Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 134961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 675(@200wpm)___ 540(@250wpm)___ 450(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 675(@200wpm)___ 540(@250wpm)___ 450(@300wpm)
Alain has been working for my family for years, overseeing the logistics of this place: staffing, guest lists, security. If someone is on board, Alain knows about it.
He sees me approaching and straightens immediately, adjusting the cuffs of his white uniform jacket.
“Monsieur Moreau,” he greets with a respectful nod. “Is everything to your liking?”
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.
Then, something catches my eye.
There’s a second account linked in her bio.
I click on it, and immediately, everything shifts.
This is different.
This isn’t just another personal page. Here, there’s no beach club selfies or holiday montages.
This is something else entirely.
A fashion account.
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, the stitching, 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 is talent.
And then, I spot it.
The hot pink bikini and sarong set.
The one she was wearing when I allegedly knocked 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. More than 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, something personal - but hopefully, it’ll do.
I’m already mentally running through my options.
Nothing off the rack. Something custom. Something high-end.
I’ll make sure it’s waiting in her room by the morning.
Before I can keep going, Jacques strides towards me, his expression set in something borderline serious. I resist the urge to sigh.
“Not now,” I say, not even bothering to look up from my phone as I continue to move through the yacht.
Jacques stiffens slightly, though he steps into line next to me.
“It’s important,” he presses.
I wave him off. “Later.”
His mouth flattens, but he knows better than to push me.
I see him hesitate, but then he nods once and steps away, disappearing back into the yacht.