Page 77 of My French Love Affair

Chapter Twenty-Three

Poppy

Last-minute deviations are never a good sign.

One minute, we’re all set for a low-key afternoon - something involving cocktails, sunbathing, and zero run-ins with infuriating Frenchmen - the next, we’re on our way to a yacht party.

Apparently, Jacques - Leah’s new millionaire husband (in the making) - has invited us all aboard his obnoxiously massive floating palace.

And I should have known.

I should have known that agreeing to this - agreeing to a party hosted by a man who seems to exclusively surround himself with people who own at least three passports and far too many offshore accounts - would mean one thing:

That Frederic Moreau would be here.

Because of course he is.

This is Monaco, and apparently, the universe has decided that I can’t escape him for more than a day at a time.

I groan internally as I step aboard the yacht that’s so large it probably has its own postcode, sliding on my sunglassesin an attempt to shield my eyes from the blinding afternoon sun.

“You owe me for this,” I mutter to Leah, who looks positively glowing in a white linen dress, her golden tan flawless.

“Oh, I absolutely do not,” Leah grins, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear as she slips her sunglasses up her nose.

Emma smirks beside me. “You literally have nothing better to do.”

“Yeah,” Jas says in agreement. “What were you going to do instead - sit in the hotel and sketch angry couture designs?”

“That sounds amazing, actually.”

The girls ignore me as Leah gestures to the yacht’s ridiculously extravagant bar.

“Well, we’re here now,” she says, adjusting her sunglasses. “We might as well enjoy it.”

She’s not wrong.

This isexactlywhat I’d expect from a Grand Prix weekend yacht party - an absurd display of wealth, dripping in excess.

The yacht’s deck alone is the size of a small nightclub, lined with plush white loungers and glimmering glass railings that make the entire thing look like a floating five-star hotel.

Waiters glide effortlessly through the crowd, balancing trays of perfectly chilled champagne flutes while groups of models, socialites, and suspiciously well-groomed men cluster together, sipping drinks and laughing in the way that only rich people do.

Like they don’t have a single real concern in the world.

It’s the kind of place where everyone looks like they have at least one surname that could get them out of legal trouble,and where no one has ever had to googlehow much is too much to spend on skincare.

I exhale slowly, plucking a glass of champagne from a passing tray.

I can do this. I can blend into the background, ignore everything, and simply exist in peaceful anonymity for the next few hours.

At least, that’s the plan.

* * *

A short while later, I grip to one of the railings as the yacht sets sail.

It happens smoothly, almost imperceptibly at first. A slight shift, a barely-there motion beneath my feet.

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