Chapter Sixty-One
Poppy
A sharp knock echoes through the suite, jolting me half-awake.
I groan, my limbs stretching beneath the sheets, my mind still wrapped in the hazy remnants of sleep.
From across the room, I hear Emma’s voice - far too energetic for this early in the morning.
"Hold on!" she calls, padding barefoot across the suite.
A few muffled words are exchanged, and then -
" Poppy ," she drawls, a teasing edge to her voice. "Looks like someone’s thinking of you."
I blink up at the ceiling, then sit up abruptly.
Emma stands at the foot of the bed, smirking like the devil himself and holding up a huge bouquet of white roses.
I sigh as I wipe a hand over my face.
"Let me guess."
But before I can even finish, I notice it.
The Dior shopping bag .
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
Emma grins, practically bouncing as she sets both items down in front of me on the bed.
"You have to open this right now ," she insists, already reaching for the envelope attached to the flowers.
I snatch it away, shooting her a glare before slipping my finger beneath the seal and pulling out a small, cream-colored card.
The handwriting is elegant, sharp and effortlessly masculine.
For my good luck charm. Wear this for me today. ~F
My cheeks burn, my pulse quickening as I stare at the words.
Emma practically screeches beside me.
“Open the bag!”
I roll my eyes but do as I’m told, curious as to how our two other friends are sleeping through this. My fingers curl around the smooth ribbon before slipping it open, and inside -
Oh, fuck .
I carefully lift the stunning ivory dress out of the bag.
The fabric is silky and lightweight, draping effortlessly over my hands. It’s a classic Dior design: elegant yet modern, with a subtle structured corset bodice and a delicate A-line skirt that flares just slightly, giving it the perfect amount of movement.
It’s timeless. Chic.
It’s perfect .
But there’s more.
Beneath the dress, there’s a matching clutch, a pair of designer sunglasses, and -
A box.
I glance at Emma, who vibrates with anticipation, as I lift it out of the bag and carefully open it.
It’s a pair of Dior heels, sleek and perfectly coordinated with the outfit.
Emma shakes her head in disbelief, flopping onto the bed dramatically.
"Okay, so when’s the wedding?"
I glare at her. "You’re insane."
“ I’m insane?!” she near screeches. " This isn’t just flirting , Poppy - this is fucking courtship. I’m telling you, he’s asking for your hand in marriage next."
I roll my eyes, but I can’t ignore the warmth spreading through my chest.
He really thought of everything .
* * *
The girls and I spend the morning getting ready, laughter and excitement bouncing off the walls of our suite.
Emma takes it in turn to style our hair, and she curls my hair into soft, glamorous waves. Once I’ve put on most of my makeup, Jas comes over to perfect it, blending everything seamlessly to create that effortless, glowy look.
Leah, in true Leah fashion, sips champagne as she watches from the sidelines.
Once we’re all ready, we head down to the hotel’s terrace garden, taking some photos before we leave. The setting is stunning - lush greenery, white columns and the blue Mediterranean glistening in the distance.
I position myself against the railing, the sunlight catching the silk of my dress, my hair cascading over my shoulders. Emma snaps a few shots before nodding in approval.
"Send that to your man."
I snort.
"He’s not my man."
She arches a brow, and I know better than to argue any more.
I pull out my phone and type out a message.
Thank you for the gifts. You really didn’t have to.
Then, after a second of hesitation, I attach the photo.
I exhale, locking my phone and shoving it into my bag before I can overthink the fact that this is the first time I’ve messaged him first.
Well - since my very first message to him, anyway.
By the time we’re stepping into the car, my phone vibrates in my hand, and I glance down, my stomach flipping at his name.
You look breathtaking. I knew I picked well. Keep it on for me all day - I need my good luck charm.
I bite my lip, my pulse quickening as warmth spreads through my chest.
A good luck charm? That’s a lot of pressure.
His reply is instant.
I perform well under pressure. Would you like me to demonstrate later?
I practically choke on air.
Emma glances over. "Oh, what did he say?!"
"Nothing!" I say quickly, locking my phone and shoving it away in my new clutch before she can grab it.
But inside? Inside, I’m screaming .
* * *
The ride to the venue is pure chaos - a blur of gleaming supercars, packed sidewalks, and streets alive with energy.
The roads are clogged with eager fans, some draped in team merchandise, others waving flags, and a few even climbing onto balconies for a better view.
The closer we get, the more the atmosphere shifts. The city feels electric, charged with an undeniable buzz - as if Monaco itself is holding its breath, waiting for the race to begin.
Our car inches forward, past the sparkling harbour where mega-yachts are packed with guests sipping champagne on deck and past terraces filled to capacity, every prime viewing spot occupied by the elite.
And then, there’s the track itself: legendary, transformed from its usual city streets into a battleground of speed and precision. The air vibrates with anticipation, the scent of hot asphalt, sea salt, and engine oil mixing with the unmistakable aroma of expensive perfume and champagne.
I press my palm against my stomach, inhaling deeply.
This is it. The biggest race of the weekend is about to start.
And I can’t help but feel that, one way or another, this day is going to change everything .