The rolling hills of the Beckett's private club stretched out like an uninterrupted carpet of vibrant emerald under the bright morning sun.
It was an exclusive expanse, the kind of pristine landscape where the grass was manicured daily to a precise height, and the only sounds were the distant thwack of a titanium driver and the gentle rustle of old willow trees lining the sand traps.
Underneath a wide white linen canopy erected near the ninth hole, a small team of low-profile club staff stood in flawless formation. They waited attentively, dressed in matching pressed white polos, ready to offer chilled water, sliced dragon fruit, fresh berries, and light, healthy organic snacks from silver platters the moment the two men needed a reprieve from the heat.
