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)
Not when Jacques has been parading around like Monaco’s very own Gatsby, feeding Leah half-truths and outright lies. Not when Frederic and Jacques are clearly friends - or at the very least, connected enough that Jacques felt confident to weave him into his illusion.
I don’t know how deep this goes. I don’t know how much Frederic actually knows, or if he even cares.
But what I do know?
I don’t want to get myself tangled up in something much, much bigger than me - especially not right now, when I’m sitting in a car with a man who just sent me four bouquets of roses and a Cartier bracelet.
So, for now, I just exhale slowly, forcing a casual, amused expression, pretending like this is nothing more than an entertaining revelation rather than a bombshell that’s just shaken my entire view of Jacques to its core.
Later. I’ll deal with whatever the hell this means later.
“Well, that’s… quite the plot twist,” I say. “I wouldn’t have been accusing you of stalking me if I knew that we were in your places. Although I suppose it makes sense, now. Why you were always there.”
He shrugs, amused, still watching me with that infuriatingly smug expression. I fold my arms, trying to look unimpressed.
“You could’ve told me earlier, you know.”
“And miss the look on your face just now?” He grins. “Not a chance.”
I huff, turning away from him, staring out of the window.
This man is so infuriating.
And yet…
The warmth of his hand suddenly pressing against my thigh has my breath catching in my throat.
Oh.
His touch is casual, lazy, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His thumb idly strokes my skin, back and forth, soft and slow, and I feel like I’m thrumming with electricity all over again.
I swallow hard, refusing to look at him.
Because if I do - if I let myself get caught up in those blue eyes, in the heat of his knowing gaze - I’ll be in real trouble.
Instead, I keep my gaze on the window, forcing my breathing to stay steady, while his fingers continue their slow, torturous movements against my skin.
Well, one thing is for certain - this night just got a whole lot more interesting.
Chapter Forty-Five
Poppy
It goes without saying that Frederic’s hotel is stunning.
He had already mentioned that his entire team was staying here for the week, but somehow, I hadn’t quite pictured this level of luxury.
He leads me from the car to the entrance effortlessly, his fingers intertwined with mine as though this is the most natural thing in the world.
I, however, am hyper-aware of everything.
There are a few people lingering outside the hotel, watching with curious eyes as we walk past. Their gazes flicker from Frederic to me, then back to him again.
They recognise him, I’m sure, but he doesn’t even seem to notice. He just keeps walking, his grip firm and steady.
But the moment we step inside the hotel, the atmosphere shifts.
The staff all recognise him. There’s a quiet “bonsoir, Monsieur Moreau” from the doorman as we pass and a subtle nod from the receptionist. Some hotel guests glance over, their eyes lighting up with curiosity, but nobody stares outright, and nobody says anything.
It’s almost too polished, too seamless. Like they know better than to ask questions.
And that’s when it really hits me: Frederic Moreau isn’t just rich.
He’s somebody.
And I’m walking through a five-star hotel holding his hand like I belong here.
I swallow hard, focusing on breathing steadily. His grip on my hand tightens briefly, his thumb brushing over my knuckles as the elevator doors glide open and we step inside.
And once we’re alone - just the two of us in the mirrored, gold-trimmed space - he finally glances over at me.
His blue eyes gleam, full of something infuriatingly smug.
“Nervous?” he muses.
“Of what?” I scoff.
His lips twitch like he’s holding back a grin.
“You’re walking straight into the predator’s den, mon ange.”
The elevator comes to a halt, the doors sliding open; and I don’t know what I expected, but it certainly wasn’t this.
Beyond the threshold, a vast, sprawling penthouse suite unfolds before me.
Everything about the suite is minimalistic, modern and luxurious. Floor-to-ceiling windows span the entire far wall, giving a panoramic view of the glittering Monaco skyline and the inky sea beyond.
The living area is filled with deep, plush couches, a sleek black dining table, and a fully stocked bar, and there are doors off to the side to indicate the other rooms that the space leads to.
Something tells me Frederic has probably stayed in hundreds of suites like this before - that this level of indulgence is just normal for him.
It isn’t just luxury - it’s power.
I step inside slowly, my heels clicking softly against the polished floors, my stomach twisting with something I can’t quite name.
Because now that I’m here - alone with him, standing in the private sanctuary of his world - something in the air shifts.