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)
Wondering what she’ll do when her dark eyes lift and meet with mine from across the room, catching me looking at her.
Wondering if she’ll confront me. If she’ll frown in irritation.
If she’ll argue with me again.
I exhale sharply, tipping my water bottle back.
This party is already a nightmare, but if she’s coming, it’s about to get a whole lot more entertaining.
Chapter Fourteen
Poppy
If Monaco had a smell, it would be a mix of wealth, arrogance, and a disproportionate amount of expensive cologne.
That’s the exact combination of scents that greet me as we step through the grand entrance of Jacques’ so-called holiday home.
Except, it’s not a home. Not in the slightest.
It’s a literal palace.
Shiny floors, a grand staircase that looks straight out of a movie set and chandeliers so big I’m convinced one wrong move would send them crashing down, killing us all in the process.
Fuck me.
I don’t know what’s wrong with my brain at the moment.
Outside, the sound of laughter and clinking glasses drifts from the sprawling terrace, where beautiful people lounge by an infinity pool that honestly might be bigger than the one at our hotel.
“Jesus Christ,” Jas mutters, looking around in awe. “What does this guy do?”
Emma raises a brow. “Besides fund Leah’s delusions?”
“Apparently,” I murmur, still trying to process how much money is in this house, “he’s in real estate.”
Jas scoffs. “Of course he is.”
Emma glances towards a floor-to-ceiling wine cabinet.
“You think if we take a bottle, we’d get arrested? Or do rich people just let other rich people take whatever they want?”
I don’t get a chance to answer because at that moment, a waiter appears and wordlessly hands us each a glass of champagne.
Jas takes hers without hesitation. “I could get used to this.”
I, however, do hesitate.
“I… don’t think we belong here.”
Emma huffs. “Babe. We are wearing designer dresses, sipping expensive champagne and standing in a mansion. We look like we belong.”
“Yeah, well. It still feels like at any moment, someone’s going to walk in here and ask if I work in catering,” I sigh, lifting my glass.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re so much fun at parties?” Jas says.
“Give her twenty minutes, three drinks, and some more French drama - she’ll be having the time of her life,” Emma grins.
I roll my eyes. “Why would there be -”
I stop, mid-sentence, because - of course.
Why wouldn’t the universe want to personally torment me tonight?
There, lounging far too casually against a sleek, white stone bar - drink in hand, and deep in conversation with a group of men dressed just as effortlessly expensive as he is - stands the new bane of my existence.
The French idiot.
The one who tried to steal my car at the airport and who ruined my outfit yesterday.
And, of course, he looks exactly the same.
No - worse than that.
He looks better.
His crisp, open-collared shirt is rolled up at the sleeves, exposing just enough of his forearms to make me irrationally angry. He looks casual yet put together in a way that feels fundamentally unfair - almost like he just exists in a constant state of effortless charm, while the rest of us have to actually try.
He’s mid-conversation, his body language relaxed, his head tilting slightly at something one of his friends says -
And then, because he genuinely is the worst human being to ever exist, he chooses that exact moment to lift his gaze and lock eyes with me.
His movements are slow. Calculated, even.
And then. Then.
There it is. The smirk.
That same stupid, cocky, I-know-you’ve-been-thinking-about-me smirk.
Heat crawls up my neck as mortification prickles at my skin. It feels very much like I’ve just been caught doing something I shouldn’t - except I haven’t done anything.
He is the problem here, not me.
I don’t understand why he looks so bloody smug with himself, either. He seems to act like I’m the one who walked into his night - like I’m the intruder in his perfectly curated existence.
As if he wasn’t the one who ruined my entire night less than twenty-four hours ago.
As if those things aren’t bad enough - and because he apparently thrives on being the most infuriating man alive - I watch in horror as he lifts his glass.
And fucking toasts to me.
Ugh.
I don’t even know his name, and yet I loathe him.
And if I thought my skin was on fire before, then I’m practically combusting now. Because it’s not just a casual, absentminded gesture. It’s deliberate. Measured.
The kind of slow, knowing toast that says I see you, I know you see me, and I know exactly how much this is pissing you off.
The instinctive knowledge that he is very much enjoying every second of this irritates me beyond measure. It’s like this entire thing between us - whatever the hell it is - is something amusing to him.
It’s like he thinks he’s already won.