Page 92 of My French Love Affair

Then, something catches my eye.

There’s a second account linked in her bio.

I click on it, and immediately, everything shifts.

Thisis different.

This isn’t just another personal page. Here, there’s no beach club selfies or holiday montages.

This is something else entirely.

Afashionaccount.

It’s filled with sketches and designs, a balanced combination of photos and reels showing the transformation from a simple drawing to a fully realised outfit. Most of them showcase step-by-step transitions - fabric swatches, stitching, adjustments on a mannequin, and finally, the finished product.

I scroll down, my interest piqued.

She’s good.

More than good, even.

A short video plays, and I watch as she models one of her own designs: a sleek, tailored co-ord set in soft champagne silk. The caption details how she custom-made it for a special event in London last year, down to the fabric choice, thestitching, the subtle details she spent days refining.

I keep scrolling, flicking through post after post of beautifully designed, immaculately constructed pieces.

This isn’t some half-hearted hobby. This istalent.

And then, I spot it.

The hot pink bikini and sarong set.

The one she was wearing when Iallegedlyknocked a full daiquiri down her front.

I click on the post before I even think about it, watching as she turns in front of the mirror, the material hugging her body in all the right places. The caption explains how long the process took.

Two full days of work.

Merde.

I rub a hand across my jaw, exhaling sharply.

I ruined it.

I didn’t just spill a drink on some overpriced designer set like I originally thought. She said it was something she’d created, but now I see it for what it is:

I destroyed something she fucking made.

I feel like an asshole.Morethan an asshole, if that’s possible.

Fuck.No wonder she hates me so much.

I need to fix it.

I know where she’s staying - my driver mentioned her hotel when she stole my car and he dropped her off that first day. I’ll pull something together and send something to replace it. It won’t make up for the fact that this was something of her own - a labour of love, somethingpersonal- but hopefully,it’ll do.

I’m already mentally running through my options.

Nothing off the rack. Something custom. Something high-end.

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