a marble nightstand. tire tracks vanishing into wet dirt roads. music drifting faintly from another room you almost don’t enter. letters never answered, stacked and yellowing in a drawer. headlights slicing through heavy rain. the soft crack of ice settling in a glass. abandoned docks silvered by time. a hand resting on a shoulder for half a second too long. cigarette smoke curling into cold night air. songs on the radio that feel too personal to survive a second listen. leather seats warmed by the sun. shadows stretching long across polished floors. expensive cologne lingering in empty elevators. conversations that fade into silence instead of ending. mirrors in dim light, reflections kinder than truth. thunder rolling somewhere far away but never quite arriving. magnolia blossoms browning delicately at the edges. the quiet, unsettling feeling of being watched by memory. a skyline blurred through rain-streaked glass. and love — heavy as humidity — clinging, inescapable, everywhere.
[ ✦ ] 𝗅𝗈𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 . . . . 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆.
never the roaring type. no thunder in his chest. no booming laugh that filled a room. as a boy he stood half a step behind his brother, hands tucked into pockets, watching more than speaking. russell jr. had presence. beau had quiet. he learned early that silence kept you safe—that if you didn’t take up too much space, you couldn’t be blamed for breaking it.
when his brother died, that quiet calcified. he carries guilt the way some men carry cologne—constant, clinging, subtle but always there. he feels indebted to his parents in a way that shapes everything he does. as if he is living on borrowed breath. as if every achievement is repayment. he overcompensates relentlessly: better grades, better suits, better deals. he becomes the son who doesn’t cause trouble, the son who performs, the son who stays.
to the public, beauguard langford is something else entirely. glossy magazine features. society pages. a finance prodigy with an easy smirk and a different woman on his arm at every gala. he photographs well. he wears wealth like it’s second skin. people call him untouchable. a playboy. a man who never stays long enough to get caught.
they mistake detachment for confidence. truth is, beau is shy in ways that never quite left him. he listens more than he talks. in conversation, he tilts his head slightly, as if memorizing you. he remembers details—your sister’s name, your favorite drink, the way you take your coffee. he is patient. kind in quiet, almost unnoticeable ways. he tips generously. he checks in when someone’s mother is sick. he waits for you to finish speaking instead of cutting in.
but kindness doesn’t make him brave. he keeps people at arm’s length because closeness feels dangerous. love feels like something that can be taken, drowned, driven off a cliff. he is unfaithful not always out of lust, but out of fear—if he never gives himself fully, he can never be fully abandoned. he ghosts when things start to feel real. disappears into work. into flights. into silence. he tells himself it’s mercy.
and yet, when no one pushes back—when no one demands to know where he’s been, what he’s thinking, why he’s hurting—it unsettles him. he wants to be known. he just doesn’t know how to stand still long enough for someone to learn him. there’s a quiet resentment in him too. a soft bitterness that blooms when he feels unseen beneath the langford name. he gives, and gives, and gives—money, time, charm—and waits for someone to ask how he’s holding up. rarely do.
underneath the tailored suits and practiced composure is still that timid boy by the lake, watching the water, afraid of what might pull him under. beauregard langford is gentle by instinct. guarded by design. and destructive in ways he doesn’t always mean to be.
[ ✦ ] 𝗅𝗈𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 . . . . 𝗯𝗶𝗼𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗽𝗵𝘆.
the following is beau's life living in monaco ( why he's here ) if you would like to know more about his backstory, you can visit this page.
the langfords own a sizable vacation estate in monaco — white stone, iron balconies, wide glass windows facing the pacific like the house itself is bracing against something vast. it was vivienne’s idea, of course. old southern money stretched westward. proof that the langford name could root itself anywhere.
beau used to come seasonally. summers when louisiana’s air grew too thick to breathe. winters when new york felt like it was swallowing him whole. short stays. polite stays. now he comes whenever the noise inside him gets too loud.
monaco is different from both worlds he’s known. no swamp humidity clinging to skin. no skyscrapers pressing in from every angle. just wind off the ocean, salt in the air, and the steady rhythm of waves striking rock. the cliffs feel endless. honest. nothing hidden beneath murk and moss.
he tells everyone he’s there for elizabeth — bitsy.
she speaks more here, though still sparingly. the ocean does something the bluff never could — it roars instead of whispers. beau walks the shoreline with her in the mornings, hands in his coat pockets, letting her choose the direction. he doesn’t rush her. doesn’t press her. he learned that pushing only drives people deeper into themselves.
with bitsy, he's soft, attentive and careful. but he isn’t just there to help her heal. he’s there because he doesn’t know where else to go. new york is sharp edges and expectations. finance meetings. glass towers. his mother’s voice reminding him that greatness isn’t optional. louisiana is ghosts — russell jr.’s curve in the road, cash’s silhouette at the lake, dinah's laugh drifting across humid air.
monaco is neutral ground. no one here knows the curse. no one here lowers their voice when they say langford. there are no billboards with dinah's face looming over highways. no swamp water reflecting the past back at him.
and yet.
the house is too large at night. the halls echo. he stands on the balcony overlooking black water, ocean wind tugging at his shirt, and feels something hollow settle in his chest. the pacific is deeper than the gulf. colder. less forgiving.
he thought distance would quiet everything, thought new york would redefine him. he thought the island would give him peace. instead, monaco just gives him space to feel how lost he is. he tells vivienne he’s fine. tells business partners he’s “working remotely.” tells bitsy the air is good for both of them.
but the truth is simpler. beauregard langford doesn’t know who he is when he isn’t performing — not for his parents, not for the public, not for a love he couldn’t keep. and on monaco, with nothing but ocean in front of him and silence behind him, there’s nowhere left to hide from that.
[ … ] big black boots , long brown hair … she's so sweet with her get back stare !
( lee dahee . she/hers .) ⊹ ₊ ⋆ was that bonnie kwon i just saw at the paigow table ? the thirty9 year old pr agent has been living in monaco for one month and this may be the first time i’ve seen them play without their lucky tempura labubu . talk around the tables is that they can be a bit irksome , but most would agree it’s a gamble worth taking if you catch them feeling affable . chatter across the casino floor describes them as whiskey neat at noon, a rom com lead with a bite , doomscrolling celeb drama. but i’m not sure how much of that i buy. just know , the next time you hear are you gonna be my girl by jet playing around you , bonnie is probably hitting their lucky streak .
[ ✿ ] 𝗅𝗈𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 . . . . 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝘁𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗰𝘀.
﹟ 𝗯𝗮𝘀𝗶𝗰𝗶𝗻𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗺𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻.
full name: bonnie kwon.
nickname(s): bon, bon-bon.
age: thirty nine.
date of birth: march twenty third.
place of birth: beverly hills, california.
ethnicity: korean.
nationality: american.
gender: cis woman.
pronouns: her, she.
occupation, current: public relations manager for the boston yellowjackets ( nhl team ).
occupation, previous: -
﹟ 𝗿𝗲𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗽𝘀.
mother: victoria kwon.
father: hyung-sik “ hank ” kwon.
siblings: william & jameson kwon.
spouse / partner: none, single.
children: none.
pets: xiaoyu, holland lop.
﹟ 𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲.
face claim: lee da hee.
hair color: black.
eye color: brown
height: five foot five.
tattoos: tribal butterfly, “tramp stamp”
piercings: four on each earlobe.
[ ✿ ] 𝗅𝗈𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 . . . . 𝗮𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘁𝗶𝗰𝘀.
cashmere trench coats , oversized sunglasses , and silk blouses she never spills coffee on. cherry red lipstick like armor. diamond stud earrings sharp enough to draw blood. always has a pen , a charger , and a crisis plan in her bag — plus a mini perfume that smells like clean linen. phone pressed to her ear , heels clicking across concrete , muttering “ god , i need a raise ” for the third time this hour. glances that cut like scalpels. smiles that lie on command. business - class boarding passes. luxe hotel robes. ice cubes clinking in whiskey glasses she never finishes. her notes app ? ruins careers. her calendar ? color-coded chaos. her vibe ? “ i am the adult supervision. ” a penchant for stuffed animals , the team gifts her one every year on her birthday and christmas.
[ ✿ ] 𝗅𝗈𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 . . . . 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆.
bonnie is the eye of the storm — centered , calculating , and always watching. witty and whip smart , with a mean girl edge sharpened by reality , not cruelty. she’s calm in chaos , which is why the team listens when she speaks. ( well — most of them. ) cynically optimistic : she expects everything to go wrong , but still hopes it won’t. doesn’t suffer fools , and rarely gives second chances — but when she does , it means something. fiercely loyal. brutally honest. kind , in that way that makes you wonder if you imagined it later. everyone on the team’s afraid of her in that please fix my life , bonnie kind of way. can fake sincerity , but only when it matters. with people she loves ? it’s real. and it’s rare.
[ ✿ ] 𝗅𝗈𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 . . . . 𝗯𝗶𝗼𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗽𝗵𝘆.
bonnie kwon never meant to end up in boston , let alone babysitting a team of six foot something hockey players with more concussions than common sense. but fate — or more accurately , one flaming pr disaster involving a rival team’s goalie and a jet ski — had other plans.
born in los angeles to a high profile immigration attorney and a classically trained pianist , bonnie grew up with a tight laced smile and even tighter expectations. her parents believed in appearances , in achievement , in sitting still and looking pretty while your brother saved lives and won awards. bonnie ? she believed in making noise. so she packed her bags , left the 90-degree decembers behind , and headed east to nyu , where she majored in communications and perfected the art of commanding a room with just a glance.
she got her start in entertainment pr — red carpets , celebrity meltdowns , the usual — but it wasn’t until she switched to sports that she found her rhythm. the stakes were messier , the players louder , and the job ? more addictive than any tabloid scandal. she clawed her way up through minor league baseball and nhl side gigs until the boston yellowjackets came calling , and she’s been riding that storm ever since.
bonnie’s been with the team for nearly a decade now. she knows which players cry after a loss and which ones secretly call their moms before every game. she keeps their secrets , crafts their stories , and puts out fires before they spark. she’s not just the pr manager — she’s the handler , the fixer , the unsung mvp in heels.
people think she’s cold. too polished. too put together. but bonnie’s got more heart than she lets on , and more history than she likes to admit — especially when it comes to the yellowjackets. she’s been cleaning up after most of them since they were rookies , and somewhere along the way , it stopped feeling like just a job.
they argue. they push each other’s buttons. but if anyone else came for her team , she’d burn the whole league down. that’s the thing about bonnie : she’ll go to war for the people she chooses. just don’t ask her to say it out loud.
now in the off-season , bonnie has more or less “ retired. ” instead of staying in boston or retreating back to los angeles , she’s planted herself in monaco — a slower pace , a fresh start , and new job opportunities quietly lining up on the horizon.
bonnie’s relationship with the yellowjackets’ head coach has always been … complicated. their closeness raised eyebrows long before his recent divorce after two decades of marriage , but now she’s squarely at the center of the rumor mill. it doesn’t help that years earlier , bonnie was involved in a long term affair with a married athlete — one that ended in a very public divorce and his early retirement from the sport. she’s no stranger to scandal , even when she insists the story is never as simple as people want it to be.
outside of work , bonnie is an elite tekken player , currently holding the 2025 world champion title. the achievement is equal parts passion and spite — aimed squarely at her little brother , an accomplished esports champion and competitive pokémon player. sibling rivalry , perfected.
her relationship with her family is strained at best. raised wealthy and privileged , bonnie doesn’t get along with her brothers and merely tolerates her parents. she’s reached a point in her life where she no longer feels obligated to maintain those ties , choosing distance over obligation.
bonnie knows she’s disappointed people along the way. she’s aware of the damage , the burned bridges , the messes left behind. lately , she’s been trying — quietly , imperfectly — to do better. not for optics. for herself.
despite spending her career in professional sports , bonnie has no real passion for athletics. she chose sports PR because athletes are , in her words , easier to manage than actors — less ego , fewer lies , and a rulebook everyone pretends to follow.
[ ✿ ] 𝗅𝗈𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 . . . . 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗼𝗻𝘀.
bonnie sleeps with three alarms set and still wakes up five minutes before the first one.
her notes app is a war zone: pr talking points , grocery lists , argument ideas , tekken combos , and at least one draft apology she never sent.
bonnie stress-cleans. like scrubbing the grout at 1:47 a.m. levels of stress cleaning.
she has a matching plush keychain for every handbag she uses. she's currently sporting the labubu tempura on her birkin.
she lies about how good she is at cooking but is genuinely incredible at making one ( 1 ) dish.
not a coffee girl , but definitely a caramel frappuccino at 8am type of girl.
bonnie always volunteers to be the designated driver and then complains about it the entire time.
she’s weirdly good with kids and animals , which shocks everyone who only knows her professionally. she has a pet bunny named xiaoyu.
she keeps screenshots of compliments people have given her and reads them when she’s spiraling.
she talks shit during tekken matches like it’s a sport in itself.
bonnie hates being wrong but hates being pitied even more.
she flirts as a defense mechanism and freezes when someone actually calls her out on it.
she still texts like it’s 2012. lowercase. excessive punctuation. dramatic ellipses.
she owns designer heels but is wears crocs more often than not.
she has an irrational fear of being forgettable.
she’ll overshare with a stranger at a bar and then emotionally disappear for a week.
bonnie swears she doesn’t miss her family … but she keeps a voicemail from her dad because she's afraid she might forget what he sounds like.