In the 1980s, Edward Holland, editor-in-chief of the London Chronicle, a cold organizer imprisoned by the game of family responsibility and capital, met Olivier Leclerc, a declining French aristocrat. Carrying the legacy of the Provence vineyards and the remaining connections of the aristocratic surname, he stepped into the ink-scented battlefield of Fleet Street with a stunning appearance.
The first encounter was a carefully designed alliance of interests: Edward needed Olivier to leverage continental resources, while Olivier used the "Chronicle" to revive the family's reputation. They laid deadly traps in Brussels' financial saga, exchanged weights in parliamentary scandals, and even their emotions were stained with the patina of calculation.
When Edward broke down and screamed "I care" in front of the blood-stained bandage at Saint-Louis Hospital, the chains of interests suddenly collapsed; on a rainy night in Paris, the Seine River reflected the collapse of two souls: Olivier used self-destruction as a bet to force Edward to admit that love is the recognition of soul beyond labels; Edward shivered in the cold rain, touching for the first time the scars on his back that were burned by the lies of "healthy relationships."
However, capital never sleeps. The neon of the Northern Light engulfs Olivier, and the ring locks his withered fingers; the "Chronicle" merger crushes Edward's armor. When they reunited, on the terrace of the Savoy Hotel, the Thames River surged as before, and a hoarse "Adieu" (Farewell) fell into the void with soot. They once used each other as a chess piece to break the game, and finally signed their names on the account book where all interests and sincerity were settled, and scrawled away.
Intention: What will remain between love and interests?