Chapter Fifty-Two
Poppy
T he energy in the suite is electric.
The last few days have been lovely and relaxed, but it’s Friday morning, the first day of the Monaco Grand Prix weekend, and we’re all caught up in the thrill of it.
The windows have been pushed wide open, letting in the warm Mediterranean air, and the sound of Emma’s music playlist blasts through the speakers as we get ready.
I smooth my hands down the fabric of my dress - another piece I designed myself. It’s elegant yet effortless in a soft lemon colour; the kind of dress that could belong in a vintage photograph of Monaco’s heyday.
With a structured bodice, delicate straps, and a slightly flared skirt that ends mid-thigh, it’s perfect.
I pair it with slingback heels and my Cartier bracelet, the gold glinting under the sunlight. My hair is styled into loose waves, my makeup minimal but polished, and I’m so happy with how it all turned out that I could cry.
Not that I will, of course. I spent far too long on my make-up for that .
Leah - who is still, somehow, in Jacques’ good graces - wears an ensemble that screams money: a designer dress, oversized sunglasses and sky-high stilettos. Emma and Jas follow suit, dressed immaculately, but in a way that feels uniquely them .
Jas scrolls through her phone as she touches up her lipstick.
“Frederic texted you about a driver, didn’t he?”
I swipe mascara through my lashes.
“Yeah,” I nod. “But you already booked the car - right?”
“Correct,” Jas nods.
“Bet he loved that,” Emma smirks.
“He seemed fine,” I say casually, grabbing my bag.
“Sure he did,” Jas laughs.
Emma lowers her sunglasses to look at me, an amused glint in her eyes.
“You know, for a man who drives like his life depends on it, it’s cute that he wants you chauffeured around like a princess .”
I roll my eyes. “He’s just being thoughtful.”
“ Thoughtful ,” Emma echoes, clearly not buying it. “Sure.”
* * *
The car ride to the venue is an absolute nightmare.
The traffic is insane - which, in hindsight, should have been expected. It’s Monaco, it’s race weekend, and we’re heading to the most prestigious event of the year.
“I don’t know why you all look so stressed,” Leah sighs dramatically. “This is all just part of the experience.”
“I feel like I’m suffocating,” Emma groans, fanning herself .
“Jas, are you sure we don’t want to call Frederic’s driver after all?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“We’re nearly there now,” she says as she checks the map on her phone. “Besides, we’re already in a nice car, Poppy. What difference would it make?”
I don’t argue.
Still, a part of me wonders what it would’ve been like if I’d just let him handle it. The way he takes control of things so effortlessly, the way he makes everything feel easy…
No. Focus.
* * *
Finally, we arrive.
The moment we step out of the car, it’s like stepping into an entirely different world.
The energy is electric, the buzz of conversation blending with the distant roar of engines. The crowd is a mix of celebrities, influencers, socialites, and die-hard motorsport fans, all dressed in their most impeccable designer outfits. Photographers, journalists and fans with cameras are everywhere, scanning the arrivals, trying to catch glimpses of drivers and VIPs.
Luxury yachts line the harbour, banners displaying sponsors’ logos wave in the breeze, and the air smells expensive - perfume, champagne and the metallic tang of the racetrack.
“Jacques sent over instructions for the VIP section,” Leah says. “It looks like we have access to the Paddock Lounge.”
“Which means?” Emma asks.
“Luxury hospitality, private bars, and some of the best views of the track,” Leah grins .
We head toward the VIP entrance, security filtering out the general crowd as we make our way through.
The process is seamless - VIP tickets mean no lines and no waiting: just exclusivity. Staff in crisp uniforms guide us past the throngs of people, scanning our passes before ushering us through sleek, glass-paneled doors.
Inside, the VIP area is stunning .
A spacious, elevated lounge with panoramic views of the track. White leather seating, golden accents, and waiters circulating with trays of champagne and gourmet hors d’oeuvres.
The large screens display live footage from the practice runs, and a DJ spins soft house music in the background.
This isn’t just a sporting event - it’s a spectacle.
And somehow, I’m here .
“Okay, Jacques, I take back every bad thing I ever said about you,” Emma says, her eyes widening as she glances around.
“Don’t lie,” Jas snorts.
* * *
I adjust my sunglasses, tilting my head back slightly as I sip on a perfectly chilled glass of champagne.
The Paddock Lounge is beyond anything I expected. Every inch of it oozes exclusivity, and we have been well and truly spoiled.
One thing’s for certain - Jacques really came through, after all.
The decor in the lounge is sleek and minimalist, and I now understand that the floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of the pit lane and the paddock below. Waiters seem to just constantly be gliding effortlessly through the space, offering fresh glasses of champagne, cocktails and an array of absurdly fancy hors d’oeuvres - mini caviar tarts, smoked salmon blinis and delicate truffle-infused bites.
It’s insane.
The atmosphere is a mix of calm sophistication and underlying excitement. The calm before the storm, I think.
On the massive screens surrounding the lounge, the broadcast is already showing footage of the pit lane. The first Free Practice session begins in less than twenty minutes, and engineers in team uniforms move quickly around the garages, mechanics work on last-minute car setups, and the drivers are starting to appear.
“Jacques says the paddock area is completely locked down before the sessions,” Leah says as she scrolls through her phone. “The drivers have to go straight from the motorhomes to the garage.”
Emma exhales dramatically as she peers out of the window.
“So you’re telling me Poppy doesn’t get to run up to Frederic for a pre-race good luck kiss?”
I nearly choke on my champagne. “Are you insane ?”
“I mean, it would be very WAG of you,” Jas smirks.
“ Ugh. And who says I want to be a WAG?”
“You kind of are, ” Leah says. “Besides, I bet he’d like it.”
“I bet the cameras would like it more,” Emma grins.
I pointedly ignore them and glance down at the paddock, watching as a group of mechanics move towards the garage, preparing for the session. My gaze flickers across the area - Red Bull, Ferrari, McLaren - every team working in precise synchronisation.
I try and play it cool, but as the conversation goes on, my eyes keep flicking towards the window and down at the paddock, my heart skipping at each false glimpse.
But then, I see him.
Frederic.
He moves into view like a scene from a damn movie.
The race suit clings to his tall, powerful frame, the iconic black and silver fabric unzipped at the front. The sleeves are tied low around his waist, revealing the tight, black compression shirt that stretches over every lean, honed muscle of his torso.
I have never seen him like this before.
Not in his element. Not as this version of Frederic Moreau: the driver, the athlete, the competitor .
His broad shoulders roll back as he walks, his posture effortlessly confident. It’s the kind of confidence that comes with knowing you belong exactly where you are - the kind that demands attention without needing to ask for it.
And heaven help me - I am paying attention.
Even from up here, even through the glass, I can see the intensity in his gaze, the way his jaw tightens as he listens to someone speaking beside him, the way the sunlight catches against the damp strands of his dark hair - slightly tousled, like he’s just pulled off his helmet or run his hands through it in thought.
A team member hands him a bottle of water, and he takes it without looking, his grip strong, assured. My eyes wander everywhere, all at once; trailing over the veins subtly flexing along his forearm as he twists the cap and takes a sip .
And that should not be as attractive as it is.
But fuck .
The way his throat bobs when he swallows, the way he runs the back of his wrist across his mouth before tossing the bottle to another team member -
It does something to me that I can’t even begin to unpack.
He barely acknowledges the people around him, completely locked in, completely focused.
But for the first time, I see it.
I see the switch - the shift from the arrogant, teasing, insufferably charming man who texts me like he has all the time in the world, to this version of him.
The machine .
And I am absolutely staring.
I don’t even realise it - don’t realise how I’ve gone completely silent, don’t realise that I’m clutching my champagne glass a little too tightly.
Not until Leah leans in beside me, following my gaze.
“Oh,” she smirks. “There’s your man.”
Emma spins so fast she nearly spills her drink. “Wait, where ?”
I snap out of it, quickly looking away, but it’s too late - the damage is done.
All of the girls turn to look in his direction, and Jas hums, sounding slightly amused.
“Kind of surreal, huh?” she says.
I exhale, pressing my lips together. Honestly, surreal is an understatement .
Because that’s him .
Not the man who spent the night whispering filth in my ear, not the man who ordered me breakfast in bed, not the man who texts me casually as if we’re just two normal people.
No - that’s Frederic Moreau, the F1 driver.
The man who belongs to this world in a way I never will.