Chapter Fifty-Seven
Frederic
T he world narrows to one thing.
The car.
The cockpit is a second skin, the hum of the engine a living, breathing thing that pulses beneath my fingertips, vibrates through my bones.
I don’t think.
I just drive.
Each corner, each turn, each adjustment is instinct - muscle memory honed over years, sharpened to perfection.
I flick the radio toggle.
"How’s the balance?" My engineer’s voice crackles through the comms.
"Good," I reply, my voice steady despite the way my heart slams against my ribs. "Rear is a little light on entry, but manageable."
"Copy. Mode push now, we need a hot lap for data."
I shift up, foot flat to the floor, engine roaring as I tear down the straight .
Everything disappears.
The pressure. The noise. The expectation.
It’s just me and the car.
I feel everything.
The bite of the brakes as I dive into the next turn.
The snap of grip as I kiss the apex.
The slingshot acceleration as I rocket out, perfectly lined up for the next corner.
I live for this.
For the risk. For the speed.
For the split-second decisions that make the difference between winning and losing.
And yet, for the first time in my life, I’m struggling not to think about something else.
About her .
The fucking disaster of a woman who’s somehow managed to crawl under my skin, into my mind.
The woman who’s wrecked me.
Last night, I held my phone in my hand, watching her come undone just for me.
I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.
About her breathless whimpers. About the way her body shook, trembled and begged for more.
I should be focused. I should be thinking about the race, about the championship, about the thousands of fans watching, the millions of dollars riding on this weekend.
But all I can think about is her hands on my body .
Her lips against my throat.
Her voice, wrecked and breathless, whispering my fucking name.
And then, I see her.
Through the glass of the VIP lounge, just beyond the pit lane.
Her dress is white, a contrast against the deep bronze of her sun-kissed skin. Her blonde hair cascades over one shoulder, and her fingers rest on the railing as she leans forward slightly, watching the screen.
She doesn’t even see me. Doesn’t realise that I’ve spotted her.
And yet, I feel it.
A pull, like gravity.
She’s the one thing capable of distracting me, and fuck , that’s dangerous.
I exhale sharply, forcing myself to look away, gripping the wheel tighter.
Not now. Not yet.
I’ve got laps to finish, a race to prepare for.
But later?
Later, I’ll make her mine.
* * *
The air is thick with the buzz of the weekend.
The Saturday sessions are done, and the paddock is alive with movement - engineers analysing data, mechanics making final adjustments, media teams swarming for last-minute interviews.
And the drivers ?
We’re expected to mingle.
Sponsors. Team executives. VIPs who have no real business in the sport but whose money keeps everything running.
I should be focused on that, but instead, I’m checking my fucking phone.
She hasn’t messaged me back.
She was there. I saw her .
But then she was gone, out of sight completely.
Where the fuck did she go?
I grit my teeth, shoving the thought away as I take a sip of my drink, barely paying attention to whatever the hell this conversation is about.
Some ex-driver-turned-analyst is talking about strategy for tomorrow. Next to him, a major sponsor nods along like he has any idea what he’s agreeing with.
I nod at the right moments. Smirk at a joke I barely hear. Play the role.
Then -
"Monsieur Moreau?” I turn, arching a brow at the newcomer - a suited staff member, one of the event coordinators, judging by the badge clipped to his lapel. “A word, please ."
I lower my glass as I step to one side.
"Where is she?" I ask immediately, cutting straight to the point. "Did you find her?"
He hesitates for a moment before he finally answers.
"Yes, but… she said no ."
For a split second, I think I misheard.
" What ?"
My voice is flat. Cold, even.
The staff member shifts uncomfortably as I wait for him to explain.
"Madame Taylor,” he clarifies. “She… declined the invitation, sir."
I go completely still.
She said no ?
She refused to come to me ?
The words don’t compute.
I don’t know what kind of game she’s trying to play here, but I’m not dealing with this crap.
Nobody tells me no.
My jaw clenches as my grip on my glass tightens.
The staff member, wisely, doesn’t say anything else.
"Where is she now?"
My voice is measured and even, but beneath it, I’m fucking furious .
"She returned to the Paddock Lounge."
I nod once, dismissing him without another word.
Because I need to find her.
Now.
* * *
I move fast.
Through the venue. Past the waiters, past security, past the lingering guests and the team members .
A few people glance at me as I walk by, curious and confused.
I don’t fucking care.
The staff at the entrance of the Paddock Lounge shift awkwardly as I approach, shooting me a confused look.
I don’t belong in this section. Not anymore. They know that I should be in my own space; with my team, with my sponsors.
Instead, I push straight past them without a word.
Nobody stops me.
Nobody dares .
I step inside, and my eyes find her immediately.
She’s sitting comfortably with her friends, drink in hand and looking completely at ease.
Like she didn’t just reject me. Like she wasn’t supposed to be somewhere else - with me.
I scan over the crowd that she’s with and spot that Jacques is there too.
A brunette - one of Poppy’s friends, I think - is perched on his lap, and fucking hell , he must be almost twenty years her senior. His friends are there too, though keeping a wide berth from the other girls, who clearly aren’t interested.
And then, there’s her .
She hasn’t recognised my presence yet, and she’s still sitting with her back against the couch and laughing at something that one of the girls has said. She’s sitting comfortably - relaxed, and looking very much like she belongs.
Like she didn’t just test me.
I move without thinking, striding over without hesitation. Her eyes lift, and she sees me .
For a split second, I catch it - the way her eyes widen, giving her away.
But then her lips curve into a soft, sweet smile; and when she greets me, her voice is sickeningly polite.
I don’t return the smile.
Jacques, on the other hand, is fucking delighted .
"The man of the hour!" He grins, lifting his glass in an exaggerated toast. "Congratulations, mon frère . Beautiful performance out there today!"
Around the table, the others murmur their agreement.
Attention shifts. All eyes on me.
I know that Jacques expects me to sit by him. Hell, he probably thinks that I’m here for him.
It’s what he wants - what he’s always wanted.
For years, Jacques was more than just an old family friend. He was my trainer, my mentor - the man responsible for honing my discipline, sharpening my focus and pushing me to my absolute limits.
And yet, he was never satisfied with his own place in this world.
That’s the thing about Jacques. He never wanted to be the man behind the driver.
He wanted to be the man himself.
And he’s spent his whole life trying to make that happen.
But I don’t give a fuck about what he wants, nor do I give a fuck about what anyone else expects of me.
So, I don’t sit near him.
Instead, I sit myself down right next to her .
The girls shuffle slightly on the couch. I can tell that they’re surprised by my presence and my choice of seat, so they move up, making room for me.
Not that I care. It’s hardly as if I’d be sitting anywhere else.
"Well?" Jacques prods as he leans forwards, looking over the girl who’s still very much draped over his lap. "Are you just going to sit there looking moody, or will you accept our praise?"
I exhale sharply, pasting on a smirk.
"You know me, Jacques. I’m always happy to accept praise," I say smoothly, but my eyes remain on her.
She doesn’t look at me. Instead, she stirs her drink casually, her eyes glued to it - like I’m not even there.
Fucking infuriating .
The group continues chatting, engaging in polite, easy conversation that they pull me into. They congratulate me, and I nod in thanks.
I say the right things, smirk at the right moments, but it’s like being back with the sponsors all over again.
My attention is on her, and her alone.
At some point, the brunette finally moves herself from Jacques’ lap as he heads over to the bar. She sits down beside her friends instead, and the conversation shifts.
"Everything back on track?" one of them asks her.
"He’s making an effort," the brunette says. "So we’ll see."
I take advantage of the new opportunity, closing the space between Poppy and I with an ease that makes her spine stiffen.
My voice drops into something only for her ears .
"What the hell are you playing at?"
Poppy turns her head toward me, blinking up at me like I’ve just accused her of witchcraft.
Wide eyes, parted lips, and an expression of perfect, practiced innocence.
"I don’t know what you mean," she murmurs, her tone sickeningly pleasant.
Too pleasant. Too sweet.
Too fucking smug .
My teeth grind together, my fingers curling against my knee as I fight the urge to wipe that little smirk off her face in the most satisfying way possible.
"I invited you."
"You summoned me," she corrects, her voice just as low, just as taunting. "And I was happy here. With my friends. Plus, I figured you were busy anyway - you being the man of the hour, and all." She tilts her head in a way that’s infuriatingly playful. "So what’s the issue?"
I exhale sharply through my nose, my patience hanging by a fucking thread.
"The issue," I murmur, my voice smooth and sharp as a blade, "is that nobody says no to me."
She arches a single, delicate brow.
"I’m not nobody ," she purrs, tilting her chin with a defiance that punches straight to my cock. "And I’m not your little bitch that you get to boss around."
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
My fingers twitch against my knee, aching to grip her throat, to bend her over and remind her exactly who the fuck she belongs to.
To fuck every ounce of that insolence right out of her.
Instead, I lean in, my lips brushing dangerously close to her ear, my voice sinking into something that sends a delicious little shiver down her spine.
"You are what I say you are."
Her breath catches, and I smirk.
Gotcha, sweetheart.
"And you’re mine ."
I pull back, straightening, and watch her crumble.
She’s silent, her fingers tightening subtly against the hem of her dress, her thighs pressing ever-so-slightly together.
I push to my feet, my presence towering over the group as I reach out my hand - deliberate, unmistakable, and in full view of everyone.
"Come on then, Poppy - let’s go now, before I get pulled into something else."
Her gaze snaps to mine, sharp as a blade.
For a moment, she just sits there, glaring, her fingers curled around the stem of her glass, her entire body radiating defiance.
The tension between us crackles - an invisible current, winding tighter and daring her to refuse me.
For a second, I think she will.
I think she might ignore me completely, throw another sweet, sharp-edged smile my way and leave me standing here like a fool.
But then - slowly, purposefully - she places her hand in mine .
The moment her skin touches mine, something hot and possessive coils in my gut.
She rises to her feet, graceful as ever. I watch with careful eyes as she brushes down her dress, her chin lifting slightly in challenge.
Then, turning to her friends, she flashes them a perfectly composed smile.
"I’ll see you soon."
I smirk, squeezing her hand.
That’s right, mon ange.
You can run.
But I’ll always catch you.