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)
“Fucking hell,” I mutter as I run a hand through my hair, my mind racing. “This is not ideal in the slightest.”
The comments are already dissecting every detail, with some people clearly having recognised me. Some of them followed me already - enough to have pieced it together from my outfit, my location and the timeline.
I exhale sharply.
“Never mind not ideal,” I correct myself. “This is bad. This is really bad.”
“No! It’s not that bad,” Emma shrugs. “It’s not like you’re in a scandal, babe. You’re dating an F1 driver. That’s iconic.”
I level her with a flat look.
“I’m not dating him.”
“Try telling that to the internet,” Jas smirks. “Along with anyone else who has an ounce of common sense.”
I shoot her a glare before turning my attention back to the article.
It’s all speculation - just vague assumptions about my identity and our relationship status, but it’s enough to make my skin crawl.
The last thing I want is to be noticed like this.
Worst of all, I don’t want Frederic to have to deal with this.
The thought makes my stomach twist. He’s literally preparing for a race - the biggest of the year. The last thing he needs is some dumb gossip site pulling focus away from that.
Jas, sensing my anxiety, nudges my arm.
“Come on, let’s get back to the hotel. No use spiraling in the middle of the street.”
I nod, reluctantly handing her phone back before following them.
Back in the comfortable, familiar safety of our suite, I throw myself onto the couch, my mind whirring.
There are already comments under my most recent posts asking if it’s me. People are tagging me on everything, scrolling back through my posts from while I’ve been in Monaco, trying to connect the dots.
But I refuse to engage.
Instead, I focus on the one thing I can control: my content.
I decide to try and act normal, and normal for me looks like uploading more photos. I post pictures of my outfits, of beach clips, casual behind-the-scenes snapshots of our trip - anything to distract from the speculation.
The comments still roll in, but I ignore them.
For now, I’ll pretend everything is normal.
And I desperately hope that this whole thing blows over before it reaches Frederic.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Poppy
The second my phone rings, I know who it is.
I hesitate for a beat before answering - because, honestly, I’m still processing everything. The article, the sudden surge of followers, the fact that I spent last night screaming his name against a penthouse window.
But I answer anyway.
“Hello?”
“You told me you were a fashion design student, mon ange,” Frederic’s voice purrs through the speaker, all smooth and teasing. “Not an influencer.”
I stop mid-step, my heart doing something stupid in my chest.
His voice should not have this effect on me.
I roll my eyes, adjusting my bag over my shoulder as I continue strolling through Monaco’s winding streets, my headphones tucked into my ears.
“I’m not an influencer,” I correct, my tone dry. “And it’s fashion design with business management, for your information.”
“How very serious.”
“I am serious,” I say, ignoring the way his teasing tone makes my stomach tighten. “My social media is for my designs, that’s all. It’s par for the course these days.”
“Of course,” he muses. “And you just happened to gain thousands of followers overnight for your designs?”
I sigh, glancing up at the bright Monaco sky.
“No. Apparently, I happened to be seen with you.”
Frederic chuckles, the sound deep and entirely too pleased with itself. I scowl at the image of his smug face.
“It’s not funny.”
“Oh, but it is,” he counters smoothly. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you so flustered.”
I groan. “I’m not flustered.”
“You are flustered,” he says, and I can hear the smirk in his voice. “Though I suppose it’s understandable. I imagine this is your first scandal, no?”
I roll my eyes again, though this time, I’m smiling.
“It’s hardly a scandal. It’s just one stupid article.”
“With a very clear picture of us holding hands,” he reminds me.
I exhale, shaking my head. “Great. Now I’ll forever be known as that girl.”
“And what girl is that?” he prompts.
“The random one caught in a fling with Frederic Moreau.”
There’s a pause, and then his voice drops, smooth as silk and dark as sin.
“A fling, hmm?”
I falter mid-step, my breath catching, because shit.
I said that out loud.
“I mean -” I scramble to recover, but he hums in amusement, cutting me off.
“Don’t worry, mon ange. I’ll try not to be too offended.”
I shake my head, focusing on the cobbled street beneath my feet as I turn a corner.
“So, what’s been on your busy schedule today?” I ask, desperate to change the subject. “It sounded hectic this morning.”
“All of it,” Frederic sighs dramatically. “Unfortunately, this will be the usual for the rest of the week.”
I make a small, sympathetic noise, waiting for him to continue.
“I wish you were here,” he adds casually, like it’s the easiest thing in the world to say.