Chapter Twenty-Six
Frederic
P oppy.
Her name is like a challenge; like something I shouldn’t have, but already do.
I exhale slowly, leaning against the bar, fingers drumming against the polished wood as my gaze flickers after her.
She moves like she’s escaping. Like she can run from me.
She can’t.
I smirk to myself, rolling the last sip of my drink over my tongue as I process everything about her that has snared me in this ridiculous way.
She’s beautiful - obviously. But that’s not what’s got me so hooked.
It’s the fire in her. The fight .
The way she talks back like I don’t command every room I enter. The way she meets me head-on, without hesitation.
The way she looks at me like I’m just a man, not a fucking name, not a paycheck, not a status symbol.
Women don’t do that .
They lean in. They flirt. They try .
Poppy?
Poppy leans back. Poppy frowns. Poppy insults me.
And, fuck… it’s intoxicating .
I should leave it at that. Let her think she’s won this round, let her believe she’s got the upper hand.
But instead, I push away from the bar and make my way towards the yacht’s operations desk, where Alain, the yacht’s chief steward, is stationed with a small group of staff.
Alain has been working for my family for years, overseeing the logistics of this place: staffing, guest lists, security. If someone is on board, Alain knows about it.
He sees me approaching and straightens immediately, adjusting the cuffs of his white uniform jacket.
“Monsieur Moreau,” he greets with a respectful nod. “Is everything to your liking?”
I don’t waste time with pleasantries.
“The guest list.”
His brows flick up, but he doesn’t question me. Instead, he swipes his tablet open and holds it out.
“Here,” he says, handing it over. “Everyone on board has been registered.”
I take the tablet without a word and scroll quickly through the list, scanning past Jacques’ endless collection of parasites, past my own invited guests, until I find them -
Leah Stanton. Jasmine Patel. Emma Carter.
And then:
Poppy Taylor .
Got you.
A smirk tugs at my lips as I commit it to memory.
I pass the tablet back to Alain, turning on my heel, already unlocking my phone as I make my way back toward the group.
It takes less than five minutes.
She’s not exactly hiding.
Her Instagram is public, and from the thousands of followers and high-quality shots, it’s clear she’s got a good eye. Not an influencer, but close.
I scroll through, taking in every carefully curated photo.
She’s twenty-two. London-born, studying fashion and business management.
And - unsurprisingly - she lives well.
Her feed is a catalogue of privilege; beach clubs in Mykonos, designer stores in Milan, dinners at restaurants where half the menu is in French.
She spends her summers travelling.
Her friends are always the same - Emma, Jas, Leah - the ones I’ve seen her here with. They appear in almost every other photo, and something about it makes me smirk.
Loyalty . She’s clearly got it in abundance.
The comments are endless: a sea of compliments, emojis, fire reactions.
One name stands out, though. Noah .
Noah’s comments litter her photos, all painfully earnest, filled with far too many emojis.
I tap on his profile, and exhale a laugh .
His accounts are private, but his profile picture alone tells me everything I need to know.
Soft-looking. Wide-eyed.
No competition.
Poor bastard.
I shake my head, scrolling back up, flicking through a few more photos.
Then, something catches my eye.
There’s a second account linked in her bio.
I click on it, and immediately, everything shifts.
This is different.
This isn’t just another personal page. Here, there’s no beach club selfies or holiday montages.
This is something else entirely.
A fashion account.
It’s filled with sketches and designs, a balanced combination of photos and reels showing the transformation from a simple drawing to a fully realised outfit. Most of them showcase step-by-step transitions - fabric swatches, stitching, adjustments on a mannequin, and finally, the finished product.
I scroll down, my interest piqued.
She’s good.
More than good, even.
A short video plays, and I watch as she models one of her own designs: a sleek, tailored co-ord set in soft champagne silk. The caption details how she custom-made it for a special event in London last year, down to the fabric choice, the stitching, the subtle details she spent days refining.
I keep scrolling, flicking through post after post of beautifully designed, immaculately constructed pieces.
This isn’t some half-hearted hobby. This is talent .
And then, I spot it.
The hot pink bikini and sarong set.
The one she was wearing when I allegedly knocked a full daiquiri down her front.
I click on the post before I even think about it, watching as she turns in front of the mirror, the material hugging her body in all the right places. The caption explains how long the process took.
Two full days of work.
Merde.
I rub a hand across my jaw, exhaling sharply.
I ruined it.
I didn’t just spill a drink on some overpriced designer set like I originally thought. She said it was something she’d created, but now I see it for what it is:
I destroyed something she fucking made.
I feel like an asshole. More than an asshole, if that’s possible.
Fuck. No wonder she hates me so much.
I need to fix it.
I know where she’s staying - my driver mentioned her hotel when she stole my car and he dropped her off that first day. I’ll pull something together and send something to replace it. It won’t make up for the fact that this was something of her own - a labour of love, something personal - but hopefully, it’ll do.
I’m already mentally running through my options.
Nothing off the rack. Something custom. Something high-end.
I’ll make sure it’s waiting in her room by the morning.
Before I can keep going, Jacques strides towards me, his expression set in something borderline serious. I resist the urge to sigh.
“Not now,” I say, not even bothering to look up from my phone as I continue to move through the yacht.
Jacques stiffens slightly, though he steps into line next to me.
“It’s important,” he presses.
I wave him off. “Later.”
His mouth flattens, but he knows better than to push me.
I see him hesitate, but then he nods once and steps away, disappearing back into the yacht.
I continue scanning through Poppy’s feed, smirking as I land on a photo of her in a stunning black dress outside what looks like a gallery in Paris.
She really does know how to dress.
I’m not paying true attention to my surroundings as I instinctively make my way back towards my group of friends, and before I know it, I’ve returned to them without drifting away from Poppy’s socials.
Apparently, Bastien had returned before I did - and brought a small group of women along with him.
They’re exactly the type I’d expect. Tall, impeccably styled, and high-maintenance in the way only women in Monaco can be. They sit with my group with easy confidence, their eyes flicking across each of us like they’re deciding who to entertain.
I barely look up as I return to my seat.
Honestly, I can’t be bothered.
Bastien, of course, is eating it up; smirking as he leans back in his chair and lets the women flock closer.
One of them - a brunette with piercing green eyes - settles beside me, her nails tracing idly along the rim of her wine glass.
“You’re quiet,” she comments, her voice smooth. “Not in the mood to celebrate?”
I glance at her briefly, offering only the barest amount of attention.
“Not particularly.”
“That’s a shame,” she pouts, tilting her head. “I was hoping for some entertainment.”
I make a noncommittal noise, eyes still locked on my phone, scrolling absently through Poppy’s feed.
The brunette shifts closer, clearly taking my lack of engagement as a challenge.
“You must be focused,” she says, trying to sneak a not-so subtle glance at my screen. “Something important?”
I barely flick my gaze to her.
“Nothing that concerns you.”
She blinks, clearly taken aback, and finally, finally , leaves me the fuck alone.
I return my full attention back to my phone, scrolling down to a photo of Poppy at some summer event, her blonde hair sunlit, her dress cinched at the waist, laughing at something off-camera.
And then -
A sudden prickle at the back of my neck.
I look up, my body moving before my brain even registers why.
And there she is.
Poppy, standing across the yacht, her gaze locked on me.
Her expression is unreadable. Careful, but not indifferent.
I feel a slow, dangerous smirk tug at my lips.
Because for all her insistence, for all her pushback, all her irritation, all her complaints about me invading her space -
She’s watching me.
I pocket my phone and tip my drink towards her in an unspoken acknowledgment, letting her know I’ve caught her staring.
And as she turns quickly away, heat creeping up her neck, I let my smirk widen.
I know exactly what’s happening here.
She thinks she’s winning this game.
She has no idea she’s already lost.