Page 81 of My French Love Affair

She enjoys it.

It’s there in the little smirk she fights each time she hits me with a quick-witted remark. The glint in her eyes when she bites back. She enjoys riling me up, likes pushing my buttonsand clapping right back at me, as if it’s all just some game for her amusement.

And the worst part?

I’m fuckingplaying.

I exhale sharply through my nose, gripping my glass tighter and somehow resisting the overwhelming urge to hurl it into the fucking ocean.

“She’s funny,” Étienne remarks, breaking the thick silence that Poppy left in her wake.

A few others hum in vague agreement.

But not Bastien.

Bastien, who’s always the first to talk too much, the first to run his mouth when he shouldn’t. He scoffs, shaking his head as his lip curls in something borderline derisive.

“Funny?” he sneers. “She’s got a fuckingattitude.”

I still.

My fingers curl a fraction tighter around the glass, my grip shifting, my body tensing.

I say nothing.

Bastien notices.

And the fuckersmirks. Clearly emboldened by my silence - by the fact that I haven't immediately shut him down - he leans back in his chair, stretching out like he’s about to deliver some groundbreaking fucking insight.

“Someone needs to shut that pretty mouth of hers,” he continues casually. “I’d be happy to do it.”

Thecrackof my glass hitting the table is sharp and final.

The energy shifts instantly, and a thick, heavy silence slamsdown over the group.

Not a single fucking sound.

I lean forwards - slowly,deliberately, the movement unhurried but dripping with intent. My arms brace against the table, my posture loose yet controlled, but every single part of me is coiled like a predator ready to strike.

Bastien’s smirk falters.

Good.

I don’t blink. Don’t flinch. Don’t waver as I lock onto him, my stare turning sharp,dangerous, a lethal warning cloaked in silence.

I wait.

Let him feel it.

Let him understand what happens when he forgets who the fuck he’s talking to.

The tension thickens, pressing down and almost suffocating. Étienne shifts slightly beside him, discomfort flickering across his face. Renaud clears his throat, his fingers twitching against his drink like he’s debating whether or not to intervene.

He doesn’t.No onedoes.

No one is stupid enough.

“Don’t speak about her like that,” I say.

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