Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 134961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 675(@200wpm)___ 540(@250wpm)___ 450(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 675(@200wpm)___ 540(@250wpm)___ 450(@300wpm)
Good. I want it in her head, just like it’s in mine.
"Still," she hums, pretending to consider. "I feel like I should get something extra. Maybe a trophy of my own."
I smirk, bringing my lips to her ear. "Oh, you’ll be getting your reward, Poppy," I murmur, my fingers pressing into her waist meaningfully. "But I don’t think it’ll be the kind you can show off to your friends."
She sucks in a sharp breath, her fingers tightening around her glass, and I swear I see the goosebumps rise along her skin.
All eyes are on us, but I don’t care.
Let them watch. Let the whole world fucking see.
Because I didn’t just win the Monaco Grand Prix today.
I won her.
* * *
The rest of the night is a blur of champagne, indulgence, and Poppy’s laughter ringing in my ears.
The party hasn’t stopped since we arrived, and I’m feeling great.
I’ve got my win, I’ve got my girl, and for once, I don’t have to think about anything else.
Until I do.
A commotion over by the bar catches my attention - a familiar kind of commotion, the kind that makes my stomach tighten.
A few voices rise over the music, sharp and aggressive, and when I glance up -
Merde.
Of course, it’s Jacques.
He’s backed against the bar, his body tense, two men crowding him. They’re speaking low, their voices tight with barely restrained anger, and Jacques - fuck, he’s doing that nervous thing where his hands twitch, his eyes darting.
I exhale sharply.
Of course, it’s this again.
“Everything okay?” Poppy’s voice is light, but when I turn to look at her, I can see the concern in her eyes.
She doesn’t miss much.
I force a smirk, brushing my thumb over the curve of her hip.
“I’ll be back in a minute.”
Her brow furrows. “Frederic…”
I cut her off with a quick kiss, pressing my lips to hers just enough to reassure her.
“I won’t be long. Promise.”
I leave her with her friends, weaving through the crowd with ease. People stop me, patting me on the back and raising glasses in my direction, but I barely acknowledge them.
And as I approach, I hear it.
“What the fuck do you mean?”
One of the men spits the words out like venom, leaning in closer. His buddy - taller and stockier - crosses his arms, waiting and watching as Jacques shifts uncomfortably.
His face is pale, his usual bravado slipping away fast as his gaze flickers toward me.
Fucking hell.
I already know how this ends.
“It’s funny, you know, because we had an agreement -”
“I -” Jacques starts, licking his lips, his hands shaking at his sides. “I just need a few more days, alright? I can get it -”
The first man laughs, a sharp, cold sound. “No more time. You’re out.”
Jacques freezes. His breathing turns ragged, his fingers curling against his sides, panic written all over his face.
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
I knew this was coming. I fucking knew.
Here I am. Again. Stepping in to save his ass.
What am I supposed to do, though - what other option do I have? Despite his troubles, Jacques isn’t just some washed-up has-been trying to live like a king in Monaco - he’s the only one who ever believed in me when no one else did.
When I was just a kid desperate to prove himself, when my own family didn’t give a shit about my career, about racing, about me. The Moreaus had their wealth, their name, their expectations - and motorsport wasn’t a part of it.
But Jacques saw something. He helped me when no one else would.
He trained me. He made connections for me.
And I’ll owe him for it forever - even if he’s running himself into the fucking ground.
“I told you, I don’t have any money -”
It’s painful to watch him scramble like this; but before I can say a word, another voice breaks through the tension.
A softer voice.
“What do you mean, you don’t have any money?”
Jacques stiffens, his face flickering with something almost desperate as he turns toward her.
Poppy’s friend - the girl that was sitting on his lap yesterday.
Ah, fuck.
She looks confused and completely oblivious to what’s going on as one of the men smirks darkly.
“Yeah, Jacques. What do you mean, you don’t have any money?”
That’s it - I’m not giving them the chance to stir shit up more.
I step forward, my voice smooth and controlled.
“Back off.”
The men glance at me, recognition flickering in their eyes. Of course, they know who I am.
“This doesn’t concern you,” one of them starts, but I cut him off with a sharp look.
“It does now,” I grit out, shoving a hand through my hair. “How much does he owe you?”
The taller one grins. “You covering his debt again, champ?”
I don’t say anything, and Jacques doesn’t even look at me.
After all, we both know the answer.
The men exchange glances. “Twenty thousand.”
Fuck - that’s a lot of money to have spent on fucking drugs in what feels like no time at all. It was fifteen thousand last week - surely, this isn't all for him.