Chapter Sixty-Two
Poppy
T he atmosphere is electric.
From the moment we step into the Paddock Lounge, it’s clear that today isn’t just a race.
It’s an event; a spectacle, a celebration of speed and luxury that only Monaco can provide.
The excitement is palpable as we move through the space, waiters in crisp uniforms weaving between guests with trays of champagne and fresh seafood, screens displaying live feeds from every camera angle, and the unmistakable hum of engines revving below us, vibrating through the very floor beneath our heels.
Emma practically bounces on her toes, her eyes darting between the screens, the view of the track, and the flowing bar.
“We should make a bet!” she announces suddenly, spinning toward us with a devious grin.
Leah raises a brow, adjusting her sunglasses as she sinks onto one of the velvet-lined seats.
“On what ? ”
“On who’s going to win,” Emma grins. “Come on, we’re in Monaco. It’s only right.”
Jas snorts, but she looks intrigued. “How much?”
“One hundred each,” Emma declares, already pulling out her phone to place the bets. “Winner takes all.”
Leah scoffs, but there’s amusement in her expression.
“Alright, fine . But if I win, you’re all buying my drinks tonight.”
I roll my eyes. “When do we not buy your drinks?”
She winks. “Exactly.”
Emma hums thoughtfully, scrolling through the odds.
“Okay, so who’s everyone picking?”
Leah leans back, inspecting the list on Emma’s screen. “Vandergaurd.”
Jas tilts her head, considering. “Lemoine. Hometown hero and all that.”
Emma grins. “Harrison. Because, you know… daddy .”
I groan. “Bloody hell, Emma.”
She shrugs, unbothered, before turning to me. “And you, Poppy?”
I don’t even hesitate. “Moreau.”
Emma cackles. “Oh, shocker .”
I roll my eyes but can’t help but smirk as she places the bet for me.
Odds are in his favour - he’s one of the favourites to win today - but I don’t even care about that. This is his race, his moment, and for the first time since we arrived in Monaco, I feel nervous.
Because as much as I love the idea of him winning -
I don’t like the idea of what happens after this weekend ends.
* * *
I step outside, needing a moment to breathe, to soak it all in.
Below me, the garages are a flurry of activity - mechanics in their team colours moving with practiced efficiency, final checks being made, the cars gleaming under the bright sun.
I tell myself I’m just taking in the view, but I know exactly who I’m looking for.
It takes a minute, but then I spot him.
He’s standing just outside the Mercedes garage, positioned in a way that keeps him out of view from most of the crowd - but not from me.
He’s deep in conversation with who I can only assume is an engineer, his expression sharp, intense and completely locked in. His brows are slightly furrowed, his jaw tense with focus, nodding at whatever is being said.
One hand rests against his hip, fingers drumming absentmindedly against the fabric of his suit, while the other moves in subtle, precise gestures, punctuating his words.
He’s always so composed, so effortlessly in control -
And fuck , he looks good.
The race suit fits him perfectly, hugging every inch of his lean, powerful frame. The sleek black and silver fabric clings to his broad shoulders, his sculpted arms, his impossibly strong thighs.
The top half is unzipped slightly, the sleeves tied loosely around his waist, revealing the black compression shirt beneath - thin enough that I can see every defined line of his chest, every contour of muscle.
He was built for this.
For racing. For commanding attention.
For making every single person in this venue watch him, wait for him.
Even with the world’s eyes on him, somehow, he still manages to steal all of my focus, too.
And yet, somehow, he makes me feel like I’m the only one in the world.
I love our game. The chase, the teasing. The way he commands me so effortlessly, how I push back just enough to keep things interesting.
I love how he enjoys my defiance, how he bends me to his will without ever forcing me, how I always, always end up right where he wants me.
But I also love the other side of him.
The man who sends me flowers and gifts - not just as grand gestures but as quiet reminders that he’s thinking of me. The man who orders me cars and makes sure I have everything I could possibly need before I even have to ask.
The man who fucked me against the door of an abandoned room with reckless, possessive hunger - only to check on me afterward like I was something to be cared for, something to be cherished.
And that’s the part that gets to me the most. That’s the part that terrifies me.
Because I love being with him.
And I can’t bear to think about the fact that in just a few more days, we’re supposed to go home.
I don’t know what that means for us. Fuck ; I don’t even know if there is an ‘us’ .
All I know is that I don’t want this to end.
Just then, he spots me.
Even from this distance, I see the flicker of recognition in his face - the slight narrowing of his sharp blue eyes, the way his lips twitch before curving into a slow, wicked grin.
That grin does something to me.
I barely have a second to prepare before he lifts a hand, exaggeratedly puckers his lips and blows me a kiss.
I burst out laughing, shaking my head at his audacity.
Arrogant bastard.
And yet, my stomach flips, warmth creeping over my skin.
He knows exactly what he’s doing to me. He always does.
Still smiling, I raise a hand in a small wave, my heart hammering against my ribs.
There’s movement behind me, and I glance over to see Jas watching me with an all-too-knowing expression. Her head is tilted slightly, her arms crossed as she leans against the doorway of the lounge, and I roll my eyes, stepping back inside, my fingers still tingling as I sink into the seat beside her.
“What?” I ask, my smile still lingering.
Jas just shakes her head, her expression soft, her eyes warm.
“Nothing. It’s just nice to see you happy, Pops.”
My smile falters, just for the briefest of moments. A fraction of a second .
A tiny crack in my composure.
Because I am happy.
And that’s what terrifies me the most.