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)
Focus.
I take one last breath, slow and controlled, then glance at Matthieu.
"Reset it," I say, my voice even, steady.
Matthieu taps at the screen. The track reloads.
No distractions. No mistakes.
Only victory.
Chapter Seven
Poppy
If you’re going to drop an obscene amount of money on a sunbed, you make the most of it.
That was Leah’s argument when she set an alarm for silly o’clock this morning and insisted we get to the beach club early. We’ve arrived before the prime spots have been taken, before the ice buckets of rosé have started appearing at every table -
And, most importantly, before Monaco’s most eligible bachelors have arrived.
Because, according to her, this is where it happens.
“This is where they all come,” she says, sweeping her sunglasses onto her head as we step into the beach club. “The drivers, the team owners, the investors, the rich older men looking for a wife to dress in Dior and leave unattended on a yacht. This is where I’m finding my future husband.”
Emma snorts, adjusting the strap of her white one-piece.
“I thought the plan was seducing a billionaire on Monday night?”
“I said potential billionaire,” Leah corrects, flipping her hair. “And he ended up being only a millionaire, so obviously, I had to move on.”
I stifle a laugh as we weave through the cabanas, heading towards the row of sunbeds that the hostess is leading us to. The music is already thumping - a chilled, electronic beat that makes everything feel expensive.
And honestly, it is. The price of this sunbed could have bought me a very nice pair of designer heels. But we’re in Monaco, and I’ve decided to embrace the absurdity of it all.
Besides, I have bigger things on my mind.
Outfit inspiration.
I settle onto my sunbed, adjusting my very carefully curated beach club look. I’d designed this during the colder months, and it’s one of my absolute favourites - a hot pink bikini set, with a matching sheer sarong that catches the light just enough to make me feel a little extra, and the finishing touch: an oversized black and cream sun hat that is frankly so large it could probably be classified as a safety hazard in high winds.
Fashion and personal shade. Iconic, if I do say so myself.
Of course, I’ve slathered myself in sun cream twice already, just in case the UV rays even think about getting near me. Fake tan exists for a reason, and my mother has drilled into me since childhood that the sun ages you. So while Em is practically bathing in tanning oil beside me, I am staying safely under my hat, under the umbrella, and out of direct sunlight like the ghostly fashion goblin I am.
Jas stretches out beside me, sipping from her freshly delivered iced coffee.
“So, are you actually going to relax, or are you already designing in your head?”
I peer at her over my sunglasses. “Can’t I do both?”
Leah settles down onto her own sunbed after scanning the beach club with an expert eye.
“She’s definitely working,” she says “Look at her. She’s cataloguing outfits like some kind of AI fashion software.”
She’s not wrong.
The women here look like they’ve stepped straight out of a Vogue spread - effortless, expensive and incredibly well put together.
There’s the classic crowd - silk Hermès scarves tied around perfectly styled buns, high-waisted white linen trousers and one-piece swimsuits so structured they might actually be classified as architecture.
Then, there’s the glamour squad - plunging swimsuits, designer sunglasses that take up half their face and tiny Chanel bags that definitely aren’t intended to carry actual things.
And then there are the women who have truly mastered the Monaco aesthetic: the hybrids. The ones who somehow mix old-school elegance with the modern edge of luxury streetwear. A tailored white blazer over a bikini, with gold jewelry layered in a way that somehow doesn’t look overdone. A kaftan so diaphanous that it’s practically a whisper of fabric paired with chunky sandals that scream money.
It’s… fascinating.
I pull my sketchbook from my beach bag, flipping to a fresh page.
Old money revamped.
My mind races, whirring at a thousand miles an hour.
Because what if the classic, timeless look wasn’t just reserved for the ultra-rich? What if I could make something that felt like it belonged here, but was accessible and - above all - affordable?
I start sketching, my mind spinning with ideas.
A modern take on the traditional structured swimsuit - corsetry-inspired seams that shape the body but still feel effortless.
A cover-up that isn’t just an afterthought, but part of the look - fluid, tailored, adaptable.
High-waisted shorts that elongate the legs but are casual enough to throw on over a swimsuit.
Luxury, but attainable.
"See?" Jas sighs, nudging Emma. "We’ve lost her."
Em rolls onto her stomach, resting her chin in her palm as she glances at my sketchbook.
“What are you drafting?”
I tap my pencil against the page, my thoughts still half-formed, still buzzing with the ideas I can’t quite get down fast enough.