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)
You look breathtaking. I knew I picked well.
Keep it on for me all day - I need my good luck charm.
I bite my lip, my pulse quickening as warmth spreads through my chest.
A good luck charm? That’s a lot of pressure.
His reply is instant.
I perform well under pressure. Would you like me to demonstrate later?
I practically choke on air.
Emma glances over. "Oh, what did he say?!"
"Nothing!" I say quickly, locking my phone and shoving it away in my new clutch before she can grab it.
But inside? Inside, I’m screaming.
* * *
The ride to the venue is pure chaos - a blur of gleaming supercars, packed sidewalks, and streets alive with energy.
The roads are clogged with eager fans, some draped in team merchandise, others waving flags, and a few even climbing onto balconies for a better view.
The closer we get, the more the atmosphere shifts. The city feels electric, charged with an undeniable buzz - as if Monaco itself is holding its breath, waiting for the race to begin.
Our car inches forward, past the sparkling harbour where mega-yachts are packed with guests sipping champagne on deck and past terraces filled to capacity, every prime viewing spot occupied by the elite.
And then, there’s the track itself: legendary, transformed from its usual city streets into a battleground of speed and precision. The air vibrates with anticipation, the scent of hot asphalt, sea salt, and engine oil mixing with the unmistakable aroma of expensive perfume and champagne.
I press my palm against my stomach, inhaling deeply.
This is it. The biggest race of the weekend is about to start.
And I can’t help but feel that, one way or another, this day is going to change everything.
Chapter Sixty-Two
Poppy
The atmosphere is electric.
From the moment we step into the Paddock Lounge, it’s clear that today isn’t just a race.
It’s an event; a spectacle, a celebration of speed and luxury that only Monaco can provide.
The excitement is palpable as we move through the space, waiters in crisp uniforms weaving between guests with trays of champagne and fresh seafood, screens displaying live feeds from every camera angle, and the unmistakable hum of engines revving below us, vibrating through the very floor beneath our heels.
Emma practically bounces on her toes, her eyes darting between the screens, the view of the track, and the flowing bar.
“We should make a bet!” she announces suddenly, spinning toward us with a devious grin.
Leah raises a brow, adjusting her sunglasses as she sinks onto one of the velvet-lined seats.
“On what?”
“On who’s going to win,” Emma grins. “Come on, we’re in Monaco. It’s only right.”
Jas snorts, but she looks intrigued. “How much?”
“One hundred each,” Emma declares, already pulling out her phone to place the bets. “Winner takes all.”
Leah scoffs, but there’s amusement in her expression.
“Alright, fine. But if I win, you’re all buying my drinks tonight.”
I roll my eyes. “When do we not buy your drinks?”
She winks. “Exactly.”
Emma hums thoughtfully, scrolling through the odds.
“Okay, so who’s everyone picking?”
Leah leans back, inspecting the list on Emma’s screen. “Vandergaurd.”
Jas tilts her head, considering. “Lemoine. Hometown hero and all that.”
Emma grins. “Harrison. Because, you know… daddy.”
I groan. “Bloody hell, Emma.”
She shrugs, unbothered, before turning to me. “And you, Poppy?”
I don’t even hesitate. “Moreau.”
Emma cackles. “Oh, shocker.”
I roll my eyes but can’t help but smirk as she places the bet for me.
Odds are in his favour - he’s one of the favourites to win today - but I don’t even care about that. This is his race, his moment, and for the first time since we arrived in Monaco, I feel nervous.
Because as much as I love the idea of him winning -
I don’t like the idea of what happens after this weekend ends.
* * *
I step outside, needing a moment to breathe, to soak it all in.
Below me, the garages are a flurry of activity - mechanics in their team colours moving with practiced efficiency, final checks being made, the cars gleaming under the bright sun.
I tell myself I’m just taking in the view, but I know exactly who I’m looking for.
It takes a minute, but then I spot him.
He’s standing just outside the Mercedes garage, positioned in a way that keeps him out of view from most of the crowd - but not from me.
He’s deep in conversation with who I can only assume is an engineer, his expression sharp, intense and completely locked in. His brows are slightly furrowed, his jaw tense with focus, nodding at whatever is being said.
One hand rests against his hip, fingers drumming absentmindedly against the fabric of his suit, while the other moves in subtle, precise gestures, punctuating his words.
He’s always so composed, so effortlessly in control -
And fuck, he looks good.
The race suit fits him perfectly, hugging every inch of his lean, powerful frame. The sleek black and silver fabric clings to his broad shoulders, his sculpted arms, his impossibly strong thighs.