Page 22 of My French Love Affair

Enough.

I shove the bottle onto the desk with a dullthud, already reaching for my helmet again. The weight of it in my hands is grounding, reminding me of where I am, ofwhoI am.

I pull it on, the world narrowing around me, drowning out distractions.

One strap. Then the next.

The click of the buckle, thesnapof Velcro securing the harness across my chest, locking me back into position.

The weight of the wheel in my hands.

The screens flickering to life.

Focus.

I take one last breath, slow and controlled, then glance at Matthieu.

"Reset it," I say, my voice even, steady.

Matthieu taps at the screen. The track reloads.

No distractions. No mistakes.

Only victory.

Chapter Seven

Poppy

If you’re going to drop an obscene amount of money on a sunbed, you make the most of it.

That was Leah’s argument when she set an alarm for silly o’clock this morning and insisted we get to the beach club early. We’ve arrived before the prime spots have been taken, before the ice buckets of rosé have started appearing at every table -

And, most importantly, before Monaco’s most eligible bachelors have arrived.

Because, according to her,thisis where it happens.

“This is where theyallcome,” she says, sweeping her sunglasses onto her head as we step into the beach club. “The drivers, the team owners, the investors, the rich older men looking for a wife to dress in Dior and leave unattended on a yacht.Thisis where I’m finding my future husband.”

Emma snorts, adjusting the strap of her white one-piece.

“I thought the plan was seducing a billionaire on Monday night?”

“I saidpotentialbillionaire,” Leah corrects, flipping her hair. “And he ended up beingonlya millionaire, so obviously, I hadto move on.”

I stifle a laugh as we weave through the cabanas, heading towards the row of sunbeds that the hostess is leading us to. The music is already thumping - a chilled, electronic beat that makes everything feel expensive.

And honestly, itis. The price of this sunbed could have bought me a very nice pair of designer heels. But we’re in Monaco, and I’ve decided to embrace the absurdity of it all.

Besides, I have bigger things on my mind.

Outfit inspiration.

I settle onto my sunbed, adjusting my very carefully curated beach club look. I’d designed this during the colder months, and it’s one of my absolute favourites - a hot pink bikini set, with a matching sheer sarong that catches the light just enough to make me feel a little extra, and the finishing touch: an oversized black and cream sun hat that is frankly so large it could probably be classified as a safety hazard in high winds.

Fashionandpersonal shade. Iconic, if I do say so myself.

Of course, I’ve slathered myself in sun cream twice already, just in case the UV rays eventhinkabout getting near me. Fake tan exists for a reason, and my mother has drilled into me since childhood that the sun ages you. So while Em is practically bathing in tanning oil beside me, I am staying safely under my hat, under the umbrella, and out of direct sunlight like the ghostly fashion goblin I am.

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