Chapter Thirty-Two
Frederic
P oppy Taylor.
Even as I stride through the yacht, my head is full of her.
I can still taste her. Feel her.
The heat of her skin, the way she trembled beneath me, the way she fought me even as she surrendered so sweetly in the end.
I knew it would be good. But fuck , it was better .
Better than I even let myself imagine.
And I’d imagined.
Ever since I first saw her, since she stole my fucking car, since she sneered at me like I was the biggest inconvenience in her life, she’s been under my skin. A little too much.
Less than a week. That’s all it’s been.
And in that time, she’s done nothing but consume me.
Monaco is small, yes. A city of little more than two square kilometers. A place where you expect to run into the same people .
But this?
This feels deliberate .
Like the universe has been having a laugh at my expense, throwing her in my path at every turn, dangling her in front of me like some cruel, impossible temptation.
And I fell. Hard .
I exhale sharply, rubbing my jaw, rolling my shoulders back as I refocus.
Later. I’ll let myself dwell on her later.
Right now, I have a different problem to deal with.
I push my way through the crowd, my irritation sharpening with every step.
I already know where Jacques is, and I already know who he’s with.
When I step onto the lower deck, I find them exactly where I expect.
Three men. Well-dressed, but not the kind of polished wealth you see in places like this.
Their suits don’t quite fit right. The watches they wear are almost convincing.
Almost .
They don’t belong here.
And yet, somehow, they’re on my family’s yacht.
I don’t know how the fuck they got on board. Everyone is supposed to be vetted, logged, ID-checked - but that doesn’t matter now.
What matters is resolving this mess .
Jacques stands at the centre of them, leaning against the bar like he doesn’t have a single care in the world.
He smirks when he sees me.
The men glance over, assessing me quickly, though their expressions don’t shift much. Not immediately, anyway.
“All right,” I say smoothly, rolling my wrist as I slide my hands into my pockets. “Let’s get this over with.”
One of the men tilts his head, dark brows lifting slightly.
“Ah,” he muses. “The great Frederic Moreau.”
I offer him a humourless smile. “The one and only.”
“Didn’t expect you to be the one handling Jacques’ problems,” he remarks.
“ Someone has to,” I reply, leveling a sharp look at Jacques, who still looks far too relaxed for my liking.
One of the others chuckles, shaking his head.
“We don’t want trouble, monsieur,” the first man continues. “Only what we’re owed.”
I exhale through my nose, nodding. “How much?”
“Fifteen thousand.”
I don’t react. What’s the point? It will only bring them unnecessary satisfaction.
I take the cardfrom the shorter one's extended hand. This isn't my first rodeo - I know the drill now - and so I pull my phone out of my pocket, open my banking app, and start transferring the money.
The men watch me carefully, as if expecting me to argue. I don’t.
Because this isn’t about money .
Formula One pays well. Generational wealth pays even better.
And this is about something else entirely.
This is about Jacques being a fucking liability, again .
After a few moments, my phone buzzes, confirming the transaction. The first man checks his own, then nods, taking back the card with the details on it and sliding it back into his pocket.
“All settled,” I say, my voice cool, composed. “And if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it if you stayed the fuck off my yacht in future.”
One of them smirks. “No need to be unfriendly, monsieur.”
I arch a brow, my lips twitching into something that is definitely not a smile.
“No need to fall overboard, either,” I counter. “But we’re still out at sea, so you never know.”
Their amusement fades slightly.
The first man nods once, then glances at Jacques.
“I’d say it’s been a pleasure,” he muses.
Jacques grins, ever the fucking idiot.
The men move to leave us be, and I wait until they’re out of sight before turning to Jacques, my patience fraying rapidly.
“What the fuck have you been playing at?” I demand, my voice sharp, slicing through the space between us.
“ Relax ,” he says lazily. “You’re so fucking dramatic.”
I step closer, my jaw tightening.
“ Dramatic ?” I repeat, my voice lower, lethal. “I just had to bail your ass out. Again . ”
“It wasn’t that serious,” he scoffs.
“Not that serious?” I echo, exhaling sharply. “They're on my fucking yacht, Jacques. This is shit I don't need."
"Right, but -"
"Tell me," I interrupt swiftly. "Does the girl who’s been draped all over you the past few days know that you’re a broke fucking cocaine addict ?”
Jacques’ smirk falters.
But I don’t stop.
I’m beyond pissed with him.
It’s one thing when he’s spending relentlessly on my credit card to treat himself and fuck knows who else. It’s one thing when he’s organising these ridiculous parties and events at my family’s villa and on my family’s yacht.
It’s another thing entirely when he’s bringing trouble with him.
I step in closer, my voice dropping to something that is pure, unfiltered warning.
“Because if she doesn’t,” I murmur, tilting my head slightly, “maybe I should be the one to tell her.”
His jaw clenches.
For a second, just a second, something flickers across his expression - something resembling real fucking fear.
Good .
Then, just as quickly, he exhales, shaking his head with an easy grin.
“You wouldn’t.”
I hold his gaze, letting the silence stretch long enough to make him think about it.
Then, finally, I smirk. I don’t say another word as I turn and walk away.
Let him stew in it. Let him wonder .
I storm back up to the main deck, irritation burning hot in my veins.
I need a drink - a real one. Not that I can, though.
Not now. Not ten days before Monaco.
Not with my career, my sponsors, my future hanging in the balance.
I exhale sharply, rolling my shoulders as I return to where my group of friends are all still sat, lounging around without a care in the world. Bastien looks up as I approach, his smirk already in place.
“Well?” he drawls. “Trouble in paradise?”
I ignore him.
étienne watches me carefully, eyes flickering with mild concern.
“What happened?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I say shortly.
Renaud arches a brow. “That was fast.”
“It was handled.”
Jacques might be a fucking idiot, but he’s my fucking idiot, and like it or not, I always handle it.
Even when I shouldn’t.
I exhale slowly, forcing my frustration down.
I should be focusing on the race. I should be pushing Jacques and his bullshit out of my head.
But as I glance up, my eyes scanning the crowd, they land on her .
Poppy.
She’s returned to the deck, and she’s currently seated over with her friends. Her blonde hair is catching in the breeze, the silk of her dress shifting over her skin.
She’s not looking at me, but my breath slows all the same.
The rest of the noise - the music, the people, the conversation - fades into nothing.
It’s just her .
And me.
And a pull so fucking strong, I think it might rip me apart.