Page 28 of My French Love Affair

The beach club is buzzing, the music has gotten louder, and the drinks are flowing.

Thanks to Leah and her mystery millionaire-slash-potential-billionaire, we haven’t paid for a single thing since mid-afternoon.

Well - except for dignity.

Leah has absolutely beenperformingfor this man; batting her lashes, laughing at every terrible joke, and even doing that thing where she lightly touches his arm while talking.

Honestly, it’s kind of impressive.

It’s like she’s manifested his existence, or something.

“Leah is playing a very dangerous game,” Emma muses, swirling the last of her cocktail in her glass as she looks over at our friend.

“She’s playing a veryexpensivegame,” Jas corrects. “And she’s winning.”

I shake my head, looking away from where Leah is perching on the man’s knee and instead looking around at the sheer wealth on display.

It’s not as though I’m not used to money. My family is comfortable, I went to private school, and I’ve been in enough designer stores to know my way around a Birkin.

But this isinsanity.

A man just walked by in a linen shirt that probably cost the same as a small car. Another one, draped casually across a lounge chair, is wearing a Patek Philippe that I know for afactis worth more than some apartments in London.

It’s overwhelming.

And I’m tipsy.

I’ve been sketching all afternoon, collecting ideas for my modern twist on old-money collection, but now that I’m a few cocktails deep, my sketches are starting to look a little…wobbly.

I spend the next ten minutes or so finishing off the design I’ve been working on, but then I decide it’s probably best to stop before I create something truly tragic.

I set my sketchbook aside and stretch.

“I need another drink,” I declare.

“Leah’s literal millionaire is still paying, you know,” Jas says. “Just order it from here.”

“If you hadn’t noticed, Leah and herliteral millionairehave disappeared,” I say. “And I’mnotgoing on a hunt to find them in the name of a free drink.”

Emma pulls her sunglasses down, giving me a look.

“You know where they’ll have gone, right?”

“Honestly?” I grimace. “I dread to think.”

With a sigh, I slide off my sunbed, adjust my oversized hat and my sarong and make my way toward the bar inside the club.

And this?

This is where it all goes wrong.

* * *

The inside of the club is just as extravagant as the outside.

Everything is sleek, polished, and dimly lit - the kind of place where everyone looks like they either own a yacht or are actively trying to marry someone who does.

(One of my best friends included.)

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