Chapter Sixty-Four
Poppy
T he moment he crosses the line, the entire venue erupts.
Cheers, screams, claps - every sound blends together in a deafening roar of victory.
My hands fly to my mouth, my heart slamming against my ribs as the reality of what just happened crashes into me.
He won.
Frederic fucking Moreau won .
"Oh my God!" Emma shrieks, grabbing my arm and shaking it wildly. "He did it! He actually did it!"
Jas is laughing beside me, just as thrilled, but all I can do is stare at the screen, at his name flashing in gold above the words P1 – Winner , at the image of his car screaming across the finish line, and then - at him .
The camera zooms in on the garage, where his team is going absolutely feral, leaping over barriers, throwing their arms around each other. And then, there he is - pulling into parc fermé , his hands still gripping the wheel, his chest heaving beneath his fireproofs .
I exhale a breathless laugh, sheer relief coursing through me.
God - I was so tense, so wound up watching those final laps.
But he did it. He won.
And fuck , I’m so proud of him.
“I need a picture of you right now, ” Jas announces, already pulling out her phone. “Stand over there - no, there , where we can get the screen in the background.”
I don’t even argue. I feel as though I’m floating on air, and I just go where she tells me, stepping out onto the VIP balcony.
The moment is still sinking in - the fact that he won , the fact that I’m here , that I just watched the man I’ve been falling into this whirlwind with take first place at the Monaco Grand Prix.
Jas snaps the photo as I beam at the camera, the giant screen behind me frozen on Frederic’s face, his triumphant smirk beneath his helmet, the word WINNER in bold above his head.
“Oh, that’s fucking perfect ,” Jas grins, showing me the screen.
It is perfect.
And it’s only going to get better.
* * *
The girls and I push back into the lounge, drinks in hand, giddy with excitement as we watch the screens showing Frederic being mobbed by his team.
They crowd around him, embracing him, clapping him on the back, helmets colliding in celebration. His race engineer practically tackles him, and for the first time ever, I see Frederic completely lose himself in emotion - laughing, exhilarated and totally unguarded .
He’s pulled away for press almost immediately. Someone turns up the volume on the screen in the lounge, and suddenly, his voice is filtering through the speakers.
He’s switched to English for one of the interviews, still breathless as he runs a hand through his sweaty, dark hair. His race suit clings to him, unzipped just enough to show a teasing glimpse of golden skin, his body still taut from the adrenaline.
I hate how effortlessly good he looks like this.
“I couldn’t have done it without my team,” he’s saying, his voice smooth but firm. “They put in everything this weekend. The car felt incredible - strategy was spot on, pit stops were perfect.”
The interviewer asks him about the pressure in those final laps, and Frederic just smirks.
“It was tough, but I thrive off pressure. That’s when the best moments happen.”
The girls are nodding along, all glued to the screen; and then, the next question comes.
"And who is this win for?"
Frederic’s lips curve into something knowing, something wicked.
His gaze flicks away from the reporter - just for a second.
Then -
"This is for my family; my team; and my girlfriend, Poppy."
The world stops.
My heart stops.
I don’t even react for a solid three seconds .
But the girls?
Oh, they lose their minds .
Emma literally screams. Jas claps a hand over her mouth, cackling. Meanwhile, Leah - who has just reappeared in the lounge, after dipping in and out most of the afternoon - nearly drops her drink.
And me?
I just sit there, stunned , heat rushing to my face as Frederic’s words echo over and over in my head.
My girlfriend, Poppy.
I feel like I’ve just been launched into another dimension. Because what the fuck -
I’m his what now?