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)
If it were anyone else, I’d have expected an immediate correction. A scoff. Maybe even an annoyed demand to get out and find my own ride.
And I would have been mortified, of course. I would’ve been humiliated.
I chew the inside of my cheek, frowning as I stare out the window, watching as the city lights blur past.
There’s more to this man than I realised.
And I don’t know whether that excites or terrifies me.
By the time the car pulls up in front of the restaurant, I’m still stuck in my own thoughts, my fingers tightening slightly around my clutch as I take in my surroundings.
The restaurant is stunning.
Even from the outside, it radiates exclusivity. Tall arched windows framed by polished marble, cast a warm glow onto the cobblestone street, and the sleek, minimalist signage is understated yet unmistakable.
Because a place like this doesn’t need to announce itself. It exists for those who already know.
Frederic’s driver steps out, moving swiftly to open my door.
"We have arrived, mademoiselle."
As I step out of the car, smoothing my dress with my hands, something occurs to me.
I turn back toward the driver, catching him just before he moves to close the door.
"Wait - what’s your name?"
He pauses, then offers a small, polite smile. "Luc, mademoiselle."
Luc.
I nod, tucking that away for later. "Well… thank you, Luc."
His smile deepens just slightly, and with a nod, he closes the door behind me. "Passez une bonne soirée, mademoiselle."
Have a good evening.
I exhale, watching as Luc slips back into the car and pulls away, leaving me standing in front of one of the most exclusive restaurants in Monaco, about to have dinner with him.
I square my shoulders, inhaling one last deep breath before I step forward.
I can do this.
It’s just dinner.
With a man I’ve been texting way too much over the past few days.
With a man who has sent me thousands of euros worth of couture swimwear and flowers.
A man who has somehow managed to wedge himself beneath my skin in a way I can’t quite shake.
A man who, I now realise, had far more control over our first meeting than I ever did.
A man who, despite every single reason I’ve given myself to stay away, keeps pulling me in.
I lift my chin and push through the doors.
Let’s see what game he’s playing tonight.
Chapter Forty-One
Poppy
As soon as I step through the grand entrance of the restaurant, I know I’m in trouble.
This isn’t just fancy.
This is opulent.
The lighting casts a soft, ambient glow over every pristine surface. Mirrored walls reflect their twinkle, and the murmur of conversation is hushed and controlled - punctuated only by the occasional clink of delicate glassware against fine china.
In the corner, there’s a pianist playing softly, and every single person looks like they belong - men in perfectly tailored suits and women in couture gowns that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe combined.
I’ve been to nice places before. Fancy dinners. High-end events.
But this is another level.
And yet… no one looks at me like I don’t belong. No one gives me a second glance. No whisper of disapproval, no raised brows.
I smooth my hands down the fabric of my dress as a suited maître d’ approaches me with a practiced smile. He takes my name and quickly references his system before nodding.
“Mademoiselle, please follow me.”
His tone is low and professional, and he doesn’t so much as blink at me - like I’m exactly the kind of person who should be dining here. It’s unsettling, but also oddly reassuring.
Especially if I am going to try and branch out into something more than dresses that I make for myself.
I exhale slowly and nod, following him as he guides me through the restaurant.
We move past tables adorned with flickering candlelight and rare vintages of wine. Every detail feels curated, every guest appearing as though they’ve stepped out of a lifestyle magazine; but then he takes me past all of that.
Towards the back, where it’s quieter.
Where the noise of the restaurant dulls into a mere hum.
Where the lighting is even softer, warmer, more intimate.
Where the booths are curved and secluded, the dark leather giving an illusion of absolute privacy.
And that’s when I see him.
Effortlessly leaning back against the plush leather of a private booth, a glass of something dark and rich in his hand, his long, thick fingers wrapped lazily around the stem.
He looks -
Unbelievable.
His shirt is white and long-sleeved, a crisp contrast against his sun kissed skin. The sleeves are rolled up just enough to give me a glimpse of his forearms - strong and defined, his veins subtly visible beneath the golden light.
His dark hair is styled back, not in a way that’s overly intentional, but still just so effortless - in that way only men like him can pull off. His jawline is freshly shaven, his cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, and his lips are slightly parted as he watches me approach.