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)
It’s just rage. That’s all.
The kind of pure, fiery anger that burns bright and hot, that lingers in your chest because no one has annoyed you that much in years.
That’s why I keep replaying our interactions in my head.
Yeah. That’s it.
That’s why I keep thinking about the infuriating way his lips twitched every time I insulted him.
And that’s exactly why I keep wondering what he’d look like if he ever actually lost that smirk and…
Nope.
Absolutely not.
I squeeze my eyes shut and let the water pound against my back.
I’m going to get into my pyjamas, dry my hair and get to bed.
And tomorrow?
Tomorrow, I’m forgetting he ever existed.
Chapter Twelve
Poppy
Leah stumbles into the hotel suite looking like she’s just returned from a week-long luxury retreat.
She’s glowing.
Her dark hair is freshly styled, tousled in a way that screams expensive lifestyle. She’s wearing a new silk slip dress that I know for a fact she didn’t have on her yesterday, and to top it off, she’s also carrying a shopping bag from Tiffany’s.
Emma, Jas and I are still sitting cross-legged in our pajamas, all of us mid-breakfast as she waltzes in and dramatically drops her things down onto the floor. I watch in amusement as she collapses onto the bed, a wide grin on her pretty face.
“I’ve found him,” she sighs, starry-eyed as she blinks up at the ceiling.
Jas doesn’t even look up from her croissant. “Oh, here we go.”
“Just to clarify - who is ‘him’?” Emma asks.
“My future husband.”
I set my coffee down. “Leah.”
“He’s perfect,” she gushes, kicking off her heels and sighing dreamily. “His name is Jacques. He’s older, but in a distinguished way. Forty-two -”
Emma isn’t easily shocked, and yet she chokes on her juice.
“Leah, that’s almost twice your age.”
“And he’s rich,” Leah continues, undeterred. “Like, disgustingly rich. He has a holiday home here in Monaco, multiple cars that cost more than my entire existence, and -” she reaches out, stretching so that she can lift the Tiffany’s bag from the floor, displaying it to us all dramatically “- he took me shopping this morning.”
Jas finally looks up from her food. “Already?”
“I mean, I was hardly going to say no,” Leah shrugs.
Emma pinches the bridge of her nose.
“Okay, well. As long as you’re alive and haven’t been sold off to the highest bidder.”
“Of course not. Want to know something even better?”
“Better than you being sold at auction?” I deadpan.
Jas snorts out a laugh, but Leah ignores us both as she continues on.
“He’s throwing a party at his place tonight, and he’s invited all of us!"
Emma raises a brow. “Leah, we were meant to be going to the casino. It’s on the itinerary.”
Leah waves that off immediately.
“Oh, please. We’ve already done the casino, and we can do it again another night. We were only squeezing that in so soon for Poppy’s sake. Besides,” - she points at me - “you said that you don’t even like gambling.”
I hesitate.
“…Yeah. Well. That is true.”
“Okay, fine,” Emma sighs. “Fancy rich guy’s party instead of the casino. But if this turns out to be some terrible decision -”
“It won’t,” Leah assures us. “Trust me, this is going to be iconic.”
Chapter Thirteen
Frederic
This is going to be painful.
I exhale slowly, rolling my shoulders back as I watch the staff scurry around me, setting up drinks, food, and - apparently - an entire fucking event at my family’s home.
There are florists setting up arrangements, caterers unloading crates of expensive liquor, and a DJ testing sound levels out on the terrace.
I drag a hand down my face.
Jacques had practically begged me to host everyone here tonight, insisting that it was the perfect spot for a Grand Prix kick-off party.
I’d been reluctant. I’d almost said no.
But by the time Jacques had told me about it, the guest list had been finalised, the caterers had already been secured, and the so-called event of the week was already set in motion. He had no other venue in mind, because why would he, when he knew I’d cave in the end?
So, I relented. What fucking choice did I have?
I glance around at the familiar halls of my family’s Monaco estate. It’s not mine - not technically, anyway. It’s one of the many Moreau family homes; a sprawling, historic mansion tucked away in one of the city’s most elite neighbourhoods.
My parents rarely use it anymore. I come from a family that collects real estate the way others collect fine wine, and they have their main residences in Paris, London, Geneva, and New York.
It’s a good job, really. Because right now, my family’s home is being turned into a playground for Monaco’s elite - and Jacques’ latest batch of guests.
Heaven only knows if he’s actually paying for any of this.
The thought is enough to make my jaw tighten. It’s not that I can’t afford it - I’m more than good for it. Formula One pays well - very well, even - but honestly, most of my money comes from generational wealth. I was born into privilege, raised in it, so the cost isn’t the issue.