Chapter Forty-Eight
Poppy
L unch is long and lazy.
Leah is still off with Jacques, leaving just the three of us to lounge beneath wide parasols at one of Monaco’s prettiest bistros. The heat is relentless, but there’s a crisp ocean breeze that makes it bearable.
I’m slicing through my Nicoise salad when my phone vibrates on the tabletop. A text flashes across the screen, and I pause for a second before reaching for it.
Miss me yet, mon ange?
I bite back a smile, my stomach flipping in a way that I really, really don’t have time to unpack.
I can’t even begin to imagine how busy he is today - surely he has a million and one things to be doing.
Yet, somehow, he’s still finding time to text me.
I hover over my screen for a second, debating a response before settling on something light.
You? Barely.
But I do miss the room service .
His reply is instant.
Ouch.
Emma, ever the hawk-eyed one, catches the way my lips twitch at his message and narrows her eyes.
“What’s that look for?”
“Nothing.”
“Mmhm. Is it really nothing, or is it in fact a certain devastatingly handsome Frenchman?” Jas arches a brow.
I roll my eyes, setting my phone facedown.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Emma leans back in her chair, taking a long sip of her wine.
“Yes, actually, we would. We want to know everything. All of the gory, juicy details.”
I don’t dignify that with a response.
*
By the time we’re strolling back toward the hotel, I notice something strange.
My phone won’t stop buzzing.
It’s been happening all day - these random surges of notifications.
I figured it was just more engagement than usual. After all, ever since we arrived in Monaco, my social media traction has skyrocketed. The backdrop alone has been enough to keep my posts performing well, but this ?
This is something else entirely.
I frown, opening the app to check my numbers.
Nearly five thousand new followers in the last few hours .
What the hell?
“Okay, this is getting weird,” I mutter, scrolling through the influx of comments and messages.
There’s a lot of typical engagement - people gushing over the outfits I’ve been posting, questions about where I’m staying, what I’m wearing, what I’m doing - but then there are a few comments that catch my eye.
Is it true??
Is she the mystery girl??
And then, on my most recent video -
That dress… wasn’t she wearing that last night?
A wave of unease rolls through me.
Emma glances over my shoulder and smirks.
“Welcome to the Monaco effect, darling.”
“No, this doesn’t make any sense,” I tell her. “Seriously - what is going on?”
Before I can dive any deeper, Jas, who’s a few steps ahead of us, suddenly stops dead in her tracks.
Her brows knit together, her mouth slightly parted as she stares down at her phone.
“What is it?” I ask.
She lifts her gaze to mine, holding out her phone.
“Uh… have you seen this?”
I take her phone hesitantly, and my stomach sinks the moment I do.
There it is.
A gossip site. A blurry photo .
And me .
Hand-in-hand with Frederic outside of his hotel.
The headline is obnoxiously bold:
F1’s Frederic Moreau Spotted With Mystery Woman in Monaco - But Who Is She?
I curse under my breath, my heart hammering.
“Oh,” Emma breathes, looking at the article from over my shoulder. “That is… definitely you.”
No wonder my socials have been blowing up.
“Fucking hell ,” I mutter as I run a hand through my hair, my mind racing. “This is not ideal in the slightest.”
The comments are already dissecting every detail, with some people clearly having recognised me. Some of them followed me already - enough to have pieced it together from my outfit, my location and the timeline.
I exhale sharply.
“Never mind not ideal ,” I correct myself. “This is bad. This is really bad.”
“No! It’s not that bad,” Emma shrugs. “It’s not like you’re in a scandal, babe. You’re dating an F1 driver. That’s iconic .”
I level her with a flat look.
“I’m not dating him.”
“Try telling that to the internet,” Jas smirks. “Along with anyone else who has an ounce of common sense.”
I shoot her a glare before turning my attention back to the article.
It’s all speculation - just vague assumptions about my identity and our relationship status, but it’s enough to make my skin crawl.
The last thing I want is to be noticed like this.
Worst of all, I don’t want Frederic to have to deal with this.
The thought makes my stomach twist. He’s literally preparing for a race - the biggest of the year. The last thing he needs is some dumb gossip site pulling focus away from that.
Jas, sensing my anxiety, nudges my arm.
“Come on, let’s get back to the hotel. No use spiraling in the middle of the street.”
I nod, reluctantly handing her phone back before following them.
Back in the comfortable, familiar safety of our suite, I throw myself onto the couch, my mind whirring.
There are already comments under my most recent posts asking if it’s me. People are tagging me on everything , scrolling back through my posts from while I’ve been in Monaco, trying to connect the dots.
But I refuse to engage.
Instead, I focus on the one thing I can control: my content.
I decide to try and act normal, and normal for me looks like uploading more photos. I post pictures of my outfits, of beach clips, casual behind-the-scenes snapshots of our trip - anything to distract from the speculation.
The comments still roll in, but I ignore them.
For now, I’ll pretend everything is normal.
And I desperately hope that this whole thing blows over before it reaches Frederic.