Page 147 of My French Love Affair

Even from the outside, it radiates exclusivity. Tall arched windows framed by polished marble, cast a warm glow onto the cobblestone street, and the sleek, minimalist signage is understated yet unmistakable.

Because a place like this doesn’t need to announce itself. It exists for those who already know.

Frederic’s driver steps out, moving swiftly to open my door.

"We have arrived, mademoiselle."

As I step out of the car, smoothing my dress with my hands, something occurs to me.

I turn back toward the driver, catching him just before he moves to close the door.

"Wait - what’s your name?"

He pauses, then offers a small, polite smile. "Luc, mademoiselle."

Luc.

I nod, tucking that away for later. "Well… thank you, Luc."

His smile deepens just slightly, and with a nod, he closes the door behind me. "Passez une bonne soirée, mademoiselle."

Have a good evening.

I exhale, watching as Luc slips back into the car and pulls away, leaving me standing in front of one of the most exclusive restaurants in Monaco, about to have dinner withhim.

I square my shoulders, inhaling one last deep breath before I step forward.

I can do this.

It’s just dinner.

With a man I’ve been textingwaytoo much over the past few days.

With a man who has sent me thousands of euros worth of couture swimwear and flowers.

A man who has somehow managed to wedge himself beneath my skin in a way I can’t quite shake.

A man who, I now realise, hadfarmore control over our first meeting than I ever did.

A man who, despite every single reason I’ve given myself to stay away, keeps pulling me in.

I lift my chin and push through the doors.

Let’s see what game he’s playing tonight.

Chapter Forty-One

Poppy

As soon as I step through the grand entrance of the restaurant, I know I’m in trouble.

This isn’t just fancy.

This isopulent.

The lighting casts a soft, ambient glow over every pristine surface. Mirrored walls reflect their twinkle, and the murmur of conversation is hushed and controlled - punctuated only by the occasional clink of delicate glassware against fine china.

In the corner, there’s a pianist playing softly, and every single person looks like they belong - men in perfectly tailored suits and women in couture gowns that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe combined.

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