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)
Just a single, perfectly curated stack of books that I just know have never been opened.
What a shame. What a waste.
“Wow,” Emma snorts, eyeing the book titles.
Jas tilts her head. “Do you think he even knows they’re here?”
“Of course not,” Leah frowns. “Those are just for aesthetic purposes.”
“Makes sense,” Emma nods sagely. “After all, nothing screams wealth like set dressing.”
Before we can analyse how much of this house is purely decorative, Leah is already moving on, leading us into another room.
“This is the formal dining room,” she declares, gesturing dramatically.
I swear I hear echoes in this place.
The table is long enough to seat at least twenty people, with extravagant floral arrangements in the center and gleaming lights hanging above.
“Fuck me,” Jas mutters as she walks down the length of the table. “You could land a plane on this thing.”
Emma runs a hand along one of the ridiculously ornate chairs. “I feel like this table has never actually been used for eating.”
“Probably just for signing suspicious business deals,” I nod.
Leah gasps, delighted. “Ooooh, maybe Jacques has a dark and mysterious past.”
“Leah, the man is a real estate tycoon,” Jas sighs. “His entire existence is probably suspicious.”
Leah chooses to ignore this and sweeps out of the dining room, leading us toward an elaborately carved door.
“And this -” she throws it open with a flourish “ - is the private cinema.”
We all stop short.
He has a fucking cinema?!
The room is dimly lit, lined with plush reclining seats, a huge screen at the front and a popcorn machine in the corner that quite frankly feels insulting at this point.
Emma stares at the room with a slack jaw. “I hate him.”
“Same,” Jas nods.
“Why do I feel poor?” I exhale. “I need a reality check. I’m not poor.”
“No, but you’re Monaco poor,” Emma sighs. “We all are.”
“What can I say? I told you this place was incredible,” Leah beams.
“Leah. You met this man yesterday,” I remind her.
“And now I know where I’ll be spending my summers,” she says breezily.
Emma groans. “Bloody hell.”
Before we can properly process the actual insanity of this house, Leah claps her hands.
“Come on, there’s still the art gallery and the library,” she announces.
“You’re kidding,” Jas says dryly.
Leah blinks. “No?”
“Of course there’s an art gallery,” Emma half-laughs, shaking her head.
As the others start following her deeper into Jacques’ obscene palace, I hesitate.
I need a moment.
This is genuinely kind of weird and overwhelming, and I’m finding myself growing more uncomfortable and on edge by the minute. I really need a bathroom and at least sixty seconds of peace to process the chaos of this evening.
“You guys go ahead,” I say, already taking a step back. “I’ll catch up in a minute. I just need to use the bathroom.”
“Oh, easy,” Leah says, waving a directive hand. “You’re going to go down the hall, take a right, then left, and then it’s the third door on the right.”
I stare at her, genuinely impressed.
“Leah. You’ve been here one night.”
She shrugs. “What can I say? I adapt.”
“More like you imprinted,” Jas snorts.
The three of them continue on, chattering as they disappear into another ridiculously extravagant wing of the house.
I exhale, glad for the brief escape, and start in the direction Leah pointed me towards.
Chapter Fifteen
Poppy
Within minutes, I realise I’m completely lost.
Why would anything be simple in a house this size?
I slow my steps, my heels clicking against the marble floors as I take in my surroundings.
The hallway I’ve ended up in is eerily quiet, the kind of space that feels untouched, as though it exists simply to… well, exist, rather than to serve any real function.
Large, imposing paintings line the walls - pieces of art that look insanely expensive, even to my untrained eye.
I linger for a moment, studying the nearest one.
It’s a striking oil painting, all dark hues and dramatic brushstrokes, the kind of thing you’d find in a real gallery or museum rather than someone’s home.
For some reason, it unnerves me.
Maybe it’s the eyes, as they follow me no matter which way I tilt my head.
Or maybe it’s just the lingering awareness in my chest. The nagging sense that somewhere in this house, he’s still here.
I shake the thought away and keep moving.
Eventually, I find the bathroom.
It’s exactly as excessive as the rest of the house - all gold fixtures, marble countertops and a mirror so large it probably requires a dedicated cleaning team.
I do what I came to do (very quickly, because I refuse to let my bladder linger in luxury), wash my hands, smooth my dress down, and open the door -
Only to walk straight into a solid wall of muscle.
I stumble as a result, nearly face-planting into the very expensive-looking hallway.
Large, warm hands catch my arms, steadying me effortlessly, and before I even look up, I just know.
I swear I can feel it.
That stupid, smug, arrogant presence that seems to thrive on throwing my night into chaos.