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“That’s not news.”

“One day, you’re going to realise there’s more to life than just racing,” Gilles sighs.

I snort. “Doubtful.”

“Go,” Matthieu waves a hand. “Take a break. Eat something.Talkto someone.”

I roll my eyes but pull my phone from my pocket, scrolling through my notifications as I take another sip of water.

And that’s when I see it.

A message from the concierge at Poppy’s hotel.

Delivery confirmed.

The flowers and gift were successfully placed in Mademoiselle Taylor’s suite this morning.

I smirk.

Good.

It was a small gesture - something to make up for the fact that I’d ruined something she’d spent hours working on to make, something she wasproudof.

I’d known the second I saw that Instagram post that I couldn’t just let it slide.

I re-read the message, considering it for a moment.

She hasn’t texted. She hasn’t called.

Nothing.

I let out a slow breath, rolling my neck.

I don’t know what I was expecting. Athank you?

No. Poppy isn’t the type to make things that easy.

And yet, a part of me had expected something. Even a sarcastic remark, a half-insult disguised as gratitude.

Something.

I scroll through my phone, back to the Instagram page I’d already gone through more times than I’d like to admit.

She’s not posted anything new. No updates. No passive-aggressive captions directed at me.

She’s quiet.

Suspiciously so.

I lick my lips, debating my next move.

“You’ve got that look,” Gilles remarks, breaking through my thoughts.

I glance up. “What look?”

“The look that means you’re thinking about something you shouldn’t be.”

Matthieu hums in agreement.