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)
That I’ve been trying to shake something off.
Trying to shake her off.
"You good?" he asks, looking at me like I’m a fucking case study.
"Why wouldn’t I be?"
Matthieu raises a brow, unimpressed.
“Because you didn’t touch a single croissant at breakfast. And you always glare at Pierre in the mornings. Today? Nothing.”
I roll my eyes, reaching for my gloves.
“Focus on the race, Matthieu. Not my appetite.”
But he doesn’t let it go, still watching me like he’s waiting for me to slip up.
"Right," he mutters, but there’s something knowing in his tone, something that makes my jaw clench.
I ignore him.
Ignore the way my chest tightens as I climb into the cockpit, settling into the seat, the weight of the car pressing around me like a second skin. The world outside the visor of my helmet ceases to exist.
This is where I belong.
The radio crackles to life in my ear.
“All systems are green,” Philip reports.
I inhale deeply, grip tightening on the wheel as I flex my fingers around the molded grips.
Focus. Precision. Control.
I know what I need to do.
And when I win - because I will win - I know exactly who I’ll be looking for in the crowd.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Poppy
The energy in the suite is electric.
The last few days have been lovely and relaxed, but it’s Friday morning, the first day of the Monaco Grand Prix weekend, and we’re all caught up in the thrill of it.
The windows have been pushed wide open, letting in the warm Mediterranean air, and the sound of Emma’s music playlist blasts through the speakers as we get ready.
I smooth my hands down the fabric of my dress - another piece I designed myself. It’s elegant yet effortless in a soft lemon colour; the kind of dress that could belong in a vintage photograph of Monaco’s heyday.
With a structured bodice, delicate straps, and a slightly flared skirt that ends mid-thigh, it’s perfect.
I pair it with slingback heels and my Cartier bracelet, the gold glinting under the sunlight. My hair is styled into loose waves, my makeup minimal but polished, and I’m so happy with how it all turned out that I could cry.
Not that I will, of course. I spent far too long on my make-up for that.
Leah - who is still, somehow, in Jacques’ good graces - wears an ensemble that screams money: a designer dress, oversized sunglasses and sky-high stilettos. Emma and Jas follow suit, dressed immaculately, but in a way that feels uniquely them.
Jas scrolls through her phone as she touches up her lipstick.
“Frederic texted you about a driver, didn’t he?”
I swipe mascara through my lashes.
“Yeah,” I nod. “But you already booked the car - right?”
“Correct,” Jas nods.
“Bet he loved that,” Emma smirks.
“He seemed fine,” I say casually, grabbing my bag.
“Sure he did,” Jas laughs.
Emma lowers her sunglasses to look at me, an amused glint in her eyes.
“You know, for a man who drives like his life depends on it, it’s cute that he wants you chauffeured around like a princess.”
I roll my eyes. “He’s just being thoughtful.”
“Thoughtful,” Emma echoes, clearly not buying it. “Sure.”
* * *
The car ride to the venue is an absolute nightmare.
The traffic is insane - which, in hindsight, should have been expected. It’s Monaco, it’s race weekend, and we’re heading to the most prestigious event of the year.
“I don’t know why you all look so stressed,” Leah sighs dramatically. “This is all just part of the experience.”
“I feel like I’m suffocating,” Emma groans, fanning herself.
“Jas, are you sure we don’t want to call Frederic’s driver after all?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“We’re nearly there now,” she says as she checks the map on her phone. “Besides, we’re already in a nice car, Poppy. What difference would it make?”
I don’t argue.
Still, a part of me wonders what it would’ve been like if I’d just let him handle it. The way he takes control of things so effortlessly, the way he makes everything feel easy…
No. Focus.
* * *
Finally, we arrive.
The moment we step out of the car, it’s like stepping into an entirely different world.
The energy is electric, the buzz of conversation blending with the distant roar of engines. The crowd is a mix of celebrities, influencers, socialites, and die-hard motorsport fans, all dressed in their most impeccable designer outfits. Photographers, journalists and fans with cameras are everywhere, scanning the arrivals, trying to catch glimpses of drivers and VIPs.
Luxury yachts line the harbour, banners displaying sponsors’ logos wave in the breeze, and the air smells expensive - perfume, champagne and the metallic tang of the racetrack.
“Jacques sent over instructions for the VIP section,” Leah says. “It looks like we have access to the Paddock Lounge.”
“Which means?” Emma asks.
“Luxury hospitality, private bars, and some of the best views of the track,” Leah grins.
We head toward the VIP entrance, security filtering out the general crowd as we make our way through.