Chapter Fourteen
Poppy
I f Monaco had a smell, it would be a mix of wealth, arrogance, and a disproportionate amount of expensive cologne.
That’s the exact combination of scents that greet me as we step through the grand entrance of Jacques’ so-called holiday home.
Except, it’s not a home. Not in the slightest.
It’s a literal palace .
Shiny floors, a grand staircase that looks straight out of a movie set and chandeliers so big I’m convinced one wrong move would send them crashing down, killing us all in the process.
Fuck me.
I don’t know what’s wrong with my brain at the moment.
Outside, the sound of laughter and clinking glasses drifts from the sprawling terrace, where beautiful people lounge by an infinity pool that honestly might be bigger than the one at our hotel.
“Jesus Christ,” Jas mutters, looking around in awe. “What does this guy do ?”
Emma raises a brow. “Besides fund Leah’s delusions?”
“Apparently,” I murmur, still trying to process how much money is in this house, “he’s in real estate.”
Jas scoffs. “Of course he is.”
Emma glances towards a floor-to-ceiling wine cabinet.
“You think if we take a bottle, we’d get arrested? Or do rich people just let other rich people take whatever they want?”
I don’t get a chance to answer because at that moment, a waiter appears and wordlessly hands us each a glass of champagne.
Jas takes hers without hesitation. “I could get used to this.”
I, however, do hesitate.
“I… don’t think we belong here.”
Emma huffs. “Babe. We are wearing designer dresses, sipping expensive champagne and standing in a mansion. We look like we belong.”
“Yeah, well. It still feels like at any moment, someone’s going to walk in here and ask if I work in catering,” I sigh, lifting my glass.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re so much fun at parties?” Jas says.
“Give her twenty minutes, three drinks, and some more French drama - she’ll be having the time of her life,” Emma grins.
I roll my eyes. “Why would there be -”
I stop, mid-sentence, because - of course .
Why wouldn’t the universe want to personally torment me tonight?
There, lounging far too casually against a sleek, white stone bar - drink in hand, and deep in conversation with a group of men dressed just as effortlessly expensive as he is - stands the new bane of my existence.
The French idiot .
The one who tried to steal my car at the airport and who ruined my outfit yesterday.
And, of course, he looks exactly the same.
No - worse than that.
He looks better .
His crisp, open-collared shirt is rolled up at the sleeves, exposing just enough of his forearms to make me irrationally angry. He looks casual yet put together in a way that feels fundamentally unfair - almost like he just exists in a constant state of effortless charm, while the rest of us have to actually try .
He’s mid-conversation, his body language relaxed, his head tilting slightly at something one of his friends says -
And then, because he genuinely is the worst human being to ever exist, he chooses that exact moment to lift his gaze and lock eyes with me.
His movements are slow. Calculated, even.
And then. Then .
There it is. The smirk.
That same stupid, cocky, I-know-you’ve-been-thinking-about-me smirk.
Heat crawls up my neck as mortification prickles at my skin. It feels very much like I’ve just been caught doing something I shouldn’t - except I haven’t done anything.
He is the problem here, not me.
I don’t understand why he looks so bloody smug with himself, either. He seems to act like I’m the one who walked into his night - like I’m the intruder in his perfectly curated existence.
As if he wasn’t the one who ruined my entire night less than twenty-four hours ago.
As if those things aren’t bad enough - and because he apparently thrives on being the most infuriating man alive - I watch in horror as he lifts his glass.
And fucking toasts to me.
Ugh .
I don’t even know his name, and yet I loathe him.
And if I thought my skin was on fire before, then I’m practically combusting now. Because it’s not just a casual, absentminded gesture. It’s deliberate. Measured.
The kind of slow, knowing toast that says I see you, I know you see me, and I know exactly how much this is pissing you off.
The instinctive knowledge that he is very much enjoying every second of this irritates me beyond measure. It’s like this entire thing between us - whatever the hell it is - is something amusing to him.
It’s like he thinks he’s already won.
And the worst part?
He’s right.
Because I am pissed off. I am irritated.
I am wound up so tight that I could probably snap a champagne flute in half with my bare hands .
A reaction seems to be exactly what he wants. It’s like he wants me flustered, annoyed and riled up - just like he had me last night. Like I’m some kind of private joke that only he understands.
And I’ll be damned if I give him the satisfaction.
So, I do the one thing that feels right at that moment.
I turn on my heel and walk in the opposite direction.
Stride away, actually. Gracefully , with dignity, with poise -
Or at least, that’s what I tell myself as I practically stomp across the marble floor.
“Poppy,” Emma calls, tone somewhere between concerned and highly amused as she and Jas hurry after me, their heels clicking against the floor. “What the hell just happened?”
“Nothing,” I say, a little too quickly. “I just - I just need a drink.”
“Uh-huh. And the sudden power-walk has nothing to do with the fact that you just saw something across the room and instantly fled?”
I ignore Jas - who is always far too observant for her own good - and make a sharp detour towards the closest drinks table.
If I’m going to get through this night knowing he is lurking somewhere, then I’m going to need alcohol, and a lot more of it.
I grab the first glass I see, barely acknowledging what’s inside before tossing it down my throat in one swift gulp.
Emma watches me, unimpressed.
“Okay, yeah. Because that was normal.”
“Completely healthy behaviour,” Jas agrees .
I exhale sharply, placing the now-empty glass back onto the table as I force my shoulders to relax.
“Neither of you saw him?”
“Saw who ?” Emma frowns.
Relief washes over me, but I try not to show it.
The last thing I need is them realising who I’m referring to and forcing me into some kind of intervention.
“No one,” I say quickly. “Forget it.”
Jas narrows her eyes suspiciously.
“So let me get this straight: you’re throwing back drinks like we’re about to be drafted into war, but it’s fine, because it’s over… no one ?”
Emma studies me for a second, then sighs.
“Alright, you know what? I don’t actually care who or what just sent you into fight-or-flight mode, because we’re heading outside now.” She gestures toward the open terrace. “And we are not spending the night lurking in a corner overthinking… whatever this is.”
I let out a slow breath and nod.
“Fine. Yes - air . Let’s go.”
* * *
The terrace is just as obscenely luxurious as the rest of the house; all soft lighting, elegant seating and a view of the Monaco skyline that looks so perfect it almost doesn’t seem real.
And then -
“ My loves! ”
Leah materialises out of nowhere, running towards us at full speed in another brand-new dress.
Emma barely has time to react before Leah throws her arms around her.
“I missed you,” Leah says dramatically, squeezing her tightly.
Jas, unimpressed, glances at her phone.
“Leah, you saw us this morning .”
Leah waves a dismissive hand, finally releasing Emma.
“ Technicalities, ” she says before spinning around, eyes practically shining. “So. What do we think?”
She steps back, dramatically gesturing to herself as though she’s unveiling a masterpiece.
Emma smirks. “It’s giving a very rich man’s trophy wife.”
“Thank you,” Leah beams. “That’s exactly the look I was going for.”
“Wait,” Jas says as she squints at the dress. “Is that…?”
Leah preens. “Mmmhm. Jacques took me shopping, again . It’s custom.”
“You went shopping again ?” I exchange a look with Emma. “How on earth did either of you find the time?”
“It wasn’t just shopping, babe,” Leah sighs dreamily. “It was an experience .”
“You worry me,” Emma says with a shake of her head.
Leah links her arms through ours as she starts guiding us across the terrace.
“Enough about me,” she grins. “Let me give you the tour.”
Jas frowns. “Leah. You don’t live here.”
“ Details ,” Leah says, waving her off as though the idea is absurd. “Now come on - let me show you the east wing.”
“Oh god ,” Emma groans.
And with that, Leah drags us into the house as if she’s lived here for years, leading us through rooms we absolutely should not be in with the confidence of someone who owns the place.
She marches through the grand hallway, gesturing around like some sort of unhinged estate agent.
“Now, this is the main living room, which - obviously - is only for special guests.”
I blink at the word main , because if this is one of multiple living rooms, then I’m going to need to sit down and process.
It’s ridiculous. Huge glass windows stretch from floor to ceiling, revealing a breathtaking view of the Mediterranean. On top of that, the furniture looks so expensive that I’m afraid to breathe near it - plush cream sofas that have clearly never been sat on by a single person in their lives, and a massive glass coffee table that holds zero practical items.
Just a single, perfectly curated stack of books that I just know have never been opened.
What a shame. What a waste .
“ Wow ,” Emma snorts, eyeing the book titles.
Jas tilts her head. “Do you think he even knows they’re here?”
“Of course not,” Leah frowns. “Those are just for aesthetic purposes.”
“Makes sense,” Emma nods sagely. “After all, nothing screams wealth like set dressing.”
Before we can analyse how much of this house is purely decorative, Leah is already moving on, leading us into another room.
“This is the formal dining room,” she declares, gesturing dramatically.
I swear I hear echoes in this place.
The table is long enough to seat at least twenty people, with extravagant floral arrangements in the center and gleaming lights hanging above.
“Fuck me ,” Jas mutters as she walks down the length of the table. “You could land a plane on this thing.”
Emma runs a hand along one of the ridiculously ornate chairs. “I feel like this table has never actually been used for eating.”
“Probably just for signing suspicious business deals,” I nod.
Leah gasps, delighted. “ Ooooh , maybe Jacques has a dark and mysterious past.”
“Leah, the man is a real estate tycoon,” Jas sighs. “His entire existence is probably suspicious.”
Leah chooses to ignore this and sweeps out of the dining room, leading us toward an elaborately carved door.
“And this -” she throws it open with a flourish “ - is the private cinema.”
We all stop short.
He has a fucking cinema ?!
The room is dimly lit, lined with plush reclining seats, a huge screen at the front and a popcorn machine in the corner that quite frankly feels insulting at this point.
Emma stares at the room with a slack jaw. “I hate him.”
“Same,” Jas nods .
“Why do I feel poor?” I exhale. “I need a reality check. I’m not poor.”
“No, but you’re Monaco poor,” Emma sighs. “We all are.”
“What can I say? I told you this place was incredible,” Leah beams.
“Leah. You met this man yesterday ,” I remind her.
“And now I know where I’ll be spending my summers,” she says breezily.
Emma groans. “Bloody hell .”
Before we can properly process the actual insanity of this house, Leah claps her hands.
“Come on, there’s still the art gallery and the library,” she announces.
“You’re kidding,” Jas says dryly.
Leah blinks. “No?”
“Of course there’s an art gallery,” Emma half-laughs, shaking her head.
As the others start following her deeper into Jacques’ obscene palace, I hesitate.
I need a moment.
This is genuinely kind of weird and overwhelming, and I’m finding myself growing more uncomfortable and on edge by the minute. I really need a bathroom and at least sixty seconds of peace to process the chaos of this evening.
“You guys go ahead,” I say, already taking a step back. “I’ll catch up in a minute. I just need to use the bathroom.”
“Oh, easy,” Leah says, waving a directive hand. “You’re going to go down the hall, take a right, then left, and then it’s the third door on the right.”
I stare at her, genuinely impressed.
“Leah. You’ve been here one night .”
She shrugs. “What can I say? I adapt.”
“More like you imprinted,” Jas snorts.
The three of them continue on, chattering as they disappear into another ridiculously extravagant wing of the house.
I exhale, glad for the brief escape, and start in the direction Leah pointed me towards.