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)
Scrawled in sleek, confident handwriting; Frederic Moreau just gave me his fucking number.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Poppy
I stare at the small, black card like it might burst into flames in my hands.
This was not supposed to happen.
This was supposed to be a one-time thing. A moment of weakness, of bad decisions and temporary insanity.
I was supposed to wake up, wash him away, and move on.
But this?
This little black card, this ridiculous designer swimwear, this perfectly selected bouquet of pink roses -
It all says otherwise.
Emma practically vibrates with excitement as she waves the bikini in my face.
“So, what’s the plan? Are we calling him? Texting? Sending him a ‘thank you’ pic in this little number?”
I snatch it from her grip, glaring.
“We are doing nothing.”
Emma gasps, affronted.
“Are you joking?! Poppy, this is so much more fun than anything we had planned for today. Look at this!”
She gestures dramatically at the box, then at the flowers, then at me.
Jas, still relaxed on the couch, lifts a brow.
“Yeah, speaking of which - how did he even know where you’re staying?”
Oh.
I hadn’t even thought about that.
A shiver runs down my spine, my fingers tightening around the card.
How did he know?
Did he ask someone? Look it up somehow?
Does he just have people in his circle who find these things out for him on demand?
I roll them over in my head, and honestly, I don’t know which option is worse.
“Oh, come on. He’s an F1 driver. A literal celebrity. Think of the money, the fame, the power!” Emma declares. “He probably called someone, threw some cash at the problem, and poof! Now he knows where to send his ridiculously expensive apology gifts.”
“I don’t know,” Jas says, tilting her head. “If this was just an apology, why include his number?”
I set the card down on the desk like it’s radioactive.
“I don’t know, and I don’t care.”
Emma gapes at me. “You’re not serious, Pops. You have to text him.”
“No,” I say, crossing my arms, doubling down. “I don’t.”
“Poppy.” She gestures wildly. “You have his number.”
“Yes, I do.”
“You have his number.”
“Yes, I just said that.”
“So, what’s the issue?!”
“The issue,” I snap, “is that this wasn’t supposed to be anything. And then… And then it was supposed to be a one-night thing.”
Emma lifts a brow. “And?”
“And this -” I motion aggressively at the display, “- does not scream ‘one-night thing’.”
“I mean, yeah. The man did just buy you couture swimwear,” Jas laughs.
Emma points a finger at her. “Thank you!”
I groan, running a hand through my hair.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, it matters -”
“It doesn’t,” I insist. “Because I’m not calling him. I’m not texting him. I’m not doing anything.”
Emma’s mouth falls open. “But -”
“No.”
“But Poppy -”
“No!”
She makes a wounded noise, like I’ve just personally offended her.
“So, you’re just going to ignore it?” Jas asks.
“Exactly.”
Emma groans, flopping onto her bed dramatically.
“You are so boring.”
I roll my eyes, dragging the box toward me before closing the lid.
Truthfully… I don’t know what to do.
I thought this was done, that I was free. I thought I had escaped.
But with his number now sitting in front of me, I know with the same certainty that ruined me last night that Frederic Moreau is not done with me.
Not even close.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Frederic
The low hum of the simulator surrounds me, the screen illuminating the dimly lit room with a cold, artificial glow. I grip the wheel tightly, my foot precise on the throttle, the virtual car responding to my every calculated movement.
The Monaco circuit unfolds ahead, every sharp turn and elevation change burned into my muscle memory. The sim is good - exceptional, even - but it’s still not the real thing.
It’s a lifeless imitation.
There’s no rush of air, no G-force pushing me against the cockpit, no scent of burning rubber and hot asphalt.
But it’ll have to do.
I push harder, feeding the car more speed, more of me, finding the absolute limit of grip. I know Matthieu is watching my data closely, ready to pick apart every sector the moment I step out.
“Two tenths up,” Matthieu’s voice crackles through my headset. “Keep it clean through the chicane.”
I barely register the words. I already know.
I flick the wheel, feeling the artificial force feedback respond, committing every adjustment to instinct.
I live for this.
Nothing else should matter.
And yet, my mind betrays me.
A flash of silk. A breathy moan. Nails dragging down my back.
I clench my jaw, shaking the thought away.
Focus.
I exit the tunnel, braking aggressively into the chicane. The car twitches under me, but I hold it firm, nailing the apex perfectly.
“Purple sector two,” Matthieu notes. “You’re flying.”
I barely acknowledge it.
All I see is her.
The curve of her mouth as she smirked up at me last night. The way she looked beneath me, flushed and ruined, her breath catching every time I touched her.
Fucking hell.
I cross the line - purple sector, personal best.
And still, she lingers.
“Box this lap, Frederic,” Matthieu instructs. “Time for a break.”