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)
Jacques has been spiralling for months now, completely in denial about his behaviours, but there's no way that even he can consume that much. He'd be dead in a heartbeat.
I hold out my hand expectantly, waiting for the card to be handed to me with the account details on it. The men shoot a few knowing glances at each other before one hands it over.
Without another word, I pull out my phone, tap a few buttons, and transfer the money.
One of the men’s phones pings. He glances down at it, then smirks.
“Pleasure doing business with you, again, Moreau.”
"Fuck off," I bite out.
They leave without another word, and Jacques exhales, rubbing his face.
“Fuck.”
I don’t respond. At this point, I don’t care. There's no way that something even more unpleasant than I originally suspected isn't going on here, and I'm through with it all.
I'm done.
I’m already turning away -
And then, a glass shatters.
I spin back just in time to see Poppy’s friend shriek in frustration. Her expression is twisted in rage, her hand still hovering mid-air -
While Jacques is drenched in red wine.
He curses loudly in French as he shakes the liquid from his shirt and wipes his eyes.
“What the fuck?” he growls.
“You’re a piece of shit,” she snaps. Her voice is shaking, her hands clenched into fists. “I knew you were lying to me.”
Jacques groans, wiping his face. “Leah -”
“No.” She shakes her head, her eyes flashing. “You lied to me. You used me.”
I exhale heavily, running a hand down my face.
Fucking hell, Jacques.
He glances at me, his jaw tightening, like maybe I can fix this, too.
Not a chance, pal.
Because, quite simply, I don’t care.
Not about Jacques’ lies. Not about whatever excuses he’s about to spill.
I only care about her.
And as Poppy rushes towards the brunette with the other girls, trying to comfort her, all I want is to get her away from this.
Her friend is red-faced, breathing hard, and fucking livid.
I step forwards, reaching for my girl.
My hand finds her waist, and she startles slightly before looking up at me, her brown eyes wild, her pulse fluttering beneath my touch.
“Be careful,” I murmur, low and quiet. “I need to help clean him up.”
She swallows, nodding, and I realise -
I don’t owe Jacques anything. Not anymore.
But Poppy?
I’d give her everything.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Poppy
By the time we reach Frederic’s hotel, my body is humming with exhaustion, my limbs heavy from a mixture of champagne, adrenaline, and the whirlwind of emotions from the long day we’ve had.
The doors slide open, and we step into the lobby, the grandeur of the place still enough to make my breath catch. It’s late - so late that the place is eerily quiet, the usual buzz of the staff reduced to only a few lingering employees behind the concierge desk.
Frederic doesn’t let go of my hand.
He’s been holding onto me the entire night, keeping me close, keeping me his. Through the celebrations, the flashing lights, the endless flutes of champagne - and the feeling of being alive in the way that only this city can provide.
Now, his grip tightens slightly as we step into the elevator, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. I glance up at him, my chest warm, my heart full.
I should be exhausted.
But I can’t stop looking at him.
His hair is still slightly messy, strands falling over his forehead in a way that makes my stomach flip. The top two buttons of his dress shirt are undone, revealing a sliver of golden skin, and he looks so fucking good that I almost can’t stand it.
I reach for him before I can even think better of it, my fingers smoothing over the fabric of his shirt, tracing slow, lazy patterns against his chest.
He exhales sharply, tilting his head down towards me.
“You’re insatiable, mon ange,” he murmurs, his voice low, dark, teasing.
I smirk. “I think that’s your influence.”
The doors ping open, and he wastes no time leading me towards his suite.
The moment we step inside, he kicks the door shut behind us and pulls me in for a kiss - slow, deep and sensual.
It’s not the desperate, needy kind from earlier in the night - this is something else.
Something lingering, something steeped in satisfaction.
He just won Monaco.
And now, he has me.
We take our time. We celebrate.
Properly.
By the time we collapse into bed, tangled in the sheets, the night sky still glowing faintly through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I feel it all catching up to me.
The champagne. The exhaustion. The weight of the day.
Frederic shifts, adjusting his arm beneath my head, keeping me close. I burrow into him instinctively, breathing in his scent, letting the warmth of him settle over me like a blanket.
He presses a lazy kiss to the top of my head.
“Still awake?” he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep.
I nod, though my eyelids are heavy. “Mmm.”
His fingers trace slow, absent-minded patterns against my hip.