Chapter Sixty-Six
Frederic
T he night is a blur of flashing cameras, flowing champagne, and the kind of high that only comes from winning.
From the second I crossed that finish line, I haven’t stopped moving. The podium ceremony, the endless fucking press interviews, the PR obligations - all of it handled with ease.
It’s part of the job. I know how this works.
But now?
Now, I get to do what I want.
And what I want is Poppy Taylor pressed up against me, looking so fucking good that I almost give into the urge to carry her out of here and back to my hotel suite so that I can make sure she understands exactly what she does to me.
The rooftop bar is packed, filled with the elite of Monaco - all drinking and celebrating under the glow of chandeliers and city lights. The music pulses, the bass vibrating beneath my feet, and everywhere I turn, people are congratulating me - clapping me on the back, raising glasses and throwing my name around like it’s the only thing that matters tonight.
I barely hear them .
Because the only thing that does matter is standing beside me.
She’s wearing a different dress this evening - a sleek little black number; one of her own designs, I think - and sipping champagne like she was made for this world.
And the best part?
She’s not shying away from it.
Not from the attention, not from the cameras -
Not from me.
Let them look. Let them fucking watch.
Because I know what they see.
The Monaco Grand Prix winner, the man of the hour, with her on his arm.
Mine.
I tighten my grip on her waist, pulling her in slightly as I lean down, brushing my lips against her ear.
"You do realise we’re probably making headlines right now."
"Probably?” she laughs. “More like definitely ."
"Does it bother you?"
There’s the tiniest flicker of hesitation - so small, so quick, most wouldn’t even catch it.
But I do.
"It should," she muses, lips curling. "But it doesn’t."
Fuck .
I knew I liked this girl.
"You’re getting cocky, mon ange ," I murmur, my fingers grazing along the inside of her wrist, feeling the way her pulse jumps beneath my touch.
She smirks, not missing a beat. "I wonder where I learned that from."
I chuckle, tilting her chin up with my knuckle.
She’s playing my game - and she’s winning it.
"You know," she says, swirling the champagne in her glass, "I did bet on you. Which means technically, this is my victory too."
I arch a brow. "Oh?"
She nods, her smirk widening.
"So, shouldn’t I get something out of it?"
"Greedy little thing, aren’t you?" I laugh.
"Only when it comes to you."
Fuck .
This woman is going to be the fucking death of me.
I grip her waist tighter, lowering my voice so only she can hear.
"I think you’ve already been well compensated, chérie ."
Her cheeks flush, and I know she’s thinking about yesterday. About the way I had her moaning my name, the way she gave herself to me so completely, the way she let me own her.
Good . I want it in her head, just like it’s in mine.
"Still," she hums, pretending to consider. "I feel like I should get something extra. Maybe a trophy of my own."
I smirk, bringing my lips to her ear. "Oh, you’ll be getting your reward, Poppy," I murmur, my fingers pressing into her waist meaningfully. "But I don’t think it’ll be the kind you can show off to your friends."
She sucks in a sharp breath, her fingers tightening around her glass, and I swear I see the goosebumps rise along her skin.
All eyes are on us, but I don’t care.
Let them watch. Let the whole world fucking see.
Because I didn’t just win the Monaco Grand Prix today.
I won her .
* * *
The rest of the night is a blur of champagne, indulgence, and Poppy’s laughter ringing in my ears.
The party hasn’t stopped since we arrived, and I’m feeling great .
I’ve got my win, I’ve got my girl, and for once, I don’t have to think about anything else.
Until I do.
A commotion over by the bar catches my attention - a familiar kind of commotion, the kind that makes my stomach tighten.
A few voices rise over the music, sharp and aggressive, and when I glance up -
Merde.
Of course, it’s Jacques.
He’s backed against the bar, his body tense, two men crowding him. They’re speaking low, their voices tight with barely restrained anger, and Jacques - fuck , he’s doing that nervous thing where his hands twitch, his eyes darting.
I exhale sharply .
Of course, it’s this again.
“Everything okay?” Poppy’s voice is light, but when I turn to look at her, I can see the concern in her eyes.
She doesn’t miss much.
I force a smirk, brushing my thumb over the curve of her hip.
“I’ll be back in a minute.”
Her brow furrows. “Frederic…”
I cut her off with a quick kiss, pressing my lips to hers just enough to reassure her.
“I won’t be long. Promise. ”
I leave her with her friends, weaving through the crowd with ease. People stop me, patting me on the back and raising glasses in my direction, but I barely acknowledge them.
And as I approach, I hear it.
“What the fuck do you mean ?”
One of the men spits the words out like venom, leaning in closer. His buddy - taller and stockier - crosses his arms, waiting and watching as Jacques shifts uncomfortably.
His face is pale, his usual bravado slipping away fast as his gaze flickers toward me.
Fucking hell .
I already know how this ends.
“It’s funny, you know, because we had an agreement -”
“I -” Jacques starts, licking his lips, his hands shaking at his sides. “I just need a few more days, alright? I can get it -”
The first man laughs, a sharp, cold sound. “No more time. You’re out. ”
Jacques freezes. His breathing turns ragged, his fingers curling against his sides, panic written all over his face.
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
I knew this was coming. I fucking knew.
Here I am. Again . Stepping in to save his ass.
What am I supposed to do, though - what other option do I have? Despite his troubles, Jacques isn’t just some washed-up has-been trying to live like a king in Monaco - he’s the only one who ever believed in me when no one else did.
When I was just a kid desperate to prove himself, when my own family didn’t give a shit about my career, about racing, about me . The Moreaus had their wealth, their name, their expectations - and motorsport wasn’t a part of it.
But Jacques saw something. He helped me when no one else would.
He trained me. He made connections for me.
And I’ll owe him for it forever - even if he’s running himself into the fucking ground.
“I told you, I don’t have any money -”
It’s painful to watch him scramble like this; but before I can say a word, another voice breaks through the tension.
A softer voice.
“What do you mean, you don’t have any money?”
Jacques stiffens, his face flickering with something almost desperate as he turns toward her.
Poppy’s friend - the girl that was sitting on his lap yesterday.
Ah, fuck .
She looks confused and completely oblivious to what’s going on as one of the men smirks darkly.
“Yeah, Jacques. What do you mean, you don’t have any money?”
That’s it - I’m not giving them the chance to stir shit up more.
I step forward, my voice smooth and controlled.
“Back off.”
The men glance at me, recognition flickering in their eyes. Of course, they know who I am.
“This doesn’t concern you,” one of them starts, but I cut him off with a sharp look.
“It does now,” I grit out, shoving a hand through my hair. “How much does he owe you?”
The taller one grins. “You covering his debt again, champ ?”
I don’t say anything, and Jacques doesn’t even look at me.
After all, we both know the answer.
The men exchange glances. “Twenty thousand.”
Fuck - that’s a lot of money to have spent on fucking drugs in what feels like no time at all. It was fifteen thousand last week - surely, this isn't all for him.
Jacques has been spiralling for months now, completely in denial about his behaviours, but there's no way that even he can consume that much. He'd be dead in a heartbeat.
I hold out my hand expectantly, waiting for the card to be handed to me with the account details on it. The men shoot a few knowing glances at each other before one hands it over.
Without another word, I pull out my phone, tap a few buttons, and transfer the money.
One of the men’s phones pings. He glances down at it, then smirks.
“Pleasure doing business with you, again , Moreau.”
"Fuck off," I bite out.
They leave without another word, and Jacques exhales, rubbing his face.
“ Fuck .”
I don’t respond. At this point, I don’t care . There's no way that something even more unpleasant than I originally suspected isn't going on here, and I'm through with it all.
I'm done.
I’m already turning away -
And then, a glass shatters .
I spin back just in time to see Poppy’s friend shriek in frustration. Her expression is twisted in rage, her hand still hovering mid-air -
While Jacques is drenched in red wine.
He curses loudly in French as he shakes the liquid from his shirt and wipes his eyes.
“What the fuck ?” he growls.
“You’re a piece of shit ,” she snaps. Her voice is shaking, her hands clenched into fists. “I knew you were lying to me.”
Jacques groans, wiping his face. “Leah -”
“No.” She shakes her head, her eyes flashing. “You lied to me. You used me.”
I exhale heavily, running a hand down my face.
Fucking hell, Jacques.
He glances at me, his jaw tightening, like maybe I can fix thi s , too.
Not a chance, pal.
Because, quite simply, I don’t care.
Not about Jacques’ lies. Not about whatever excuses he’s about to spill.
I only care about her .
And as Poppy rushes towards the brunette with the other girls, trying to comfort her, all I want is to get her away from this .
Her friend is red-faced, breathing hard, and fucking livid .
I step forwards, reaching for my girl.
My hand finds her waist, and she startles slightly before looking up at me, her brown eyes wild, her pulse fluttering beneath my touch.
“Be careful,” I murmur, low and quiet. “I need to help clean him up.”
She swallows, nodding, and I realise -
I don’t owe Jacques anything. Not anymore.
But Poppy?
I’d give her everything .