On your way

You wake up at 4:17 AM in your modest but comfortable apartment in the 12th arrondissement, the faint hum of the city already stirring outside the window.

The alarm on your phone vibrates silently on the nightstand. At 53 years old, you’ve learned the value of discipline in this line of work. Celebrity chauffeur gigs—especially during Paris Fashion Week—demand perfection. One late pickup, one wrong turn, one hint of discomfort for the client, and your reputation (built over 18 years in the luxury transport game) could crumble. Today’s assignment is high-profile: driving Nicha ‘Minnie’ Yontararak of (G)I-DLE for her Miu Miu FW26 commitments.

You swing your legs out of bed, bare feet hitting the cool hardwood. Your body is still strong—broad shoulders and steady hands from years of defensive driving and gym discipline to stay sharp behind the wheel—but the lower back twinges a little, a reminder of the long hours. You pad to the bathroom, flip on the soft LED lights, and start your ritual.

Hot shower. You let the water cascade over your salt-and-pepper hair, down your chest, and across the faint scars on your forearms from an old accident. You shave meticulously with a fresh blade, trimming the neat goatee you’ve maintained for years because clients say it makes you look ‘distinguished and trustworthy.’ Aftershave—subtle sandalwood, never overpowering. Deodorant. A crisp white dress shirt, black tailored trousers, polished black Oxford shoes, and the discreet black suit jacket with the hidden pocket for mints, wet wipes, and emergency chargers. You check yourself in the mirror. Professional. Invisible when needed. Ready.

Down in the underground garage at 5:05 AM, your assigned vehicle waits: a sleek, matte-black Mercedes-Maybach S680 Pullman. The agency pulled out all the stops for Fashion Week. You run your hand along the flawless paint. First, the exterior check—tires at perfect pressure (you inflated them last night), no streaks on the windows, chrome gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Inside: you wipe down the buttery black leather seats again, even though they were detailed yesterday. You adjust the temperature to a pre-cooled 21°C, load the mini-fridge with chilled Evian, Thai iced tea (you researched Minnie’s preferences quietly), and a small selection of light fruits and macarons from Pierre Hermé. Bluetooth connected to a curated playlist—soft jazz, some gentle K-pop instrumentals, and Thai artists she might appreciate. Wi-Fi signal strong. Spare phone chargers in every port. A cashmere throw folded neatly in case she feels cold after the early morning.

By 5:40 AM you’re behind the wheel, engine purring like a contented panther. You open your encrypted app from the agency and review the itinerary again.

Today’s Schedule (confirmed at 11 PM last night):

- 06:45 AM: Pickup at Minnie’s private residence/hotel near Le Marais.

- Morning: Transport to a pre-show styling/fitting session near Palais d’Iéna.

- Mid-morning: Drive to the Miu Miu show venue itself.

- Post-show: Flexible—possible garden photos, lunch, or after-event movement.

- Evening standby for potential dinner or return.

You pull up the live traffic feed on the dashboard screen. Paris during Fashion Week is a beast. You trace the route mentally:

Primary Route Plan:

1. From Le Marais pickup → Quai de l’Hôtel de Ville → Pont Louis-Philippe → along the Seine (Quai des Célestins) to avoid narrow streets.

2. Cross Pont d’Austerlitz or Pont de Sully depending on real-time flow.

3. Head west via Voie Georges Pompidou toward the 7th/8th arrondissements.

4. Final approach to Palais d’Iéna via Avenue du Président Wilson or discreet side streets to minimize paparazzi exposure.

Traffic Prediction (based on your 20+ years of experience and current data):

- Early morning (6:00–7:30 AM): Relatively light on the Seine banks, but expect bottlenecks around Place de la Bastille and near the Tuileries from setup crews and other luxury vehicles. Rain forecast is 20%—if it hits, photographers and fans will crowd sidewalks, slowing things.

- Peak Fashion Week chaos around 8:30–11:00 AM near the major venues. You’ve already flagged three alternate routes: one through quieter residential streets in the 16th if the main axes clog.

- You note potential paparazzi hotspots near the hotel and venue—blacked-out windows and smooth, confident driving will be key. No sudden stops. No eye contact with crowds.

You sip your own black coffee from a thermos and murmur to yourself, “Smooth today. Keep her comfortable. Keep her safe.”

At 6:20 AM you arrive outside the discreet hotel entrance in Le Marais. The street is still quiet, just the soft glow of dawn and a few early joggers. You park the Maybach exactly where instructed—half on the curb, hazard lights blinking gently. You step out, adjust your jacket, and stand by the rear passenger door, posture straight but not rigid. Earpiece in, phone on silent except for the agency line.

Your phone vibrates at 6:38 AM. It’s the handler: “She’s coming down in 5.”

You open the rear door preemptively, the soft interior lights glowing warmly. A minute later, the hotel door opens.

Minnie steps out.

Even in the soft morning light, she looks ethereal. Long dark hair in a sleek ponytail, minimal makeup that still makes her eyes pop, that warm golden skin you noticed in the photos. She’s wearing a casual oversized hoodie and leggings for the ride—practical, comfortable, with a designer bag slung over her shoulder. Two staff members trail her with garment bags.

You greet her with a calm, professional smile and a slight bow of your head—respectful, never overly familiar.

“Good morning, Miss Nicha,” you say in clear, accented English, switching smoothly if she prefers Korean or Thai (you prepared basic phrases). “I’m your driver today. The car is ready and cooled. May I take your bags?”

She gives you a soft, polite smile—the kind that reaches her eyes. “Thank you,” she replies, voice gentle and a little husky from sleep. “You can call me Minnie.”

You nod once. “Of course, Minnie. Right this way.”

You take the garment bags carefully, hanging them on the designated hooks inside the Maybach without wrinkling anything. She slides into the back seat with graceful ease, long legs folding in. You close the door softly but securely, then return to the driver’s seat.

“Would you like the privacy screen up or down?” you ask over the intercom, voice steady.

“Down for now,” she answers. “It’s early… I might nap a little.”

“Understood. Temperature okay? There’s Thai iced tea in the fridge if you’d like.”

A small surprised laugh from the back. “Oh? You prepared that? Thank you, that’s really thoughtful.”

You pull away smoothly from the curb at exactly 6:47 AM. The Maybach glides like it’s on rails. You keep your driving buttery—gentle acceleration, perfect braking, no sudden movements. In the rearview mirror (tinted so you don’t stare), you see her settle in, kicking off her sneakers and curling her legs under her on the spacious seat. She sips the Thai tea and lets out a tiny contented sigh.

Traffic on the Seine embankment is lighter than expected—only moderate congestion near Île Saint-Louis. You narrate quietly through the intercom when relevant.

“Light flow this morning, Minnie. We should reach the styling location in about 25 minutes. If you need me to adjust the route or stop anywhere, just say.”

She hums appreciatively. “You’re very calm. Most drivers get stressed during Fashion Week.”

You chuckle softly, eyes on the road. “Stress doesn’t help the client. I’ve done this long enough to know the rhythm of the city. Today we have three backup routes planned. The main one along the river is flowing well right now.”

You pass under bridges, golden morning light reflecting off the Seine. She watches the city glide by, occasionally checking her phone or closing her eyes. You keep the music low—gentle piano instrumentals. At one point she asks you to turn it up slightly.

The first potential bottleneck appears near Pont Alexandre III—photographers and fan clusters already gathering for the big shows. You anticipate it, slipping onto a side street you know well.

“Taking a small detour for smoother ride,” you inform her calmly. “Adds maybe two minutes but avoids the crowd.”

“Thank you,” she says, sounding relieved. “I hate when it gets chaotic before I even arrive.”

You navigate with precision—hands at 10 and 2, mirrors checked every few seconds, speed consistent. The big Maybach feels like an extension of your body after so many years. You predict the next lights, timing your arrival at green waves where possible.

By 7:18 AM you reach the private styling suite near the venue. Staff are already waiting. You open her door, offer a steady hand (which she takes lightly—her fingers warm and soft against your calloused palm), and help coordinate the garment bags.

While she’s inside for fittings, you don’t idle. You reposition the car to a pre-arranged discreet spot with good exit routes, check tire pressure again via the app, restock waters, and review the next leg to Palais d’Iéna. You eat a quick protein bar—never let hunger affect focus.

Your mind wanders briefly. Driving someone like Minnie—talented, kind, strikingly beautiful—feels different from the usual executives or older celebrities. There’s a quiet energy about her that fills the car even when she’s silent. You push the thought down. Professionalism first. Always.