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)
She stops.
Looks at the roses.
Then at the expressions on all our faces.
"What the hell did I miss?"
Jas holds up the note.
"Poppy and her secret lover."
"He is not -"
"Oh my god," Leah gasps, dropping her bags. "Are these from him?"
"Yes, they are!" Emma yells. "Can you believe that she didn’t even tell us that she was texting him?!"
"Wow.” Leah’s eyes snap to mine. “Very sneaky of you, Pops."
I groan, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes.
"You’re all being so dramatic -"
"Dramatic?!" Emma gapes at me, waving frantically at the flowers. "Poppy. This is four bouquets of roses. This is a handwritten invitation to a private dinner. This is literal Grand Romantic Gesture™."
"It’s not that deep -"
“Not that deep?!”
I swear Emma is about to combust.
"You’re really going to try and stand there, look me in the eye, and tell me this is NOT that deep?!"
I rub my temples. "Can we just -"
"Are you going?" Jas interrupts.
I hesitate.
Emma practically shakes me by the shoulders.
"You have to go,” she says, clapping her hands together. "Oh my god, if you don’t go, I’ll go in your place."
I snatch the card back. "Fine."
Three identical shrieks echo through the suite.
Ignoring them, I pull out my phone, my heart hammering as I type out a message.
You certainly know how to make yourself known.
And then, just so there’s no doubt;
I’ll see you at 8.
As soon as I press send, a rush of nervous energy floods through me.
This is happening. I’m going to dinner with Frederic Moreau.
I have no idea what I’m getting myself into.
* * *
"I have nothing to wear."
"Bullshit," Jas says immediately, flipping through my suitcase. "You literally design clothes for a living."
"Exactly!" I gesture wildly to the pile of rejected dresses on my bed. "Which is why I’m overthinking this!"
"So stop messing around with this stuff and just wear something you made yourself," she says, as if it’s the simplest solution in the world.
"Is that not a bit… obnoxious?”
"No. It’s very French, actually,” Emma snorts.
Leah nods in agreement, perched on the edge of my bed, meticulously sorting through her ever-growing collection of designer handbags.
"She’s right. Men love a woman who can market herself."
"I am not marketing myself -"
"Poppy," Emma interrupts, grabbing my shoulders. "You are literally going on a date with one of the most famous men in the world."
"We don’t know that it’s a date."
"Oh my fucking -" She shakes me slightly. "He sent you four bouquets of roses and a handwritten invitation. You. Are. Going. On. A. Date."
I sigh, defeated. "Fine."
"Great!" Jas grins, rummaging through my design sketches. "Let’s find you something that says ‘I’m effortlessly chic, but also, I could ruin your life if I wanted to’."
"So… Old Money, then?" Leah sips her wine.
Jas snaps her fingers. "Exactly."
I groan, flopping onto my bed. "I’m already dreading this."
Emma cheerfully ignores me, plugging in a curling iron and motioning me over to the vanity.
"Come on, mon ange. Let’s make you look irresistible."
"I regret telling you he calls me that,” I glare, but reluctantly move to sit in front of her. “And now I hate you for using it, too.”
She grins, sectioning off my hair.
"Just wait until we’re done with you."
* * *
I barely recognise myself.
My blonde hair is styled into voluminous, bouncy waves, cascading over my shoulders in flawless, glossy curls. Emma even dusted a little highlight on my collarbones - because, in her words, men are stupid and love shiny things.
Leah finished my eye makeup - soft, smoky, and seductive, but not overdone - while Jas diligently searched through my collection of self-made outfits.
And when she found the perfect dress?
Oh, she found the perfect dress.
"This one," she declared, holding it up with a flourish. "This is the one."
The fabric is luxurious and creamy, a soft ivory shade that clings to my curves in all the right places. Thin straps, a structured bodice, and a subtly flared skirt that ends mid-thigh. It’s one of the first designs I truly poured myself into, one that took hours upon hours of meticulous work - from sketching out the concept to sourcing the perfect fabric, to sewing and resewing each delicate seam until it was flawless.
It’s elegant and classic, and tonight, it’s perfect.
I pair it with strappy nude heels, a simple gold bracelet, and - before I can protest - Leah thrusts a handbag into my hands.
"What’s this?" I frown, inspecting the obviously expensive purse.
"One of the bags Jacques bought for me," she says matter-of-factly. "You may as well start using some of this stuff. No point in hoarding it all."
"I can’t just -"
"You’re welcome," she interrupts, pressing a kiss to my cheek before stepping back to admire her work. "Now, look at you. We’ve done a service to Monaco tonight."
"Frederic won’t know what hit him," Emma beams.
"Ready to go make a man suffer?" Jas grins, smoothing a hand over my skirt before stepping back.