In St. Moritz, the tracks of vintage Bentleys and Bugattis carved through the whiteness of the ice with precise geometry. The sound of the engines blended with the dry crunch of snow beneath firm soles and the faint clinking of crystal glasses held by gloved hands. The atmosphere was refined: impeccably tailored coats, hunting accessories trimmed in leather, natural furs resting on shoulders. Everything spoke of excess, of a richness visible in every fold a richness Mr. Lavish deserved.
Mr. Lavish stayed in an exclusive chalet, where tanned leather rugs, cashmere throws and furs draped like trophies over chair backs created an atmosphere unlike any other. Night unfolded, and the fragrant fire burned with wood brought from the Engadine.
The cognac, aged for decades, rested beside him as he wandered the room with unhurried steps. Everything whispered exclusivity. Here, luxury was not explained it was truly felt.