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 exhale sharply, jaw tightening.
“One more.”
“Non.”
I grit my teeth, rolling my shoulders back.
“I said -”
“You’ve been in there for four hours.” Matthieu’s voice is sharp. “Break. Now.”
I slam my foot onto the brakes, sending the virtual car screeching into the pit lane.
The session ends. The sim screen fades to black.
I rip off my gloves and helmet, flexing my fingers, my body still thrumming with adrenaline.
As I step out of the rig, Matthieu is already waiting, arms crossed.
“Four hours straight is excessive,” he says pointedly.
“Not when you have a race to win.”
Matthieu sighs, rubbing his temples.
“You’ve said that before. You’ll say it again. But you also need to sleep, eat, and take breaks like a normal human.”
Gilles lets out a low chuckle from where he’s seated, scrolling through data on his tablet.
“Not that it matters. He’d stay in that thing all night if we let him.”
I smirk, stretching my arms above my head. “And?”
“And you’re impossible,” Matthieu rolls his eyes.
I grab my water bottle, taking a slow sip.
“That’s not news.”
“One day, you’re going to realise there’s more to life than just racing,” Gilles sighs.
I snort. “Doubtful.”
“Go,” Matthieu waves a hand. “Take a break. Eat something. Talk to someone.”
I roll my eyes but pull my phone from my pocket, scrolling through my notifications as I take another sip of water.
And that’s when I see it.
A message from the concierge at Poppy’s hotel.
Delivery confirmed.
The flowers and gift were successfully placed in Mademoiselle Taylor’s suite this morning.
I smirk.
Good.
It was a small gesture - something to make up for the fact that I’d ruined something she’d spent hours working on to make, something she was proud of.
I’d known the second I saw that Instagram post that I couldn’t just let it slide.
I re-read the message, considering it for a moment.
She hasn’t texted. She hasn’t called.
Nothing.
I let out a slow breath, rolling my neck.
I don’t know what I was expecting. A thank you?
No. Poppy isn’t the type to make things that easy.
And yet, a part of me had expected something. Even a sarcastic remark, a half-insult disguised as gratitude.
Something.
I scroll through my phone, back to the Instagram page I’d already gone through more times than I’d like to admit.
She’s not posted anything new. No updates. No passive-aggressive captions directed at me.
She’s quiet.
Suspiciously so.
I lick my lips, debating my next move.
“You’ve got that look,” Gilles remarks, breaking through my thoughts.
I glance up. “What look?”
“The look that means you’re thinking about something you shouldn’t be.”
Matthieu hums in agreement.
“The last time you looked like this, you nearly flipped the car in Saudi because you were too busy trying to chase down Harrison.”
I shoot him a look.
“That was different.”
“Was it?” Matthieu snorts.
I ignore him, clicking my phone screen off.
She’ll contact me. Eventually.
She will.
And if she doesn’t…
Well. There’s no escaping me. Not now.
I know what I want.
And it’s her.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Poppy
After the absolute chaos of yesterday, the ridiculous discovery of Frederic’s gift this morning, and Emma’s relentless (and I mean relentless) attempts to convince me to text him, it feels good to have a normal afternoon for once.
Leah stays out with Jacques. Apparently, he’s making up for his yacht-party negligence by taking her on yet another shopping spree, followed by a lavish dinner.
Emma mutters about how unfair it is that we aren’t all being showered in designer gifts, and I have to physically bite my tongue to keep from reminding her about the literal couture swimwear sitting in our hotel suite.
So, instead, Jas, Emma, and I spend the day wandering, taking Monaco at a leisurely pace. We stop for iced coffees and people-watch from a shaded terrace, and I even manage to film some more content for my socials.
And Monaco?
Monaco is full of beautiful men.
Tall, dark-haired men in perfectly tailored linen shirts, lounging in outdoor cafés. Men with sharp cheekbones and expensive watches stepping out of gleaming sports cars, exuding wealth and effortless charm.
Even the men who don’t seem to be trying to look good still manage to pull it off, as if it’s a prerequisite for simply existing here.
But no matter how many absurdly attractive men I see today, not a single one of them stands out the way he does.
None of them have Frederic’s smirk or his insufferable, cocky charm.
None of them radiate the same effortless, arrogant confidence - the kind that makes me want to slap him and kiss him in equal measure.
None of them look like they’re capable of pushing me past my breaking point with just a few well-placed words.
And none of them thrill me with just a glance, the way that he does.
I come to the mortifying conclusion that this can only mean one thing: I’m so fucked.
And I hate it.
* * *
The restaurant we choose for dinner is perfect. It’s quiet enough to relax and actually hear each other, but lively enough that we can still soak in the atmosphere.