Chapter Thirteen
Frederic
T his is going to be painful.
I exhale slowly, rolling my shoulders back as I watch the staff scurry around me, setting up drinks, food, and - apparently - an entire fucking event at my family’s home.
There are florists setting up arrangements, caterers unloading crates of expensive liquor, and a DJ testing sound levels out on the terrace.
I drag a hand down my face.
Jacques had practically begged me to host everyone here tonight, insisting that it was the perfect spot for a Grand Prix kick-off party.
I’d been reluctant. I’d almost said no.
But by the time Jacques had told me about it, the guest list had been finalised, the caterers had already been secured, and the so-called event of the week was already set in motion. He had no other venue in mind, because why would he, when he knew I’d cave in the end?
So, I relented. What fucking choice did I have?
I glance around at the familiar halls of my family’s Monaco estate. It’s not mine - not technically, anyway. It’s one of the many Moreau family homes; a sprawling, historic mansion tucked away in one of the city’s most elite neighbourhoods.
My parents rarely use it anymore. I come from a family that collects real estate the way others collect fine wine, and they have their main residences in Paris, London, Geneva, and New York.
It’s a good job, really. Because right now, my family’s home is being turned into a playground for Monaco’s elite - and Jacques’ latest batch of guests.
Heaven only knows if he’s actually paying for any of this.
The thought is enough to make my jaw tighten. It’s not that I can’t afford it - I’m more than good for it. Formula One pays well - very well, even - but honestly, most of my money comes from generational wealth. I was born into privilege, raised in it, so the cost isn’t the issue.
It’s the fucking expectation .
Because I know how Jacques operates. I know his tricks.
He’ll organise big events like these, he’ll book out entire beach clubs and make sure that no expense is spared when it comes to food and drink. He’s taken dozens of women on luxury shopping trips, flown them out to expensive resorts, booked five-star suites and draped them in Chanel and Cartier - all under the guise of his own generosity.
But when the bill arrives, it’s my card that’s charged.
It’s happened so many times that I’ve stopped keeping count, each time just as irritating as the last.
Still… he’s sober. At least as far as I know.
And that's what matters.
Jacques has stayed away from cocaine for a good few months now. He’s still reckless, still a leech, still chasing the high of partying with the rich and famous - but if all it costs me is money, then so fucking what?
At least he’s healthy.
At least he’s alive.
“You look miserable,” Jacques’ voice cuts through my thoughts, pulling me back to the present.
I glance at him. He’s already got a whiskey in hand - of course he does - and a knowing smirk pulling at his lips.
“You’re lucky I’m even here,” I reply dryly, taking a sip of my water.
“Oh, come on. You love it. The biggest pre-race party in Monaco, and it’s all in your honour.”
“It’s in your honour,” I correct him. “You’re the one who planned this disaster. I just happen to own the fucking house.”
Jacques chuckles, clapping a hand on my shoulder.
“ Exactly . And what’s the point of having all this, hm? You can’t just lock yourself away in training camps forever. You need to let loose. Enjoy yourself. Drink. Dance. Get laid.”
I arch a brow. “Is that what you’ve been doing?”
His grin widens, his eyes glinting.
“Well… I did spend last night with the brunette.”
The brunette.
I remember her from the beach club -
Because she was sitting with the blonde.
My blonde.
The hot, sharp-tongued English woman. The one who stole my car at the airport.
The one I’d covered in strawberry daiquiri.
I should have ignored her. That would have been the logical thing to do.
But logic had nothing to do with it. Not when I saw her walking up to the bar last night, her honey-blonde hair catching in the low light, her dress hugging just enough to make my fingers twitch.
I wasn’t the only one.
A few of the lingering men Jacques had invited into our booth and introduced me to had also taken notice. I could feel their eyes tracking her, scanning her like a potential investment.
That alone had irritated me.
So, I made sure I got to her first.
And when she stumbled, I had only meant to steady her. A simple act of instinct - one hand bracing her waist, the other coming up to stop her from falling forward.
I hadn’t meant for her drink to spill down the front of her entire outfit, hadn’t meant for her to be suddenly standing in front of me, sticky and furious and practically vibrating with irritation.
I’d been mortified.
At least initially.
But then she’d looked at me, her sharp brown eyes narrowing as she squared her shoulders.
And then she’d spoken, and any potential guilt had disappeared.
Because even tipsy, she’d been razor-sharp .
Her English accent had rolled out in clipped, indignant syllables, the kind that made it impossible to ignore her, impossible not to find her amusing.
There had been no flirting, no batting eyelashes or coy, hushed tones. Just pure exasperation as she berated me for ruining her night.
I had thoroughly enjoyed it.
People don’t speak to me like that. Not anymore. Not since I became Frederic Moreau, the Formula One driver. The winner. The name on every list, the face in every sponsorship deal.
People either fawn over me or tread carefully, speaking in measured tones, watching their words.
But not her.
She didn’t give a flying fuck about the money, the status, the reputation.
She didn’t give a fuck about me .
And what does that say about me? That I liked that about her?
The defiance. The sharp wit. The fact that she doesn’t want me. It’s hot as fuck. It’s infuriating and consuming, it’s confusing and maddening, it’s - she’s -
No.
I shake the thought off before it can settle.
I don’t overthink things. And I sure as hell don’t chase.
“She’s coming tonight, by the way,” Jacques smirks, his voice snapping me back into reality as he rambles on about the brunette. “You should meet her friends. Very entertaining company.”
Ha .
He can say that again.
Still, I exhale, shaking my head. “I’m not interested.”
But even as I say it - even as I tell myself that I don’t give a fuck who Jacques has been fucking or who he’s invited to my house - I find myself wondering.
Wondering if she’ll be here.
Wondering what she’ll look like in the dim glow of candlelight, a glass of champagne in hand, lips curling into one of those amused little smirks as she talks to her friends.
Wondering what she’ll do when her dark eyes lift and meet with mine from across the room, catching me looking at her.
Wondering if she’ll confront me. If she’ll frown in irritation.
If she’ll argue with me again.
I exhale sharply, tipping my water bottle back.
This party is already a nightmare, but if she’s coming, it’s about to get a whole lot more entertaining.