Page 195 of My French Love Affair

Trying to shakeheroff.

"You good?" he asks, looking at me like I’m a fucking case study.

"Why wouldn’t I be?"

Matthieu raises a brow, unimpressed.

“Because you didn’t touch a single croissant at breakfast. And youalwaysglare at Pierre in the mornings. Today? Nothing.”

I roll my eyes, reaching for my gloves.

“Focus on the race, Matthieu. Not my appetite.”

But he doesn’t let it go, still watching me like he’s waiting for me to slip up.

"Right," he mutters, but there’s something knowing in histone, something that makes my jaw clench.

I ignore him.

Ignore the way my chest tightens as I climb into the cockpit, settling into the seat, the weight of the car pressing around me like a second skin. The world outside the visor of my helmet ceases to exist.

This is where I belong.

The radio crackles to life in my ear.

“All systems are green,” Philip reports.

I inhale deeply, grip tightening on the wheel as I flex my fingers around the molded grips.

Focus. Precision. Control.

I know what I need to do.

And when I win - because Iwillwin - I know exactly who I’ll be looking for in the crowd.

Chapter Fifty-Two

Poppy

The energy in the suite is electric.

The last few days have been lovely and relaxed, but it’s Friday morning, the first day of the Monaco Grand Prix weekend, and we’re all caught up in the thrill of it.

The windows have been pushed wide open, letting in the warm Mediterranean air, and the sound of Emma’s music playlist blasts through the speakers as we get ready.

I smooth my hands down the fabric of my dress - another piece I designed myself. It’s elegant yet effortless in a soft lemon colour; the kind of dress that could belong in a vintage photograph of Monaco’s heyday.

With a structured bodice, delicate straps, and a slightly flared skirt that ends mid-thigh, it’sperfect.

I pair it with slingback heels and my Cartier bracelet, the gold glinting under the sunlight. My hair is styled into loose waves, my makeup minimal but polished, and I’m so happy with how it all turned out that I could cry.

Not that I will, of course. I spent far too long on my make-up for that.

Leah - who is still, somehow, in Jacques’ good graces - wears an ensemble that screams money: a designer dress, oversized sunglasses and sky-high stilettos. Emma and Jas follow suit, dressed immaculately, but in a way that feels uniquelythem.

Jas scrolls through her phone as she touches up her lipstick.

“Frederic texted you about a driver, didn’t he?”

---