Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 164263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 821(@200wpm)___ 657(@250wpm)___ 548(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 821(@200wpm)___ 657(@250wpm)___ 548(@300wpm)
I need to forget him.
The crack of light through the drapes has moved all the way across the bedroom. Ticking every moment of time with it along the way. The night has been long.
I haven’t heard from Edward, not that I expected to I guess.
I never do.
He spent the night with Colette no doubt, while I lay here like a pathetic fool.
I’m too old for this crap, when I get out of bed tomorrow, which is actually very soon, I vow to never think of Edward Prescott again.
A day in Paris heals all wounds, it’s true what they say.
The warmth of the late-afternoon sun kisses my skin as I amble through the Parisian markets. I sip my hot chocolate as I look at all the stalls. I always drink hot chocolate when I’m here, but I never seem to drink it anywhere else.
Bizarre.
“Alora.” I hear a voice and turn.
“Pascal,” I say, surprised. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here for the weekend. Came to see some friends, I’m staying at the Zavier.”
“You’re staying at the Zavier?” I frown. “That’s where I’m staying.”
“Really?” He smiles. “What a coincidence.”
“It is. How have you been?” I ask.
“I’m okay, you?”
“Getting there.” He falls in to walk along beside me.
Shit.
EDWARD
The Rolls-Royce comes to a stop and my driver opens the car door; cameras click as I climb out. “Mr. Prescott, you must be so proud of this event,” someone calls.
“I am.” I nod. My phone beeps with a text in my pocket and I quickly glance at it, a message from Philippe.
Philippe
Look who’s here.
An image of Alora talking to someone comes through and I frown as I stare at it.
Pascal.
The fuck is he doing in Paris?
“A photo, sir?”
“Of course.” I glance up and do up my black suit jacket and straighten my bow tie and stop on the bottom stair so they can get their shot.
“Thank you, sir.”
I nod and make my way into the foyer.
“Late to your own party, I see,” a familiar voice says. I smile and turn to see Theo standing by the door.
“Wish I wasn’t even here,” I mutter as I shake his hand. “The worst host in history.” He smiles. “Always so accommodating.”
“Fuck off,” I mutter under my breath.
Theodore Chapelle, also known as the Crown Prince of Monaco, who moonlights as one of my best friends.
“Where’s Sinclair?”
“Already inside.”
I straighten my cufflinks as we walk through the grand foyer, my mind a clusterfuck of fury.
What the hell is Pascal doing in Paris?
Was this planned?
I’ve had no sleep, spent the entire night pacing while trying to stop myself from going to Alora’s room and then had to return to Monaco first thing this morning to come to this stupid event, now to find out that she’s in Paris with her ex…my blood is boiling.
I drag my hand through my hair to try and regain my composure.
“You hungover?” Theo asks as we take the stairs.
“No, why?”
“You look like shit.”
My eyes flick over to him as we continue up the stairs to the top. “Looked in the mirror lately?”
He chuckles and then looks over and winces.
“What?” I follow his line of sight.
Fuck.
I take a drink off a passing tray and dart to the left and hopefully out of sight. Theo follows me.
“I didn’t know the king was coming?”
“Neither did I.” I feel my stress levels rise another ten notches. Hermione’s father is here, Volter the King of Switzerland.
“You’d be pretty high on his hit list right now, I’m imagining,” Theo whispers as he cranes his neck to look his way.
“There you are,” Nicholas says as he comes down the corridor. “Stay out of the ballroom.” He shakes my hand. “Slight problem.” And here’s another of my best friends, Nicholas Anastas.
“What’s that?” I glance around, I’m not worried about a slight problem in the ballroom, I have a major fucking problem in Paris.
I just want five minutes’ peace to call Philippe and see what the hell is going on.
“Oh…fuck.” He spins toward me and widens his eyes. “Here it comes.”
“Here he is.” Sinclair appears out of the ballroom with Hermione on his arm. “I told you I’d find him.”
“Oh, thank you.” Hermione smiles up at me before reaching up and kissing my cheek. “I’ve missed you, darling.”
I glare at Sinclair and he smirks and winks.
Fuck. You.
This particular best friend has no greater joy than winding us up.
The smart-ass of all fucking smart-asses.
Sinclair is the owner of a tech start-up, his family were the original owners of Formula One Racing.
The thing about living in Monaco is, the friends I keep are all as wealthy as I am. A tax-free country definitely has its advantages. We met as teenagers; our families had superyachts at the marina here in Monte Carlo. We were around the same age and started hanging out together during vacation, little did I know back then that one day we would all end up living here full-time and they would become the best friends I could ever ask for.