Chapter Fifty
Poppy
"Y ou do not text him back."
Emma’s voice cuts through the air, sharp and unwavering.
I blink up at her from where I’m curled on the bed, freshly showered and now dressed in my silk pyjamas, my damp hair wrapped up in a towel.
The girls are back, sprawled across the room like they own the place - Emma perched on the edge of the bed while Jas scrolls through her phone, though Leah is still MIA from another night with Jacques.
"I feel rude ignoring him," I say, frowning at my phone.
"Poppy, he ignored you for weeks,” Emma scoffs. “This is the first time since your break up that he’s bothered reaching out! Just because he's seen the article. You do not owe him a response."
Jas nods in agreement, not looking up from her phone.
"She’s right. If you reply, it just drags things out. He’ll think there’s a chance."
I exhale, staring at the messages again. Noah’s words sit there, waiting.
I miss you, Poppy.
It’s tempting. Not because I miss him, because I don’t , but because it’s Noah .
A person who was safe, predictable, who never made me feel like this - like my heart was constantly being tossed between a reckless free fall and a wildfire.
But Emma’s right. Jas is right.
I delete the conversation and toss my phone onto the bed.
"Fine. Cold shoulder it is."
Emma beams. "Good girl."
* * *
The suite is buzzing with activity as we get ready for a day at the beach club.
Emma rummages through her suitcase, tossing bikinis and cover-ups around like a madwoman. Jas carefully applies bronzer in the mirror, and I’m finishing up the final touches on my outfit when the door swings open and Leah strides in.
Empty-handed.
The room pauses.
After a long beat of silence, Emma quirks a brow.
"No shopping bags?” she asks, bending at the waist and pretending to search the room. “Not even a gift bag ?"
Leah scowls, dumping her sunglasses onto the table before flopping onto the couch.
"I’m not in the mood."
Jas and I exchange a look as Emma folds her arms .
"Did Jacques do something?"
Leah exhales dramatically, reaching for a throw pillow and hugging it to her chest.
"He’s just being… weird . I don’t like it"
Jas smirks, spinning her lip liner between her fingers.
" Weird how? Like, you’re-not-his-princess-anymore weird, or he’s-actually - being-financially-responsible-for-once weird?"
" Both ," Leah glares.
Interesting.
Emma perks up, grabbing her bag.
"Well, if he’s out here being a disappointment, then he’s banned from our thoughts today,” she announces. “Come on, misery arse - it’s beach club time!"
* * *
The sun is high, the ocean sparkles, and it turns out that the beach club is exactly what I need.
Luxurious loungers, soft music, and an endless stream of cold drinks is just what Monaco ordered, and I am more than content to spend the day just lounging around.
We settle into a prime spot, a shaded cabana overlooking the water.
Leah orders a mimosa, Jas applies SPF like her life depends on it, Emma scrolls through her phone, sunglasses perched on her nose -
And me?
I pull out my sketchbook.
It’s easier to distract myself with work. Easier to ignore the flurry of notifications lighting up my phone - comments under my latest post, all variations of:
"Is this Frederic's girlfriend??" "She was seen leaving his hotel!" "Omg are they dating??"
I exhale, focusing on my designs, dragging the pencil across the page in soft, deliberate strokes.
Emma, sunbathing beside me, peeks over her sunglasses.
"You’re still ignoring the comments?"
I nod. "The moment I respond, it’ll just get worse."
"True." She sighs dramatically. "But my god , the tea is piping."
I shake my head, smirking as I keep sketching, ignoring the comments.
Ignoring him .
Because the second I let myself think about Frederic Moreau, I know I’ll never stop.
Thankfully, he’s busy.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
He’s got a race to prepare for. A career that involves driving at unimaginable speeds, fine-tuning every possible fraction of a second, dealing with a team, sponsors, strategy meetings -
There’s no way he has time to be thinking about me.
And yet…
I pause mid-sketch, tapping my pencil against the page, my mind betraying me.
Because if he’s so busy, then why did he text me yesterday? Why did he take the time to call ?
Why, in the midst of his undoubtedly packed schedule, does he keep finding a way to slip into my life, into my thoughts, into my every damn breath ?
I shake my head and force my attention back to my sketchpad.
Snap out of it, Poppy.
After a while of sketching, I look up and note that Leah is tapping aggressively at her phone. It’s obvious that she’s messaging someone; her brows furrowed, her tense expression showcasing her irritation.
The perfect distraction.
“So,” I say casually, “Leah. Is Jacques still being weird?”
She looks up, her expression tight.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she mutters, taking a sip of her mimosa.
Emma raises her eyebrows, exchanging a glance with me.
Jas, on the other hand, is less subtle.
“So… that’s a yes, then.”
Leah sighs, setting down her drink. “It’s nothing. He’s just - ugh, men .”
Emma cackles. “Sweetheart, that’s not news.”
Leah rolls her eyes, picking at the edge of her napkin. “He’s just not as… attentive as he was before. I don’t know. Maybe I’m overthinking it.”
Or maybe he’s running out of ways to keep up the lie.
I keep that thought to myself, tucking it away for later. Now’s not the time.
Instead, I close my sketchbook, stretching my arms overhead.
“If he keeps acting weird, just remember - we have VIP access to the Grand Prix this weekend. So, worst case scenario? You’ll have a great view while looking hot.”
“Now that is a valid point,” Leah snorts.
The mood lightens, Emma lifting her glass. “To VIP tickets and not dating weird, emotionally unavailable men.”
Jas lifts hers. “Cheers to that.”
I clink my glass against theirs, smiling -
But the moment is short-lived.
Because just as I take a sip of my drink, my phone vibrates.
I glance down, and my stomach flips.
It’s him - of course it’s him. Finally.
What are you up to, mon ange?
I bite my lip to prevent my smile from spreading wide, my fingers tightening around my glass.
Ignoring him, huh?
Yeah - that lasted all of five minutes.
Still, what am I supposed to say to that?
Oh, you know, just sketching, ignoring gossip articles about us, pretending I don’t care that you’ve completely taken up residence in my mind rent-free and acting as though I haven’t been desperately waiting to hear from you while relentlessly checking my phone.
Yeah. No .
I take a slow sip of my drink, debating my response when Emma suddenly gasps loud enough to turn heads.
“Oh my god.”
I jolt, my phone slipping slightly in my grip .
“What?”
She doesn’t answer.
Instead, she squeals and violently slaps Jas’ arm, pointing over toward a screen mounted above the bar.
There, in high definition -
Is Frederic fucking Moreau.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I mutter.
Emma shushes me, leaning forward as if she’s about to uncover state secrets.
“Be quiet. I’m listening.”
Jas snorts. “You don’t speak French.”
“Oh, give over,” Emma waves her off. “You don’t have to understand what they’re saying when they look like that .”
I roll my eyes as she tilts her head, blatantly admiring him.
It’s clearly a press interview - he’s dressed in his team gear, a microphone in front of him as he effortlessly answers the interviewer’s questions. His brows are slightly furrowed, lips slightly parted as he speaks, and even I - who should be immune to him by now - have to admit he looks obnoxiously good.
It’s not fair. It’s actually rude .
I force myself to look away, exhaling sharply as I pick up my phone and type out a response to his message.
Trying to escape you.
I snap a quick picture of the television screen and send it, smirking triumphantly to myself.
One thing’s for certain - he wouldn’t have been expecting that .
Almost instantly, my phone vibrates, and I peer down at his response.
Not doing a very good job, are you?
I roll my eyes, shaking my head, but I don’t get a chance to reply, because another message appears.
Your legs look lovely, by the way.
Though I have to ask - why aren’t you wearing the swimsuit I bought you?
I pause, glancing down at my legs, stretched out on the sun lounger. I hadn’t even staged them particularly well on the photo since I had been trying to snap it so quickly in order to get a clear shot of his zoomed-in face.
Still, I bite back a smirk, fingers moving quickly across the keyboard.
I have my own designs to promote, remember?
It’s hardly a lie - I do still have content to film.
Monaco is a dream setting for my brand, and I’d be stupid not to take full advantage of it while I’m here. The elegant architecture, the pristine beaches, the endless displays of wealth and sophistication - it all fits seamlessly into the aesthetic I’ve been carefully curating for months.
Since old money luxury is the exact vibe I’m going for, there’s no better place to promote it than here , where every street corner, every hotel lobby, every sun-drenched terrace looks like it belongs in a high-fashion editorial.
And if there’s one thing I’ve learned about social media, it’s that people buy into the fantasy.
He responds to my message, and I feel my chest physically tighten as I read his words .
A shame. You’d look beautiful in it.
Content might be my main argument, but deep down, I can admit to myself that’s not entirely the reason I didn’t wear his gift today.
And… maybe I can admit it to him, too. After all, I don’t want him to get the wrong impression, or think that I don’t like the set he bought for me.
Besides, I don’t want to ruin it with my fake tan.
There’s a long pause before his response comes through.
Your tan isn’t real?
I grin, shaking my head. Talk about unobservant.
You can’t honestly think I got this golden and even from the London sun.
A part of me had been worried that my tan would have rubbed slightly onto the pristine white sheets in his suite, but apparently, I’m in the clear.
That, or housekeeping staff changed them before he had a chance to notice.
I can’t decide if I’m disappointed or impressed.
I almost laugh at that .
Let’s go with impressed .
His response is near immediate.
Fine. But I will be inspecting those legs of yours for streaks.
I laugh under my breath, my stomach flipping against my will.
Emma catches the sound and looks over, her eyes narrowing.
“Who are you texting?” she asks, suspicious .
I snap my phone up to my chest. “No one.”
Her eyes widen. “It’s him , isn’t it?”
Jas perks up. “Oh my god, are you sexting him right now ?”
“What?! No !”
Emma grins, raising her brows. “Not yet , you mean.”
I sigh heavily, ignoring them completely.
And as I type out my next response to Frederic, I can’t deny it -
I’m completely in over my head.