Chapter Twenty-Three
Poppy
L ast-minute deviations are never a good sign.
One minute, we’re all set for a low-key afternoon - something involving cocktails, sunbathing, and zero run-ins with infuriating Frenchmen - the next, we’re on our way to a yacht party.
Apparently, Jacques - Leah’s new millionaire husband ( in the making ) - has invited us all aboard his obnoxiously massive floating palace.
And I should have known.
I should have known that agreeing to this - agreeing to a party hosted by a man who seems to exclusively surround himself with people who own at least three passports and far too many offshore accounts - would mean one thing:
That Frederic Moreau would be here.
Because of course he is.
This is Monaco, and apparently, the universe has decided that I can’t escape him for more than a day at a time.
I groan internally as I step aboard the yacht that’s so large it probably has its own postcode, sliding on my sunglasses in an attempt to shield my eyes from the blinding afternoon sun.
“You owe me for this,” I mutter to Leah, who looks positively glowing in a white linen dress, her golden tan flawless.
“Oh, I absolutely do not,” Leah grins, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear as she slips her sunglasses up her nose.
Emma smirks beside me. “You literally have nothing better to do.”
“Yeah,” Jas says in agreement. “What were you going to do instead - sit in the hotel and sketch angry couture designs?”
“That sounds amazing, actually.”
The girls ignore me as Leah gestures to the yacht’s ridiculously extravagant bar.
“Well, we’re here now,” she says, adjusting her sunglasses. “We might as well enjoy it.”
She’s not wrong.
This is exactly what I’d expect from a Grand Prix weekend yacht party - an absurd display of wealth, dripping in excess.
The yacht’s deck alone is the size of a small nightclub, lined with plush white loungers and glimmering glass railings that make the entire thing look like a floating five-star hotel.
Waiters glide effortlessly through the crowd, balancing trays of perfectly chilled champagne flutes while groups of models, socialites, and suspiciously well-groomed men cluster together, sipping drinks and laughing in the way that only rich people do.
Like they don’t have a single real concern in the world.
It’s the kind of place where everyone looks like they have at least one surname that could get them out of legal trouble, and where no one has ever had to google how much is too much to spend on skincare .
I exhale slowly, plucking a glass of champagne from a passing tray.
I can do this. I can blend into the background, ignore everything, and simply exist in peaceful anonymity for the next few hours.
At least, that’s the plan.
* * *
A short while later, I grip to one of the railings as the yacht sets sail.
It happens smoothly, almost imperceptibly at first. A slight shift, a barely-there motion beneath my feet.
But as we move further from the shore, the hum of engines and the gentle rocking of the water make it clear: we’re officially out at sea.
I glance over the railing, watching as the Monaco skyline starts to shrink in the distance, the afternoon sun casting brilliant streaks over the deep blue water.
Well. I suppose there’s no getting off now.
I take a sip of my champagne, scanning the crowd as the yacht glides further out into the water.
I can already tell Leah is in her element. She’s chatting easily with a group of people I don’t recognise, her effortless charm turning heads wherever she moves. Em, Jas and I are left standing at the edge of the deck, watching the chaos unfold like we’re at a nature documentary screening.
“This is going to be one of those days, isn’t it?” Jas murmurs, sipping her drink .
I sigh. “I have a feeling.”
Emma glances at the party, then back at the two of us.
“Alright, if she’s going to be off flirting with old men all afternoon, then let’s at least make this interesting. Want to go explore?”
I glance down at my half-finished champagne. I could either stand here all afternoon and try to look like I belong amongst billionaire-adjacent people, or I could actually do something to pass the time.
“Fine,” I nod. “Let’s go.”
We set off, weaving through the crowd - past groups of women who look like models draped over sun loungers and men who twist their wrists to make sure the sunlight catches the faces of their watches.
I’ve never been on a yacht before, and I can’t quite get over just how enormous it is. The main deck is lined with marble-topped bars, while the upper levels host private seating areas.
“Of course there’s a hot tub,” Jas mutters as we blink up at the stern.
“Of course,” I agree.
We round a corner, heading toward another sleek outdoor bar, when -
“Ah,” a smooth, familiar voice drawls. “Look who it is.”
I freeze, caught completely off guard.
Ever so slowly, I turn on my heel, my expression hardening further by the millisecond.
Frederic Moreau, smug as ever, is reclining on a sunbed like he’s posing for the cover of a luxury lifestyle magazine.
He’s wearing a dark, oversized shirt that’s slightly unbuttoned, paired with beige linen shorts that make him look infuriatingly effortless. A pair of sunglasses sit perched on the bridge of his ridiculously straight nose, and his lips are curled into the smirk of a man who knows exactly how much he’s about to ruin my afternoon.
Worse?
He’s not alone.
A small group of men, all similarly dressed in casual but undeniably expensive clothes, are gathered around him. It’s clear that they were mid-conversation before we arrived, and they exchange curious glances, their attention shifting between Frederic and I like they’re sizing up the situation.
I have no idea what he’s told them, but judging by their amused expressions, I hate him impossibly more for it.
“You again,” I sigh, taking a long sip of my champagne and pretending I’m unbothered by his presence.
I’d much rather toss my drink in his stupidly perfect face, but, you know - appearances .
Frederic lifts his own glass to his lips, taking a slow, measured sip of the dark liquid, his eyes still locked onto mine as if he has all the time in the world.
I shift my weight, suddenly far too aware of how the silk of my dress clings to my skin, how the sea breeze catches strands of my blonde hair, how his annoyingly blue eyes don’t miss a single detail. Meanwhile, his friends exchange glances, their expressions ranging from mild curiosity to outright amusement.
I’m painfully aware that I’m not alone either.
Behind me, Emma and Jas have stopped their own conversation, curiosity practically radiating off them. I don’t need to turn around to know that Emma is grinning and Jas is smirking as they watch us, as if this is the best reality show they’ve ever seen.
“You sound thrilled to see me,” he smirks, his gaze flicking lazily over my body. “As always.”
“I’d say it’s more of a resigned acceptance,” I reply dryly.
One of his friends chuckles, and I don’t know what’s worse: the fact that I’m currently providing their entertainment, or the fact that Frederic himself looks like he’s having the time of his life.
“ Ah ,” he muses, lifting his own glass slightly. “So I’m an inconvenience?”
I tilt my head, pretending to think.
“Well, you did try to steal my taxi,” I remind him, ticking off the offenses on my fingers as I continue. “You cornered me outside of a bathroom, practically forced me to dance with you - in front of a small crowd - and you knocked an entire daiquiri over me in a beach club. So - yes. In fact, I’d say that calling you an inconvenience would be the polite way of putting it.”
Frederic swirls the contents of his own glass as I speak - as though we’re in the middle of some sophisticated debate rather than yet another episode of him delighting in ruining my life. One of his friends murmurs something in French - something that makes him exhale a quiet laugh - but he doesn’t turn to acknowledge them, nor does he respond.
Instead, he keeps his blue eyes firmly on me, looking amused, intrigued, and entirely too smug all at once.
“I like how you make it sound so tragic,” he muses. “As if your life has been completely upended by my existence.”
“You do keep appearing at the exact moment I least want to see you. ”
From behind me, Emma lets out a quiet snort. Meanwhile, Frederic lifts a brow, clearly unphased by my attitude.
“ Or the exact moment you most want to see me.”
“Oh, please .”
Jas actually wheezes , and even I find that I’m struggling to keep my face completely straight.
The knowledge that the two of them are laughing behind me is almost enough to make me lose my composure.
Almost.
But then Frederic’s smirk deepens as he tilts his head slightly, his intense gaze still locked onto mine.
“Ah, that’s right. After all, you did say I was a stalker, non ?”
Oh, god - yes, I did.
I could have really done without that reminder.
“That was before I realised Monaco is apparently the size of a shoebox,” I say, attempting to brush off the comment.
One of his friends laughs a little too loudly while Jas mutters something under her breath behind me.
“And yet, you still seem the most bothered by it,” Frederic says.
I let out a sharp breath, my patience dangling by a thread.
"Not at all," I say dryly, rolling my shoulders back as I meet his infuriatingly smug gaze head-on. "You’ve got me all wrong. Truly, nothing brings me more joy than my personal space being repeatedly invaded by you . It’s the highlight of my week. Really ."
Behind me, Emma lets out a gasp so dramatic that it has to be on purpose .
"Oh, she’s gone full sarcasm," Jas says, her voice low enough that I just about hear her. "That’s when you know it’s bad."
Frederic’s grin deepens, slow and thoroughly pleased with himself, as he lifts his glass to his lips, taking a long, deliberate sip.
He doesn’t break eye contact. Not once.
And I hate that I can feel it.
It’s like there’s a pull in the air between us, winding tight, waiting for someone to cut it.
Then, because he is physically incapable of letting me have the last word, he sets his glass down and leans forwards just slightly.
"If me invading your personal space is what you like, mon ange ," he starts, his voice dipping just enough to send my stomach into outright rebellion, "then I can certainly arrange more of it."
I freeze for half a second, pulse betraying me entirely, before I recover, lifting my chin.
"You’re mistaken," I say smoothly, flicking my hair over my shoulder like I’m completely unaffected by his nonsense. "What I like is peace and quiet, which you seem entirely incapable of providing."
One of his friends snickers, and from behind me, Emma mutters, " oh, she’s really fighting for her life right now."
Frederic tilts his head, considering me with an expression that feels entirely too knowing.
Like he’s already planning his next move.
Then, without a word, he leans back against the lounger, settling into a casual sprawl, his grip loose around his glass .
For a moment, I think I’ve won. For a moment, it seems like he’s letting this one go.
But then his smirk deepens, slow and deliberate, like he knows something I don’t.
Something that sends a prickle of unease skittering down my spine.
Damn it.
Behind me, Emma clears her throat, subtly nudging me.
“ Right ,” she says, dragging out the word. “Shall we?”
“We shall ,” Jas hums.
I exhale, ignoring the urge to glance back at him one last time as I turn on my heel, following my friends as we move further down the deck.
But as I walk away, a nagging feeling curls in my stomach.
A certainty that he’s not done with me yet. That this isn’t over.
And that there’s no way in hell he’s going to let me have the upper hand for long.