Page 248 of My French Love Affair

Every nerve in my system is locked in, my grip tight on the wheel as I throw the car into the final sector, threading the needle between the barriers, millimeters from disaster at every turn.

My pulse is pounding so violently I can feel it in my throat, in my fingertips, in every damn fiber of my being.

And the car behind me?

It’s closing in. Under two seconds now.

Merde.

I grit my teeth, adjusting my line as I fly out of La Rascasse, my rear tires skimming the edge of the curb, my handstwitching to keep the car balanced as I push it to its absolute limit.

The roar of the crowd is deafening - an unrelenting wall of noise pressing in from every direction, but I don’t hear it.

I don’t hearanything.

There’s only the engine screaming behind me, only the voice in my ear calling sector times, only the sheer force of adrenaline drowning out everything else.

I cannot make a mistake now.

Not here. Not when the checkered flag is in sight.

Not when victory is right fucking there, waiting to be claimed.

I tighten my grip, my foot flat to the floor as I charge onto the straight. The car behind is in my mirrors, getting bigger, but it’s too late.

I fucking cross it first.

The adrenaline crashes through me like a tidal wave.

"YES, MOREAU! YOU FUCKING DID IT - YOU WON MONACO!"

I did it.

"Your girl’s going to be happy," Matthieu jokes in my ear, and I bark out a breathless laugh, shaking my head.

She fuckingbetterbe.

Chapter Sixty-Four

Poppy

The moment he crosses the line, the entire venue erupts.

Cheers, screams, claps - every sound blends together in a deafening roar of victory.

My hands fly to my mouth, my heart slamming against my ribs as the reality of what just happened crashes into me.

He won.

Frederic fucking Moreauwon.

"Oh my God!" Emma shrieks, grabbing my arm and shaking it wildly. "He did it! He actually did it!"

Jas is laughing beside me, just as thrilled, but all I can do is stare at the screen, at his name flashing in gold above the wordsP1 – Winner, at the image of his car screaming across the finish line, and then - athim.

The camera zooms in on the garage, where his team is going absolutely feral, leaping over barriers, throwing their arms around each other. And then, there he is - pulling intoparc fermé, his hands still gripping the wheel, his chest heaving beneath his fireproofs.

I exhale a breathless laugh, sheer relief coursing through me.

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