Chapter Twenty-Seven
Poppy
T he party is in full swing, the sun sinking lower in the sky and casting a golden glow over the yacht’s pristine deck. Champagne flows endlessly, music thrums through the air, and everywhere I look, there’s another person who looks like they stepped straight out of a fashion campaign - flawless, sun-kissed, and effortlessly elegant.
The kind of people who always seem perfectly put together, as if they float through life without ever breaking a sweat or second-guessing themselves.
It’s the kind of thing I should be soaking up, the kind of atmosphere that should be making me feel like I’m in some ridiculous, once-in-a-lifetime dream.
Instead, I feel irritated.
More specifically, I feel irritated because across the deck - surrounded by a group of people practically tripping over themselves to kiss the ground he walks on - is Frederic Moreau.
He’s currently seated in the middle of a group of men who look like they just stepped off a private jet from some exclusive European retreat, talking easily, his drink hanging effortlessly in his hand like he hasn’t got a care in the world .
And the way everyone is acting around him - the subtle leaning in, the eager nodding, the way even the most self-assured people seem desperate for his attention - makes my skin itch.
It’s like they think the sun shines because of him, like his mere presence is some kind of rare privilege.
And he looks completely at ease with it.
Not surprised, not uncomfortable. Just like he belongs there. Like he expects it, even.
But what really grates on me are the women.
Tall, impossibly elegant, and polished to absolute perfection, each of them looks as though they were simply born knowing how to exist in places like this.
Their hair is unashamedly glossy, their makeup is subtle but immaculate, and their dresses - all silk and chiffon - slip over their figures like they were poured into them.
I’ve never been the type to compare myself to other women. Never been the type to feel insecure just because someone else is beautiful.
But these women are on a whole other level.
Honestly - I’d struggle to pick which one is the most beautiful. But at the same time, there’s something strangely similar about them. Their features are all just alike enough to make it almost eerie - the same sculpted cheekbones, the same perfectly arched brows, the same full, glossy lips.
Like they were all crafted from the same blueprint, variations of a theme.
I can’t quite put my finger on why, but the more I look, the more uncanny it seems .
Not that it matters. The point is, they’re all effortlessly gorgeous, all seemingly perfect, and all gravitating towards him.
One of them - statuesque, brunette, with razor-sharp cheekbones and legs that don’t quit - leans in with a lilting laugh, tilting her head just so and flipping her hair back over one shoulder. Her manicured hand lands lightly on his forearm, her fingers brushing against his skin in a way that’s entirely too familiar.
I narrow my eyes, unable to hide the disgust on my features.
How utterly ridiculous.
Not that I can blame her, really. He’s not exactly discouraging it. He might not have been hanging off them, but I’ve not seen him shutting them down, either.
Instead, he just… well, sits there, looking perfectly at ease and letting them fawn over him like it’s all part of the job.
Like it’s expected. Like it happens all the time.
In reality, it probably does.
And that thought irritates me more than it should.
The girls chatter around me, and I clench my jaw as I glare down into my champagne flute, willing myself to focus on something - anything - else.
But it’s impossible.
For someone who claims to be a very busy, very serious F1 driver, he seems to have a lot of free time to play the role of Monaco’s resident playboy.
Just as I tell myself I’m absolutely not going to look again, I make the mistake of glancing up -
And that’s when it happens .
His sharp blue eyes lift, flicking directly to mine as if he felt me watching him.
Followed by that damn smirk.
I bristle immediately, my body tensing on instinct.
I hate him. I hate him so much .
I don’t even bother to take another sip of my champagne before setting the glass down a little harder than necessary.
“I need the bathroom,” I announce, standing up abruptly.
Jas, Leah, and Emma don’t even glance up from their conversation.
“Go for it,” Jas says distractedly.
Perfect.
I just need five minutes. Five minutes to reset, cool down, and not let that smirk live rent-free in my head.
But as I walk towards the inside of the yacht, I swear I can feel those bright blue eyes burning into the back of me.
* * *
As I weave my way through the yacht - past clusters of people so polished and put together that they might as well belong to some elite Monaco social club - I can’t shake the feeling creeping up my spine.
It’s a tingle, first. A prickle.
Like I’m being watched.
The rational part of me says I’m imagining it. That after one too many encounters, my brain is primed to expect him at every turn, twisting every shadow and every glance into him.
But then I catch a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye.
A figure, dark and familiar, moving just behind me.
I keep walking, winding my way further around the yacht, the warm ocean breeze kissing my skin.
But each time I steal another glance, there he is.
Still following.
Still watching.
My pulse skitters against my ribs, my heart hammering a beat I don’t quite understand. It’s not fear - not exactly.
It’s something else; something restless and buzzing beneath the surface, making my skin feel too tight, too aware.
I should be annoyed. I should be irritated.
Instead, I feel something dangerously close to excited .
God, what the fuck is wrong with me?
I tell myself I’m being ridiculous. That maybe he’s just heading in the same direction. That there are plenty of people on this yacht and just because he happens to be moving in the same path as me doesn’t mean I’m being followed.
Doesn’t mean he’s hunting me down.
Still, my pulse pounds in my ears, my body humming with an energy I can’t place.
The warmth of the party is a distant memory as I step onto the lower deck, where the air is cooler, quieter. The muffled thrum of music and laughter is dulled, replaced by the soft lapping of the ocean against the hull.
I exhale slowly, trying to shake the feeling crawling up my spine.
But I still feel it .
The weight of being watched .
I come to a stop, my breath uneven, every nerve in my body buzzing.
And then, slowly, I turn.
My heart is practically in my throat, my body tight with adrenaline, skin prickling in anticipation as I brace myself to see him.
To find him, to catch him in the act, to -
Oh.
He’s gone.
It’s just the dimly lit hallway behind me, empty and still.
There’s no dark silhouette, no piercing blue eyes watching me from the shadows.
Nothing.
I swallow hard, my heartbeat slamming against my ribs as I force a slow breath in through my nose, relief coursing through me.
Or… disappointment ?
No. That’s ridiculous.
I shake my head, scolding myself for whatever the hell this is, and move forward, my heels clicking softly against the dark wood floor as I enter a hallway lined with sleek, closed doors.
Finally . Surely a bathroom has to be down here somewhere.
I trail my fingers along the smooth wall, glancing at the elegant brass handles, debating which door to try first. I reach for one -
And before I can even react, a strong hand wraps around my wrist .
Warm. Firm.
Unrelenting.
A sharp gasp catches in my throat, but before the sound can escape, another hand clamps over my mouth, effectively silencing me.
My pulse slams against my ribs as I’m pulled firm and fast through an open doorway, the world tilting as I stumble backwards.
The door clicks shut behind us, trapping me in sudden, suffocating silence.
Heat. Strength.
Him.