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)
I continue scanning through Poppy’s feed, smirking as I land on a photo of her in a stunning black dress outside what looks like a gallery in Paris.
She really does know how to dress.
I’m not paying true attention to my surroundings as I instinctively make my way back towards my group of friends, and before I know it, I’ve returned to them without drifting away from Poppy’s socials.
Apparently, Bastien had returned before I did - and brought a small group of women along with him.
They’re exactly the type I’d expect. Tall, impeccably styled, and high-maintenance in the way only women in Monaco can be. They sit with my group with easy confidence, their eyes flicking across each of us like they’re deciding who to entertain.
I barely look up as I return to my seat.
Honestly, I can’t be bothered.
Bastien, of course, is eating it up; smirking as he leans back in his chair and lets the women flock closer.
One of them - a brunette with piercing green eyes - settles beside me, her nails tracing idly along the rim of her wine glass.
“You’re quiet,” she comments, her voice smooth. “Not in the mood to celebrate?”
I glance at her briefly, offering only the barest amount of attention.
“Not particularly.”
“That’s a shame,” she pouts, tilting her head. “I was hoping for some entertainment.”
I make a noncommittal noise, eyes still locked on my phone, scrolling absently through Poppy’s feed.
The brunette shifts closer, clearly taking my lack of engagement as a challenge.
“You must be focused,” she says, trying to sneak a not-so subtle glance at my screen. “Something important?”
I barely flick my gaze to her.
“Nothing that concerns you.”
She blinks, clearly taken aback, and finally, finally, leaves me the fuck alone.
I return my full attention back to my phone, scrolling down to a photo of Poppy at some summer event, her blonde hair sunlit, her dress cinched at the waist, laughing at something off-camera.
And then -
A sudden prickle at the back of my neck.
I look up, my body moving before my brain even registers why.
And there she is.
Poppy, standing across the yacht, her gaze locked on me.
Her expression is unreadable. Careful, but not indifferent.
I feel a slow, dangerous smirk tug at my lips.
Because for all her insistence, for all her pushback, all her irritation, all her complaints about me invading her space -
She’s watching me.
I pocket my phone and tip my drink towards her in an unspoken acknowledgment, letting her know I’ve caught her staring.
And as she turns quickly away, heat creeping up her neck, I let my smirk widen.
I know exactly what’s happening here.
She thinks she’s winning this game.
She has no idea she’s already lost.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Poppy
The party is in full swing, the sun sinking lower in the sky and casting a golden glow over the yacht’s pristine deck. Champagne flows endlessly, music thrums through the air, and everywhere I look, there’s another person who looks like they stepped straight out of a fashion campaign - flawless, sun-kissed, and effortlessly elegant.
The kind of people who always seem perfectly put together, as if they float through life without ever breaking a sweat or second-guessing themselves.
It’s the kind of thing I should be soaking up, the kind of atmosphere that should be making me feel like I’m in some ridiculous, once-in-a-lifetime dream.
Instead, I feel irritated.
More specifically, I feel irritated because across the deck - surrounded by a group of people practically tripping over themselves to kiss the ground he walks on - is Frederic Moreau.
He’s currently seated in the middle of a group of men who look like they just stepped off a private jet from some exclusive European retreat, talking easily, his drink hanging effortlessly in his hand like he hasn’t got a care in the world.
And the way everyone is acting around him - the subtle leaning in, the eager nodding, the way even the most self-assured people seem desperate for his attention - makes my skin itch.
It’s like they think the sun shines because of him, like his mere presence is some kind of rare privilege.
And he looks completely at ease with it.
Not surprised, not uncomfortable. Just like he belongs there. Like he expects it, even.
But what really grates on me are the women.
Tall, impossibly elegant, and polished to absolute perfection, each of them looks as though they were simply born knowing how to exist in places like this.
Their hair is unashamedly glossy, their makeup is subtle but immaculate, and their dresses - all silk and chiffon - slip over their figures like they were poured into them.
I’ve never been the type to compare myself to other women. Never been the type to feel insecure just because someone else is beautiful.
But these women are on a whole other level.
Honestly - I’d struggle to pick which one is the most beautiful. But at the same time, there’s something strangely similar about them. Their features are all just alike enough to make it almost eerie - the same sculpted cheekbones, the same perfectly arched brows, the same full, glossy lips.