Page 242 of My French Love Affair

“Onwhat?”

“On who’s going to win,” Emma grins. “Come on, we’re in Monaco. It’s only right.”

Jas snorts, but she looks intrigued. “How much?”

“One hundred each,” Emma declares, already pulling out her phone to place the bets. “Winner takes all.”

Leah scoffs, but there’s amusement in her expression.

“Alright,fine. But if I win, you’re all buying my drinks tonight.”

I roll my eyes. “When do wenotbuy your drinks?”

She winks. “Exactly.”

Emma hums thoughtfully, scrolling through the odds.

“Okay, so who’s everyone picking?”

Leah leans back, inspecting the list on Emma’s screen. “Vandergaurd.”

Jas tilts her head, considering. “Lemoine. Hometown hero and all that.”

Emma grins. “Harrison. Because, you know…daddy.”

I groan. “Bloodyhell,Emma.”

She shrugs, unbothered, before turning to me. “And you, Poppy?”

I don’t even hesitate. “Moreau.”

Emma cackles. “Oh,shocker.”

I roll my eyes but can’t help but smirk as she places the bet for me.

Odds are in his favour - he’s one of the favourites to win today - but I don’t even care about that. This is his race, his moment, and for the first time since we arrived in Monaco, Ifeel nervous.

Because as much as I love the idea of him winning -

I don’t like the idea of what happens after this weekend ends.

* * *

I step outside, needing a moment to breathe, to soak it all in.

Below me, the garages are a flurry of activity - mechanics in their team colours moving with practiced efficiency, final checks being made, the cars gleaming under the bright sun.

I tell myself I’m just taking in the view, but I know exactly who I’m looking for.

It takes a minute, but then I spot him.

He’s standing just outside the Mercedes garage, positioned in a way that keeps him out of view from most of the crowd - but not from me.

He’s deep in conversation with who I can only assume is an engineer, his expression sharp, intense and completely locked in. His brows are slightly furrowed, his jaw tense with focus, nodding at whatever is being said.

One hand rests against his hip, fingers drumming absentmindedly against the fabric of his suit, while the other moves in subtle, precise gestures, punctuating his words.

He’s always so composed, so effortlessly in control -

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