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)
By the time he pits, I’m already six seconds clear.
Game. Set. Match.
But it’s not over yet.
The worst part of Monaco - traffic.
Lapped cars ahead. Blue flags come fast, but it only takes one slow move to kill a lead.
I come up behind a Williams at the Swimming Pool chicane.
He hesitates.
"Blue flag, blue flag!" my race engineer yells in my ear.
I jink right, committing to an impossible gap.
I just make it.
My tires are screaming. My body is screaming.
Every nerve in my system is locked in, my grip tight on the wheel as I throw the car into the final sector, threading the needle between the barriers, millimeters from disaster at every turn.
My pulse is pounding so violently I can feel it in my throat, in my fingertips, in every damn fiber of my being.
And the car behind me?
It’s closing in. Under two seconds now.
Merde.
I grit my teeth, adjusting my line as I fly out of La Rascasse, my rear tires skimming the edge of the curb, my hands twitching to keep the car balanced as I push it to its absolute limit.
The roar of the crowd is deafening - an unrelenting wall of noise pressing in from every direction, but I don’t hear it.
I don’t hear anything.
There’s only the engine screaming behind me, only the voice in my ear calling sector times, only the sheer force of adrenaline drowning out everything else.
I cannot make a mistake now.
Not here. Not when the checkered flag is in sight.
Not when victory is right fucking there, waiting to be claimed.
I tighten my grip, my foot flat to the floor as I charge onto the straight. The car behind is in my mirrors, getting bigger, but it’s too late.
I fucking cross it first.
The adrenaline crashes through me like a tidal wave.
"YES, MOREAU! YOU FUCKING DID IT - YOU WON MONACO!"
I did it.
"Your girl’s going to be happy," Matthieu jokes in my ear, and I bark out a breathless laugh, shaking my head.
She fucking better be.
Chapter Sixty-Four
Poppy
The moment he crosses the line, the entire venue erupts.
Cheers, screams, claps - every sound blends together in a deafening roar of victory.
My hands fly to my mouth, my heart slamming against my ribs as the reality of what just happened crashes into me.
He won.
Frederic fucking Moreau won.
"Oh my God!" Emma shrieks, grabbing my arm and shaking it wildly. "He did it! He actually did it!"
Jas is laughing beside me, just as thrilled, but all I can do is stare at the screen, at his name flashing in gold above the words P1 – Winner, at the image of his car screaming across the finish line, and then - at him.
The camera zooms in on the garage, where his team is going absolutely feral, leaping over barriers, throwing their arms around each other. And then, there he is - pulling into parc fermé, his hands still gripping the wheel, his chest heaving beneath his fireproofs.
I exhale a breathless laugh, sheer relief coursing through me.
God - I was so tense, so wound up watching those final laps.
But he did it. He won.
And fuck, I’m so proud of him.
“I need a picture of you right now,” Jas announces, already pulling out her phone. “Stand over there - no, there, where we can get the screen in the background.”
I don’t even argue. I feel as though I’m floating on air, and I just go where she tells me, stepping out onto the VIP balcony.
The moment is still sinking in - the fact that he won, the fact that I’m here, that I just watched the man I’ve been falling into this whirlwind with take first place at the Monaco Grand Prix.
Jas snaps the photo as I beam at the camera, the giant screen behind me frozen on Frederic’s face, his triumphant smirk beneath his helmet, the word WINNER in bold above his head.
“Oh, that’s fucking perfect,” Jas grins, showing me the screen.
It is perfect.
And it’s only going to get better.
* * *
The girls and I push back into the lounge, drinks in hand, giddy with excitement as we watch the screens showing Frederic being mobbed by his team.
They crowd around him, embracing him, clapping him on the back, helmets colliding in celebration. His race engineer practically tackles him, and for the first time ever, I see Frederic completely lose himself in emotion - laughing, exhilarated and totally unguarded.
He’s pulled away for press almost immediately. Someone turns up the volume on the screen in the lounge, and suddenly, his voice is filtering through the speakers.
He’s switched to English for one of the interviews, still breathless as he runs a hand through his sweaty, dark hair. His race suit clings to him, unzipped just enough to show a teasing glimpse of golden skin, his body still taut from the adrenaline.
I hate how effortlessly good he looks like this.