Chapter Forty
Poppy
T he evening air is warm as I step out of the hotel lobby, my heels clicking lightly against the polished stone as I make my way towards the sleek black car idling at the curb.
The driver is already waiting, standing by the open door, his hands clasped behind his back.
"Bonsoir, mademoiselle," he greets me smoothly.
I glance up with a polite smile as I step towards the vehicle, about to thank him -
And then I frown.
I know him.
It takes me a second to place where from, but the moment it clicks, my lips part in pure disbelief.
No fucking way.
He dips his head slightly, still waiting for me to climb inside.
"Are you ready to go, mademoiselle?"
I stare at him. Then at the car. Then back at him.
And that’s when it fully sinks in .
"You," I breathe, my eyes widening. "You were the driver who took me from the airport."
He chuckles, his expression entirely too knowing.
"Yes, mademoiselle."
"You -" I shake my head, apparently losing my ability to speak. "You were there. When he -"
His lips twitch in amusement. "Yes."
I inhale sharply, suddenly needing a second to process this.
"You’re his driver?"
He nods.
" Oui , mademoiselle."
I climb inside the car, feeling slightly dazed.
He closes the door behind me and moves to sit in the front seat, my brain going into overdrive the entire time.
His driver .
As in, Frederic Moreau’s personal driver.
I sit completely still as the car glides away from the curb, my mind running a thousand miles a minute.
"Wait -" I lean forward slightly. "When you say you’re his driver, you mean…?"
His eyes briefly meet mine in the rearview mirror, and his tone is matter-of-fact.
"I work exclusively for Monsieur Moreau."
I gape at him.
I accused him of trying to abduct me. I yelled at him for trying to steal my taxi and scoffed when he proposed to share it.
And all along, it was his own goddamn car .
I sit back against the seat, horrified as memories of that morning replay in my mind with gut-wrenching clarity.
No wonder he knew exactly which hotel I was staying at. His driver had been the one to drop me off there.
No wonder he hadn’t been remotely annoyed when I’d stormed into the car, ranting about how women get abducted in foreign countries. He’d been amused .
And suddenly, I need to know why.
I lean forwards again, my voice more urgent now.
"Why didn’t he say anything?"
The driver’s expression remains unreadable as he keeps his eyes on the road.
"Pardon, mademoiselle?"
"When I got in the car. When I accused him of stealing my taxi -" I emphasise the words, still horrified by them. "Why didn’t he correct me? Why didn’t he tell me it was his car?"
The driver exhales a quiet laugh.
"Perhaps Monsieur Moreau enjoys a little entertainment."
I blink. "So he just let me make a fool of myself?"
He shrugs.
"It would appear so."
I sink back against the seat, covering my face with both hands.
Frederic had let me go off on him. He’d let me sit in his car, fuming with self-righteous anger, accusing him of stealing it -
And the whole time, he’d just been enjoying himself.
I just don’t understand it. Can’t make any sense of it.
If it were anyone else, I’d have expected an immediate correction. A scoff. Maybe even an annoyed demand to get out and find my own ride.
And I would have been mortified, of course. I would’ve been humiliated.
I chew the inside of my cheek, frowning as I stare out the window, watching as the city lights blur past.
There’s more to this man than I realised.
And I don’t know whether that excites or terrifies me.
By the time the car pulls up in front of the restaurant, I’m still stuck in my own thoughts, my fingers tightening slightly around my clutch as I take in my surroundings.
The restaurant is stunning.
Even from the outside, it radiates exclusivity. Tall arched windows framed by polished marble, cast a warm glow onto the cobblestone street, and the sleek, minimalist signage is understated yet unmistakable.
Because a place like this doesn’t need to announce itself. It exists for those who already know .
Frederic’s driver steps out, moving swiftly to open my door.
"We have arrived, mademoiselle."
As I step out of the car, smoothing my dress with my hands, something occurs to me.
I turn back toward the driver, catching him just before he moves to close the door.
"Wait - what’s your name? "
He pauses, then offers a small, polite smile. "Luc, mademoiselle."
Luc .
I nod, tucking that away for later. "Well… thank you, Luc."
His smile deepens just slightly, and with a nod, he closes the door behind me. "Passez une bonne soirée, mademoiselle."
Have a good evening.
I exhale, watching as Luc slips back into the car and pulls away, leaving me standing in front of one of the most exclusive restaurants in Monaco, about to have dinner with him.
I square my shoulders, inhaling one last deep breath before I step forward.
I can do this.
It’s just dinner.
With a man I’ve been texting way too much over the past few days.
With a man who has sent me thousands of euros worth of couture swimwear and flowers.
A man who has somehow managed to wedge himself beneath my skin in a way I can’t quite shake.
A man who, I now realise, had far more control over our first meeting than I ever did.
A man who, despite every single reason I’ve given myself to stay away, keeps pulling me in.
I lift my chin and push through the doors.
Let’s see what game he’s playing tonight.