Chapter Eighteen
Poppy
T he music shifts, pulsing through the warm Monaco air.
It’s the kind of beat that makes even the most reluctant partygoer want to move.
I’m not one of those people. But Emma?
Emma is practically radiating energy, her eyes alight with pure mischief as she grabs both Jas and I by the wrists and drags us toward the dance floor.
“Nope! No arguments!” she declares, already weaving through the crowd. “We are dancing, we are having fun, and we are not spending this entire night sitting like sad, unloved mistresses on a terrace.”
“Wow. That’s oddly specific of you, Em,” Jas comments dryly.
"Move!" Emma orders, nudging us forwards. "And if we just so happen to find handsome dance partners along the way, well, that's just Monaco’s way of rewarding us for existing."
Jas and I exchange another look, but we let her pull us towards the centre of the floor, where the air is thick with champagne, laughter, and the scent of expensive cologne .
Leah is already here, wrapped up in Jacques’ arms, looking like she’s starring in her own limited series about a woman who scams rich men for sport.
I can’t help but smile at the sight of her. She looks as beautiful as ever, and beyond that, happy .
Emma barely lasts five minutes dancing with us before she’s swooped back into the maddening height difference that is her Swiss lawyer-come-model, Finn. He twirls her effortlessly, leaving Jas and me swaying together, doing our best to look like we’re having fun even though neither of us is particularly feeling it.
"This isn't so bad," Jas admits, tapping her fingers against my arm in rhythm. "I mean, I could definitely think of worse things to be than your temporary dance partner."
"Yeah," I agree. "You could be -"
Before I can finish that sentence, someone else finds her first.
A tall, broad-shouldered man - objectively handsome, all tanned skin and perfect teeth - sidles up beside Jas with an easy grin. His body language is confident, but not in an overbearing way.
Just enough to say I know I look good, and I know you know it too.
"You look like you could use a proper dance partner," he says smoothly, his French accent just thick enough to be charming.
Jas glances at me, lips twitching, before turning back to him.
"Oh? And you think you fit the bill?"
His grin widens. "I can prove it."
And then, just like that, he sweeps her away - twirling her so effortlessly that she actually giggles.
I smile to myself. Good for her.
"You're impossible, you know that?" Emma appears again, momentarily free from Finn, giving me a pointed look.
I arch a brow. "What now?"
"This! All of this!” She gestures around dramatically. “There are literal Greek gods walking around this place, and you look like you’d rather be anywhere else."
"I don’t look like that.”
"You do ," she insists. "You're intimidating enough as it is because of how stupidly beautiful you are. If you radiate that kind of f uck off and leave me alone energy, then no one is going to approach you."
I blink at her.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Emma groans, exasperated. "You don’t want to dance with anyone ?"
"Not even remotely."
"Why not?!"
"I don’t know," I admit. "I just… It’s exhausting . I’d rather be here, with you guys, enjoying my night without some stranger trying to spin me around and whisper in my ear like we’re in some bad rom-com."
"You do realise that’s half the fun, right?" Em sighs.
"Not for me."
She gives me a long look, like she’s debating her next move. Then, finally -
"Fine. But when you meet someone who completely derails your life, don’t say I didn’t warn you."
I snort. "I think I'll take my chances."
She shakes her head, clearly over trying to convince me, before Finn appears again, stealing her attention completely.
And just like that, I'm alone in the middle of the dance floor, still swaying slightly, still apparently radiating do not approach me energy.
And honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
But then, before I even have the chance to process what’s happening, a firm, steady grip finds my waist, pulling me into motion so effortlessly that it takes a full second for my brain to catch up.
It’s deliberate. Calculated.
And the second I register the way the movement feels too smooth, too practiced, I already know.
I don’t turn into him.
I don’t accidentally stumble into his arms.
He moves me into him.
I finally snap my head up, and a now-familiar pair of blue eyes are right there to greet me.
Frederic .
Those bright eyes of his are practically alight and filled with pure, devilish amusement. His grip on my waist is firm but effortless, and his body far too close to mine for my liking.
“You again,” I breathe, trying not to show how much I’ve been completely thrown by his presence, along with the girls’ earlier revelation about his identity.
He smirks. “You sound surprised, mon ange . ”
I scowl up at him, instantly snapping out of whatever spell I was momentarily trapped in.
“I am surprised. I was enjoying my night.”
He chuckles. “And now?”
“It’s actively worsening by the second.”
“Well, we can’t have that,” he says, his grip tightening ever so slightly on my waist as he tilts his head. “I suppose we should make it better.”
Then - because, apparently, the universe has decided my suffering is essential entertainment at this point - he starts to move.
And though my mind is screaming at me to do anything but , I move with him.
The problem is, Frederic doesn’t just dance . No - that would be too simple.
He moves like a professional, leading with confidence and control, the kind that instantly makes it impossible to keep up without following his lead.
It’s infuriating .
His grip never falters - light on my waist but a little too firm against my hand - and if the smug little twitch of his lips is anything to go by, then I’d say he’s definitely enjoying himself.
Meanwhile, I am fighting for my life.
Not because I can’t dance ( I can , thank you very much ), but because I refuse to acknowledge just how easy it is to fall into step with him.
“How,” I manage, breathlessly, “are you good at this, too?”
“I move fast for a living,” he says .
“Oh, please .”
He grins, then spins me without warning. The movement is so effortlessly smooth that I barely process it until I’m back in his arms again.
Annoying. Infuriating.
“Are you always this resistant?” he muses.
I scowl. “To you? Yes.”
His grip shifts just slightly, almost like he’s testing something.
“You’re still here, though.”
“Not by choice,” I snap.
“Oh?” He leans in ever so slightly, voice dipping low. “Because if you really wanted to leave, mon ange , I think you would have by now.”
I absolutely do not let my body react to that.
Instead, I tip my head, narrowing my eyes.
“You really love the sound of your own voice, don’t you?”
He chuckles, eyes glinting. “I suppose I do enjoy a good conversation.”
“This isn’t a conversation.”
“Then what is it?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
The answer seems obvious in my mind.
It’s all just a big game. A challenge, a battle of wits - and I know he knows it, too.
His smirk deepens .
“You’re thinking very hard, mon ange .”
I grit my teeth. “If you call me that one more time -”
“Then tell me your name.”
I blink.
He looks at me like he’s just laid the best trap of the night, and I drop my hand away from his, stepping back slightly to create some space between us.
“Not a chance.”
His expression flickers with amusement. “No?”
“ No .”
He exhales, then lets his hands fall from my waist. The movement is so deliberate, so infuriatingly controlled, and even though I’m the one that moved away first, it feels like he’s the one that’s actually choosing to let me go.
It’s his turn to step back now, ever so slightly, and I watch as he tilts his head.
“I’ll find out,” he says simply - confidently , even.
I clench my jaw, refusing to let his certainty bother me.
But he says it like he’s already won. Like it’s just a matter of time before I give in.
Maybe that’s what pisses me off the most - the way he acts as if this is some game he’s already playing a few moves ahead of me.
“It’s a shame,” he muses lightly, just loud enough for me to hear. “I would have preferred to have heard it from you, but I suppose I’ll have to ask someone else.”
“Ask who , exactly?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, though the sight of his smirk deepening tells me that he absolutely does. “Maybe one of your friends?”
He tilts his head toward where Emma and Jas are still dancing, completely oblivious.
“They seem… delightful .”
My jaw clenches tightly as I grit my teeth.
Fuck, this man is irritating.
“You wouldn’t.”
He lifts a brow. “Wouldn’t I?”
And goddamn it , I can see it now.
Emma, absolutely thrilled by the situation, spilling my full government name, address and date of birth before I even have the chance to stop her.
Jas would be a little more reserved, I think; though I still have a feeling that she would definitely hand him my first name - mostly to watch me suffer.
“You’re a nightmare,” I grit out.
His expression doesn’t waver. “So I’ve been told.”
I bite my lip, debating it. I know that if I walk away now, he’s going to find out anyway. He’s made that much clear.
So, I begrudgingly let out a sigh, tipping my chin up slightly.
“It’s Poppy.”
His brows lift, like he wasn’t actually expecting me to give in.
I cross my arms. “That’s all you’re getting.”
“Poppy,” he repeats, looking thoughtful as if he’s turning the name over in his head.
And hearing it in his annoyingly sexy French accent makes me irrationally irritated all over again.
Then, after a beat, he nods.
“ Pavot ,” he muses, the French word rolling off his tongue effortlessly.
I frown. “What?”
His lips twitch. “ Coquelicot , then. That’s what we call them in the fields.”
“The fields?” I echo, momentarily thrown.
“The poppy fields,” he says, his voice smooth, lazy. “In the French countryside. They stretch for miles, all red and wild and untamed.”
He tilts his head slightly, watching me.
“A fitting name, don’t you think?”
I stare at him, annoyingly unsure whether or not that was meant to be an insult.
“You sound like you’re trying to be poetic,” I say as I narrow my eyes.
“Maybe I am.”
I let out a sharp, humorless laugh.
“That’s unfortunate for you.”
His brows lift slightly, amused. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” I smirk. “Turns out I’m not into tortured poets.”
The second the words leave my mouth, something flickers across his face, and for the first time tonight, he looks genuinely intrigued.
I don’t wait for him to recover, though. Instead, I turn on my heel and march away, without another word .
But not before I hear him chuckle behind me -
And I swear that I feel his gaze lingering on me long after I’ve disappeared into the crowd.