Page 91 of My French Love Affair

I don’t waste time with pleasantries.

“The guest list.”

His brows flick up, but he doesn’t question me. Instead, he swipes his tablet open and holds it out.

“Here,” he says, handing it over. “Everyone on board has been registered.”

I take the tablet without a word and scroll quickly through the list, scanning past Jacques’ endless collection of parasites, past my own invited guests, until I find them -

Leah Stanton. Jasmine Patel. Emma Carter.

And then:

Poppy Taylor.

Got you.

A smirk tugs at my lips as I commit it to memory.

I pass the tablet back to Alain, turning on my heel, already unlocking my phone as I make my way back toward the group.

It takes less than five minutes.

She’s not exactly hiding.

Her Instagram is public, and from the thousands of followers and high-quality shots, it’s clear she’s got a good eye. Not an influencer, but close.

I scroll through, taking in every carefully curated photo.

She’s twenty-two. London-born, studying fashion and business management.

And -unsurprisingly- she lives well.

Her feed is a catalogue of privilege; beach clubs in Mykonos, designer stores in Milan, dinners at restaurants where half the menu is in French.

She spends her summers travelling.

Her friends are always the same - Emma, Jas, Leah - the ones I’ve seen her here with. They appear in almost every other photo, and something about it makes me smirk.

Loyalty. She’s clearly got it in abundance.

The comments are endless: a sea of compliments, emojis, fire reactions.

One name stands out, though.Noah.

Noah’s comments litter her photos, all painfully earnest, filled with far too many emojis.

I tap on his profile, and exhale a laugh.

His accounts are private, but his profile picture alone tells me everything I need to know.

Soft-looking. Wide-eyed.

No competition.

Poor bastard.

I shake my head, scrolling back up, flicking through a few more photos.

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