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)
Emma scoffs. “Yeah, but whose money?”
They both turn to look at me, and I sigh, rubbing my temples.
“That’s the question, isn’t it?”
Jas exhales sharply. “Okay, but let’s think about this logically. If he’s been pretending to be wealthier than he is, then one of two things will happen. Either the whole thing comes crashing down spectacularly in front of Leah, or -”
“- Or we still get into VIP for the Grand Prix, have an amazing fucking time, and let her deal with Jacques after,” Emma finishes smoothly.
I blink at them both. “So you’re saying we just… let her continue being fooled?”
“I’m saying we don’t ruin her fun prematurely,” Jas shrugs. “Leah’s a big girl. If we’re right about Jacques, she’ll figure it out eventually.”
“Exactly. And telling her now?” Emma waves a hand. “She’d just say we’re jealous. She’d never believe us.”
And that’s the truth of it. Leah has been absolutely besotted with Jacques since the second we got here. She’s convinced he’s the perfect billionaire future-husband she’s been looking for - rich, charming, and a little mysterious.
The moment we say something, she’ll dig her heels in and refuse to hear it.
I groan. I hate when Emma is right.
“Besides, if we tell her before the race and it all goes to hell, there goes our VIP access,” Jas smirks. “And I, for one, would like to drink champagne and watch overpriced cars go very, very fast.”
Emma grins, raising her glass in mock salute. “Cheers to that.”
I roll my eyes, but I know they have a point.
I’ll keep it to myself - for now.
But something tells me this isn’t over.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Poppy
Lunch is long and lazy.
Leah is still off with Jacques, leaving just the three of us to lounge beneath wide parasols at one of Monaco’s prettiest bistros. The heat is relentless, but there’s a crisp ocean breeze that makes it bearable.
I’m slicing through my Niçoise salad when my phone vibrates on the tabletop. A text flashes across the screen, and I pause for a second before reaching for it.
Miss me yet, mon ange?
I bite back a smile, my stomach flipping in a way that I really, really don’t have time to unpack.
I can’t even begin to imagine how busy he is today - surely he has a million and one things to be doing.
Yet, somehow, he’s still finding time to text me.
I hover over my screen for a second, debating a response before settling on something light.
You? Barely.
But I do miss the room service.
His reply is instant.
Ouch.
Emma, ever the hawk-eyed one, catches the way my lips twitch at his message and narrows her eyes.
“What’s that look for?”
“Nothing.”
“Mmhm. Is it really nothing, or is it in fact a certain devastatingly handsome Frenchman?” Jas arches a brow.
I roll my eyes, setting my phone facedown.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Emma leans back in her chair, taking a long sip of her wine.
“Yes, actually, we would. We want to know everything. All of the gory, juicy details.”
I don’t dignify that with a response.
*
By the time we’re strolling back toward the hotel, I notice something strange.
My phone won’t stop buzzing.
It’s been happening all day - these random surges of notifications.
I figured it was just more engagement than usual. After all, ever since we arrived in Monaco, my social media traction has skyrocketed. The backdrop alone has been enough to keep my posts performing well, but this?
This is something else entirely.
I frown, opening the app to check my numbers.
Nearly five thousand new followers in the last few hours.
What the hell?
“Okay, this is getting weird,” I mutter, scrolling through the influx of comments and messages.
There’s a lot of typical engagement - people gushing over the outfits I’ve been posting, questions about where I’m staying, what I’m wearing, what I’m doing - but then there are a few comments that catch my eye.
Is it true??
Is she the mystery girl??
And then, on my most recent video -
That dress… wasn’t she wearing that last night?
A wave of unease rolls through me.
Emma glances over my shoulder and smirks.
“Welcome to the Monaco effect, darling.”
“No, this doesn’t make any sense,” I tell her. “Seriously - what is going on?”
Before I can dive any deeper, Jas, who’s a few steps ahead of us, suddenly stops dead in her tracks.
Her brows knit together, her mouth slightly parted as she stares down at her phone.
“What is it?” I ask.
She lifts her gaze to mine, holding out her phone.
“Uh… have you seen this?”
I take her phone hesitantly, and my stomach sinks the moment I do.
There it is.
A gossip site. A blurry photo.
And me.
Hand-in-hand with Frederic outside of his hotel.
The headline is obnoxiously bold:
F1’s Frederic Moreau Spotted With Mystery Woman in Monaco - But Who Is She?
I curse under my breath, my heart hammering.
“Oh,” Emma breathes, looking at the article from over my shoulder. “That is… definitely you.”
No wonder my socials have been blowing up.