Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 71396 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71396 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 357(@200wpm)___ 286(@250wpm)___ 238(@300wpm)
“I don’t believe that,” she says firmly. “You loved Lance. There was a time when it was right for you, so don’t have regrets or beat yourself up. It’s a complicated situation and I know we keep saying this, but you need to accept it… none of this is your fault.”
I nod in understanding, the tightness in my chest loosening a bit.
Mum squeezes my shoulders. “Want one more piece of advice?”
“Of course.”
“Own it.”
I blink in confusion. “Own it?”
“Own it,” she repeats. “Don’t keep this thing with you and Reid too deep in the shadows because that’s not healthy for a relationship. But finish what needs finishing first. You owe yourself that much. And you owe it to Lance, no matter how badly things ended.”
“I know,” I whisper.
She leans over and presses a kiss to my temple. “I’m proud of you, Lara. Not for who you choose to love, but for not letting someone else choose for you.”
She stands and leaves without another word, and I’m left staring out the window, a suitcase half packed, and a heart full of more certainty than guilt.
CHAPTER 17
Lara
From the airplane window, I stare slack-jawed at the endless stretch of Mediterranean so clear it almost doesn’t look real. The plane dips lower, skimming just above the sparkling water, and for a second, it’s as if we’re going to land right in the bay. But then tarmac replaces surf, and we touch down with a smooth bounce and a rush of engines.
Even as we taxi, I can see yachts bobbing in the distance and the curve of the coastline studded with sun-washed villas and terraced gardens. It’s all so surreal—the kind of place people dream about but never actually visit.
The salty air greets me as we step off the plane at the Nice Côte d’Azur Airport. The journey from Melbourne was long, but my excitement kept me energized. I’m eager to soak up all the Riviera’s promised charm.
Reid strolls through the terminal with a familiarity that suggests this is routine for him. In the parking garage, he leads us to a sleek, impossibly low sports car with glossy red paint. I can’t tell you what it is—only that it’s the kind of vehicle that looks like it should come with a security escort or its own movie score. Long, muscular lines and an engine that you know will growl, I’m sure it comes with a price tag I probably shouldn’t ask about.
Reid pops the trunk with a click of his key fob, revealing a surprisingly roomy cargo area, and I blink. “Wait, this thing has actual luggage space?”
He grins. “It’s a Ferrari GTC4Lusso. V12.”
I stare at him blankly. “And… that means?”
“It goes fast and still fits your shoe collection,” he replies with a grin as he hefts our suitcases inside.
I can’t help but laugh. “Sounds expensive.”
He hesitates like he’s deciding whether to lie. “About three hundred grand.”
My jaw drops. “In what world is that a casual airport pickup car?”
“This one,” he says, opening the passenger door for me like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Welcome to Monaco. Impressed?”
I nod, speechless. “This was not what I expected.”
He chuckles. “The French Riviera has its standards.”
The engine purrs to life, and as we glide along the coastal highway from Nice to Monaco, the scenery is blindingly spectacular. Around every curve, my breath is robbed over and over again. The road twists through sleepy hillside towns, every turn revealing another postcard-perfect view of shimmering water, pale stone buildings, and the frequent luxury car.
By the time we descend into the polished streets of Monte Carlo, it seems like another world entirely. One where the air smells not so much like sea salt but rather extreme wealth.
I understood it in theory. I’ve seen pictures of Monaco. But being here now, seeing the yachts, the high-rise terraces, the gleaming supercars parked like they belong on every corner? It hits different. This isn’t just Reid’s home base—it’s a whole other world, and I would have never thought he’d be comfortable here. It doesn’t reconcile with the fun-loving surfer boy who races cars at breakneck speed and pounds beers with his friends at night.
As we pull into a narrow, pristine street lined with towering palms and sleek glass structures, Reid says, “Welcome to Larvotto. It’s the beachfront district—tons of high-rise luxury towers, private terraces, rooftop pools. You’ve probably seen it in a Bond movie without realizing.”
I gawk at the buildings, the fashionably dressed pedestrians. “I think I’m going to be seriously underdressed here.”
He shoots me a sideways grin. “Trust me… all these fancy people wear their joggers and T-shirts in the privacy of their own homes.”
I chuckle, but I highly doubt what he’s saying. “You live in a postcard.”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “It’s quiet and I can walk to the beach in about thirty seconds.”