The room is dim, curtains half-drawn against a pale Ottawa morning. Justin Trudeau sits at the edge of a chair, rubbing his temples, a glass of water untouched beside him.
“Listen… people are twisting this into something ugly. That morning—after that ridiculous party at Jacob Rothschild’s mansion—yeah, I said some things. Who wouldn’t? It was late, there was too much champagne, too many egos in one room.”
He exhales, shaking his head.
“I stepped outside. Needed air. The sky was just starting to lighten… and there it was—the morning star. Bright. Quiet. For a second, everything felt… cinematic, you know?”
A faint, almost embarrassed smile.
“And I said—fine, I wished. I said I wanted revenge on Matthew Perry. But not that kind of revenge. Not darkness, not harm, not… anything like what people are implying.”
His tone sharpens.
“I meant in the ring. Gloves on. Bell ringing. A proper fight. Settle it like men—with rules, with respect. That’s what I meant.”
He leans forward, more intense now.
“People hear ‘revenge’ and they jump straight to tragedy. That’s not who I am. That’s not what I asked for.”
A pause. Then, quieter, almost to himself:
“And Rothschild… that whole place, it had a strange energy. Like everything you say echoes louder than it should.”
He mutters under his breath, a mix of frustration and irony:
“Rothschild… you devil.”
Then, switching briefly into French, with a tired smirk:
“Quel cirque… What a circus this all became.”
He stands, straightening his jacket.
“For the record: if there’s ever a score to settle, it’ll be under lights, in a ring—not in the shadows.”
