Chapter Sixty-Five
Poppy
T he atmosphere crackles with an uncontainable energy, the kind that seeps into your skin and makes your pulse race. The roar of the crowd is deafening, echoing through the streets of Monaco as thousands of people celebrate, chant and scream for the man who has just conquered the most iconic race of the season.
For my man.
Heaven knows that I can’t take my eyes off him.
The podium ceremony is just about to begin. After the whirlwind of press interviews and technical debriefs, Frederic had to disappear for a moment - no doubt to freshen up, swap out his sweat-drenched race suit for something marginally more presentable.
And now, standing at the foot of the iconic Monaco podium, he looks every bit the victor.
He’s changed into a fresh black fireproof shirt, the material clinging to every defined muscle, accentuating the powerful lines of his torso. His race suit is still on, but the sleeves are tied low around his waist, leaving him looking effortlessly perfect in the way only Frederic Moreau can .
His dark hair is still damp, messy in a way that somehow makes him look even better.
The top three drivers stand together, their fireproofs still sticky with sweat and champagne from their previous celebrations in parc fermé, but none of them seem to care.
Because this moment is what they all dream of.
A hush spreads over the grandstands as the anthems play - first the anthem of the winning car manufacturer, and then the French national anthem for Frederic himself.
My stomach twists as I watch him standing there, tall and proud, his hand placed over his heart as his country's anthem blares over the speakers. I’ve heard the French national anthem played before, of course, but it’s different now.
It means more to me now.
And then, the moment comes.
The race steward steps forward with the gleaming gold winner’s trophy, the silver plate at the base catching the sunlight as it's handed over to Frederic.
He grips it firmly, fingers curling around the handles as the weight of victory settles into his hands -
And then lifts it high above his head.
The crowd erupts .
Champagne sprays from all angles as the second and third-place finishers start the traditional podium celebrations, uncorking the bottles and dousing each other in expensive, bubbling liquid.
Frederic tilts his head back slightly, eyes squeezing shut as he lets it rain over him, soaking into his shirt, into his skin as all of the cameras focus in on him .
And fuck , if I didn’t think he looked good before; right now, he looks untouchable .
A champion in every sense of the word.
My heart is pounding. My stomach is flipping.
And even though I’ve spent the past week telling myself that I don’t know what I want -
Right now, I know exactly what I want.
I want him .
* * *
The moment the ceremony ends, the energy inside the VIP Lounge shifts.
People are still riding the high of the race, of the win, and even though most of them have nothing to do with Frederic’s team, the thrill of victory is contagious.
That, and the fact that Emma has not shut up since he called me his girlfriend on live television.
I’ve barely sat down before a man I don’t even know approaches me with a warm smile.
“You’re Poppy, yes?”
“Uh -”
“She is Poppy!” Emma confirms proudly.
Oh. Oh .
The man extends a hand, his grip firm. “Frederic’s lucky charm, I presume?”
I flush. “I - ah -”
“Congratulations,” he says, grinning. “And don’t let him forget that you placed a bet on him. He owes you. ”
I laugh, shaking my head as he walks off, but he’s barely gone before someone else is approaching. This time, a woman - stylishly dressed and elegant in that way only old money seems to master.
“It’s so wonderful to see him this happy,” she says with an approving smile. “He hasn’t stopped smiling since he crossed the finish line.”
And then, more people come over. And more. And more.
They all congratulate me - me , as if I’m the one who just won the damn Grand Prix.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake ,” I mutter under my breath as another approaches.
Emma, meanwhile, is absolutely thriving , basking in every bit of attention.
“This is so much better than being a WAG in football,” she gushes, practically vibrating with excitement. “ So much classier.”
Jas snorts, shooting me a knowing look. “Enjoying yourself, girlfriend ?”
I groan, burying my face in my hands.
After all, when I agreed to come on this trip just a few weeks ago, this was not what I’d expected.
* * *
I have no idea how much time passes by. All I know is that I’m still reeling from hearing Frederic call me his girlfriend on live TV as we stay in the Paddock Lounge, watching reruns of the race, of his victory, and of the subsequent celebration.
But I can’t focus. Not really.
Not when that word keeps echoing in my head, looping over and over, refusing to settle.
Frederic Moreau - cocky, insufferable, dominant Frederic - called me his girlfriend.
Publicly. Without hesitation.
Without asking me.
And the worst part?
I liked it.
I really liked it.
I’m still trying to process it, to make sense of the strange fluttering in my chest, when a staff member suddenly appears at the VIP lounge, standing just inside the doorway.
They clear their throat before addressing me directly.
"Mademoiselle Taylor?"
I blink, startled.
Usually, when Frederic summons me, it’s discreet - meant only for me. But this time, the staff member’s voice is clear, deliberate, carrying across the entire lounge.
"Monsieur Moreau invites you - and your friends - to join him."
There’s a split second of silence before the girls begin to chirp excitedly.
Emma grips my arm like she might faint.
“Fucking hell, Pops,” she squeals, and I try not to wince at her tight grip and her choice language in the middle of the fancy lounge. “Your boyfriend has summoned us all!”
"Guess I don’t have a choice, then," I mutter, cheeks burning as I stand.
"Nope," Jas smirks. "Now get moving before Emma combusts."
* * *
The staff member leads us through the paddock, weaving between fans, media personnel and special guests.
The energy is still buzzing from the race, the high of Frederic’s victory vibrating in the air.
I keep my head up, trying to act casual, but my heart is hammering in my chest.
It’s ridiculous, really. I’ve spent so much time with this man over the past few weeks, have had his hands on me in ways that should make me immune to feeling this flustered.
And yet, there’s something different about this.
Being invited into his world like this, brought into his inner circle, his team - it’s another level entirely.
Finally, we arrive at a private Mercedes hospitality suite, and the moment I step inside, I spot him.
He’s still in his race suit, and his damp hair is pushed back, his face flushed from exertion. There’s a champagne flute dangling loosely in one hand as he talks to a small group.
But the second he sees me, everything changes.
His entire expression shifts, his smirk slow and knowing as his eyes lock onto mine.
He sets his drink down, moving with the kind of confidence that makes my stomach tighten, that makes my pulse hammer against my ribs.
The room, the people, the chatter - it all blurs into the background as he crosses towards me, every step deliberate, every movement dripping with purpose.
My breath catches the moment he reaches me .
His hands find my waist with an ease that sends a shiver through me, his fingers pressing just firmly enough to remind me exactly who’s in control here.
Exactly who I belong to.
And without thinking - without hesitating - I throw my arms around his neck and press myself into him, holding on tight.
A shaky exhale escapes me as I bury my face in his shoulder, my heart pounding, my body thrumming with excitement, with pride, with something I can’t quite name - something warm and terrifying that I refuse to acknowledge just yet.
His body stiffens for the briefest second, like he wasn’t expecting this, but then he melts into me.
His grip tightens around my waist, one hand sliding up my back, the other pressing into my hip, pulling me flush against him as he lets out a quiet chuckle, his breath warm against my hair.
" Mon ange, " he murmurs, his voice rough, almost tender. "If I knew winning would get this reaction, I would have done it sooner."
I laugh, my arms still looped around his neck, but I don’t let go. Not yet.
I exhale, trying not to melt into him completely. After a long beat, I finally release him and step back, my eyes dancing over him from head to toe.
"I see you survived the race."
His lips twitch. "And I see you won your bet."
"A very profitable bet.”
"Then I expect you to spend it wisely."
"I was thinking about buying a yacht. "
He chuckles, shaking his head.
"Not quite at my level yet, but I admire the ambition."
"Guess I need another bet, then."
His smirk deepens, his fingers tracing lazy patterns against my hip.
"You’re already addicted to me, aren’t you?”
"Oh please ," I scoff. "I’m addicted to winning ."
His laugh is low and indulgent, and before I can say anything else, he leans in and presses a slow, deliberate kiss to my lips.
My stomach flips, my fingers curling against his chest as warmth spreads through me.
"Okay, seriously - can you two not have eye sex in front of us?”
Frederic chuckles against my mouth at the sound of Emma’s groan before pulling back slightly, turning to acknowledge the rest of the group.
"Ladies," he says smoothly. "I hope you’ve all been enjoying the weekend."
"Oh, we have," Jas smirks. "More so now that our girl here is in the winner’s circle."
"You chose well, Pops," Emma adds, nudging me.
I roll my eyes, but before I can respond, Frederic speaks again.
"Since you’re here, you’re all welcome to join us tonight. The team is heading out to celebrate."
"Where?" Leah asks, arching a brow.
"A few places," he says easily. "The team has a private dinner planned, then we’ll move on to an afterparty. I suspect there will be plenty of champagne. "
Emma grabs my hand like a child. "We’re going, right?”
I hesitate.
Not because I don’t want to go - but because I know how this will end.
I know what happens when we’re alone together, what happens when I let myself fall further into his world.
But then Frederic looks down at me, expectant, his smirk lazy, confident.
"Do I have a choice?" I mutter.
He leans in slightly, his voice a soft rasp.
" No ."
My stomach knots, a thrill shooting through me. Still, I keep up the pretense and let out a long sigh, feigning exasperation.
" Fine . But only because I want more champagne."
Frederic’s smirk turns positively wicked.
"Whatever you need to tell yourself, mon ange ."