Page 196 of My French Love Affair

I swipe mascara through my lashes.

“Yeah,” I nod. “But you already booked the car - right?”

“Correct,” Jas nods.

“Bet helovedthat,” Emma smirks.

“He seemed fine,” I say casually, grabbing my bag.

“Sure he did,” Jas laughs.

Emma lowers her sunglasses to look at me, an amused glint in her eyes.

“You know, for a man who drives like his life depends on it, it’s cute that he wants you chauffeured around like aprincess.”

I roll my eyes. “He’s just being thoughtful.”

“Thoughtful,” Emma echoes, clearly not buying it. “Sure.”

* * *

The car ride to the venue is an absolute nightmare.

The traffic isinsane- which, in hindsight, should have been expected. It’s Monaco, it’s race weekend, and we’re heading to the most prestigious event of the year.

“I don’t know why you all look so stressed,” Leah sighs dramatically. “This is all just part of the experience.”

“I feel like I’m suffocating,” Emma groans, fanning herself.

“Jas, are you sure we don’t want to call Frederic’s driver after all?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“We’re nearly there now,” she says as she checks the map on her phone. “Besides, we’re already in a nice car, Poppy. What difference would it make?”

I don’t argue.

Still, a part of me wonders what it would’ve been like if I’d just let him handle it. The way he takes control of things so effortlessly, the way he makes everything feel easy…

No. Focus.

* * *

Finally, we arrive.

The moment we step out of the car, it’s like stepping into an entirely different world.

The energy is electric, the buzz of conversation blending with the distant roar of engines. The crowd is a mix of celebrities, influencers, socialites, and die-hard motorsport fans, all dressed in their most impeccable designer outfits. Photographers, journalists and fans with cameras are everywhere, scanning the arrivals, trying to catch glimpses of drivers and VIPs.

Luxury yachts line the harbour, banners displaying sponsors’ logos wave in the breeze, and the air smellsexpensive- perfume, champagne and the metallic tang of the racetrack.

“Jacques sent over instructions for the VIP section,” Leah says. “It looks like we have access to the Paddock Lounge.”

“Which means?” Emma asks.

“Luxury hospitality, private bars, and some of the best views of the track,” Leah grins.

We head toward the VIP entrance, security filtering out the general crowd as we make our way through.

The process is seamless - VIP tickets mean no lines and no waiting: just exclusivity. Staff in crisp uniforms guide us past the throngs of people, scanning our passes before ushering us through sleek, glass-paneled doors.

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