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)
"Excuse me for embracing the true spirit of this magnificent country," Leah says as she makes a performance out of sipping from her tall glass. "Anyway, more importantly - when are you getting here?"
"I'm looking up flights right now," I say as I reach for my laptop.
"Direct to Nice is probably your best bet," Em suggests. "Then just get a car or a helicopter -"
"A what?"
"A helicopter," she repeats, like it’s a totally normal method of transport. "It’s only like, fifteen minutes. Sometimes even less, I think. And it’s very on brand for Monaco."
"Yeah, okay, let me just dig through my helicopter budget real quick," I say dryly, clicking through airline websites.
I can’t imagine my father would be at all pleased to see me whacking that bill on his credit card.
Leah gasps dramatically, pulling me from my wandering thoughts.
"Wait. Are we about to witness Poppy’s first ever impulse flight booking?” she asks, her head turning in both directions to face the other’s before she looks straight at the phone again, locking eyes with me through the screen. “Pops, is this… growth?!"
"Maybe," I chew my lip, suppressing a laugh at her ridiculousness. "It’s just... Running off to Monaco after a breakup feels a bit. I don’t know. Messy."
Em leans in close to the camera.
"Messy?” she repeats. “Babe, you know as well as I do that we thrive on messy. Monaco is made for messy. Believe me; half of the women here are either recovering from divorces or actively searching for their next ex-husband."
"Em, you’re totally missing the point here,” Jas pipes up. “Poppy, you’re not even messy. You’re just… exploring new opportunities."
I sigh as I scroll through flights to Nice.
The prices aren’t too outrageous, and if the girls say that there’s room in the suite…
"So you’re saying I should do it?" I ask, my voice hesitant.
All three of them practically scream ‘yes!’ at the same time, and I wince as the loud sound of their voices fills my ears.
"Fucking hell," I mutter.
"Book it," Em orders. "You and your mind are literally the only things holding you back here."
I think on it for another moment longer, my eyes dancing over the flight options as I exhale sharply.
You know what?
Screw it.
I click.
The second I do, the video call erupts into absolute chaos.
"Yesssss!" Leah cheers.
"This is going to be iconic," Em beams.
Jas raises her glass. "To new beginnings," she toasts.
And as I grin at my screen, excitement finally flooding my veins, I feel it.
Not guilt. Not second-guessing. Just pure, reckless excitement.
Monaco, here I come.
Chapter Four
Poppy
I should have known things were going too smoothly.
The moment I step inside Nice Côte d’Azur Airport, whatever magical, cinematic illusion I had about my grand arrival in the South of France shatters.
The heat inside is stifling, thick and claustrophobic as though the airport has been converted into a very expensive greenhouse. The air conditioning - if it even exists - is doing absolutely nothing to help.
People are everywhere, crammed into queues that don’t seem to be moving, talking loudly, sighing dramatically, and, more than anything else, absolutely losing their minds.
I pull out my phone and scroll aimlessly through my socials, catching up with some of my more recent comments and casually eavesdropping as I stand in line.
“We were stuck on the plane for over an hour before they let us off,” one man grumbles.
“My colleague landed two hours ago and she’s still waiting for her bag,” someone else complains, voice clipped with irritation.
A woman in sunglasses and an obnoxiously large hat huffs from where she stands slightly in front of me. “I don’t know why we’ve got to listen to these people complaining. They said there’s a technical issue with the systems. Nobody is getting through quickly.”
Great.
I glance around, noting the general aura of extreme impatience.
This is not a crowd that’s used to waiting. There’s a lot of ‘do you know who I am?’ energy happening from men in tailored suits and women in designer sunglasses, all one-upping each other with their levels of VIP self-importance.
None of it is working.
The French airport police look deeply unimpressed by the attempted power plays. They’re simply repeating the same phrase over and over again:
"You have to wait like everyone else."
So. We wait.
By the time I finally make it through baggage claim and customs, I’m half-melting, my hair clinging to the back of my neck in the least glamorous way possible.
I brace myself for the next battlefield: the queue for a taxi.
I should have known this would be a disaster, because every single person who has just been held up for ages is now apparently in full-blown survival mode. We’re all crammed into the same stretch of pavement, with suitcases everywhere and tempers fraying dangerously.
It’s absolute chaos.
I hear actual shouting up ahead - grown men arguing over who has been waiting the longest. Someone’s waving a wad of cash at a driver, while a large group of tourists are gesturing wildly and insisting that they should have the next three cars between them.