Chapter Thirty-Six
Frederic
T he low hum of the simulator surrounds me, the screen illuminating the dimly lit room with a cold, artificial glow. I grip the wheel tightly, my foot precise on the throttle, the virtual car responding to my every calculated movement.
The Monaco circuit unfolds ahead, every sharp turn and elevation change burned into my muscle memory. The sim is good - exceptional , even - but it’s still not the real thing.
It’s a lifeless imitation.
There’s no rush of air, no G-force pushing me against the cockpit, no scent of burning rubber and hot asphalt.
But it’ll have to do.
I push harder, feeding the car more speed, more of me , finding the absolute limit of grip. I know Matthieu is watching my data closely, ready to pick apart every sector the moment I step out.
“Two tenths up,” Matthieu’s voice crackles through my headset. “Keep it clean through the chicane.”
I barely register the words. I already know .
I flick the wheel, feeling the artificial force feedback respond, committing every adjustment to instinct.
I live for this.
Nothing else should matter.
And yet, my mind betrays me.
A flash of silk. A breathy moan. Nails dragging down my back.
I clench my jaw, shaking the thought away.
Focus .
I exit the tunnel, braking aggressively into the chicane. The car twitches under me, but I hold it firm, nailing the apex perfectly.
“Purple sector two,” Matthieu notes. “You’re flying.”
I barely acknowledge it.
All I see is her .
The curve of her mouth as she smirked up at me last night. The way she looked beneath me, flushed and ruined, her breath catching every time I touched her.
Fucking hell.
I cross the line - purple sector, personal best.
And still, she lingers.
“Box this lap, Frederic,” Matthieu instructs. “Time for a break.”
I exhale sharply, jaw tightening.
“One more.”
“ Non . ”
I grit my teeth, rolling my shoulders back.
“I said -”
“You’ve been in there for four hours .” Matthieu’s voice is sharp. “Break. Now .”
I slam my foot onto the brakes, sending the virtual car screeching into the pit lane.
The session ends. The sim screen fades to black.
I rip off my gloves and helmet, flexing my fingers, my body still thrumming with adrenaline.
As I step out of the rig, Matthieu is already waiting, arms crossed.
“Four hours straight is excessive,” he says pointedly.
“Not when you have a race to win.”
Matthieu sighs, rubbing his temples.
“You’ve said that before. You’ll say it again. But you also need to sleep, eat, and take breaks like a normal human.”
Gilles lets out a low chuckle from where he’s seated, scrolling through data on his tablet.
“Not that it matters. He’d stay in that thing all night if we let him.”
I smirk, stretching my arms above my head. “ And ?”
“And you’re impossible,” Matthieu rolls his eyes.
I grab my water bottle, taking a slow sip.
“That’s not news.”
“One day, you’re going to realise there’s more to life than just racing,” Gilles sighs.
I snort. “Doubtful. ”
“Go,” Matthieu waves a hand. “Take a break. Eat something. Talk to someone.”
I roll my eyes but pull my phone from my pocket, scrolling through my notifications as I take another sip of water.
And that’s when I see it.
A message from the concierge at Poppy’s hotel.
Delivery confirmed.
The flowers and gift were successfully placed in Mademoiselle Taylor’s suite this morning.
I smirk.
Good.
It was a small gesture - something to make up for the fact that I’d ruined something she’d spent hours working on to make, something she was proud of.
I’d known the second I saw that Instagram post that I couldn’t just let it slide.
I re-read the message, considering it for a moment.
She hasn’t texted. She hasn’t called.
Nothing .
I let out a slow breath, rolling my neck.
I don’t know what I was expecting. A thank you ?
No. Poppy isn’t the type to make things that easy.
And yet, a part of me had expected something. Even a sarcastic remark, a half-insult disguised as gratitude.
Something .
I scroll through my phone, back to the Instagram page I’d already gone through more times than I’d like to admit .
She’s not posted anything new. No updates. No passive-aggressive captions directed at me.
She’s quiet.
Suspiciously so.
I lick my lips, debating my next move.
“You’ve got that look,” Gilles remarks, breaking through my thoughts.
I glance up. “What look?”
“The look that means you’re thinking about something you shouldn’t be.”
Matthieu hums in agreement.
“The last time you looked like this, you nearly flipped the car in Saudi because you were too busy trying to chase down Harrison.”
I shoot him a look.
“That was different.”
“Was it?” Matthieu snorts.
I ignore him, clicking my phone screen off.
She’ll contact me. Eventually.
She will .
And if she doesn’t…
Well. There’s no escaping me. Not now.
I know what I want.
And it’s her .