Chapter Twenty-Two
◆◆◆
Jax
But the high never quite landed.
He called back immediately.
She answered on the second ring, voice thinner than he remembered, but still carrying that same stubborn warmth.
“Jaxon.”
“Nan.” He sat up, sheets pooling around his waist. “Everything okay? You called early.”
A small pause—too long. Then she exhaled, soft and tired.
“I know it’s race day today, love. I wondered about calling. But I decided you’ve got this. You always have. And I need you to know how proud I am of you. So proud. Watched every race since Melbourne. You’re flying out there. My boy’s finally showing them what he’s made of.”
He smiled despite the knot forming in his chest. “Thanks, Nan. Means a lot.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“I need to tell you something,” she said quietly. “Been meaning to for a while. I went to the doctor a few months back—before Christmas. Didn’t want to spoil the holidays. You were home, smiling, bringing that lovely girl around. I wanted last Christmas to be… normal.”
His stomach dropped.
“Nan—”
“They did some tests,” she continued, voice steady but small. “Feeling more tired than usual. Short of breath. Turns out it’s bowel cancer. Well progressed. They’ve done everything they can—chemo, radiation, the lot. But… it’s late. Doctors reckon around six months. Maybe a bit more if I’m lucky.”
The room tilted.
He couldn’t breathe.
“Nan…” His voice cracked. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Didn’t want you carrying it while you were racing. You’ve got enough on your plate. But I need you to know now. Need you to keep fighting. I want to see you as world champion before I go, Jaxon. I want to watch you lift that trophy and know my boy did it. For himself. For his mum and dad. For me.”
Tears burned hot behind his eyes. He pressed the heel of his hand against them, trying to keep his voice steady.
“I’m coming home,” he said. “After Silverstone. I’ll—”
“No.” Firm. The same tone she’d used when he was thirteen and tried to skip school to go karting. “You finish the season. You win that bloody championship. I’ll be right here watching every lap. And when it’s done, you come home. We’ll have tea. You can tell me all about it.”
He couldn’t speak.
“I love you, Jaxon,” she said softly. “Always have. Always will. Now go win something today so I can brag at bridge club next week.”
The call ended.
He sat there—numb, hollow—staring at the blank screen until his vision blurred.
He tried Aria first. Straight to voicemail. Tried again. Voicemail. Again. Nothing.
He kept redialling while he dressed, while he walked to the paddock, while he sat through the pre-race briefing with the engineers droning in the background. Nothing.
◆◆◆
Aria
The Seoul studio was dark except for the glow of the mixing desk and the soft blue light from the vocal booth.
She’d been in since early Sunday morning—pushing through a marathon session to lock down the new single before settling in to watch Jax’s race later that evening from her apartment.
The lyrics were raw—longing, clarity, the quiet terror of wanting something you weren’t sure you could keep.
She hadn’t named it “for Jax” in her head yet. But every line felt like him.
She was so deep in the take—headphones on, eyes closed, voice cracking on the bridge—that she didn’t notice her phone had died on the couch behind her.
The door opened quietly.
Min-Jae stepped in—dark hoodie, cap pulled low, carrying two iced coffees like it was normal. He set one on the desk, leaned against the wall.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said when she finally pulled the headphones off.
She startled—heart lurching—then exhaled slowly, setting the headphones down.
“I haven’t been avoiding you,” she said. “I’ve been… done.”
He nodded once, his expression softening as he took a sip of his coffee. “I figured. After the messages went unanswered. But I thought we should talk. Properly. Not just… fade out.”
She leaned back against the desk, crossing her arms. The iced coffee felt cold in her hand, grounding her. “What’s there to say? I thought maybe there was a way back, but… there isn’t. Not for me.”
Min-Jae looked down at the floor for a long moment, then met her eyes again. This time there was no easy charm, no practiced smile—just something raw and unguarded.
“I know I fucked up,” he said quietly. “Not just the cheating when we broke up the first time. The way I left this time. Texting you like some coward instead of facing you. I couldn’t look you in the eye and say it was over.
I knew if I did, you’d ask why, and I didn’t have a good enough answer.
You’ve always been the brave one in this relationship.
Always the one who said the hard things first. I leaned on that.
And when I couldn’t anymore, I just… ran. ”
Aria felt her throat tighten, but she didn’t interrupt. She let him speak.
“When we first met,” he continued, voice low, “we were so young. Barely out of our teens, both trying to claw our way into this industry. You needed me back then—someone who understood the pressure, the late nights, the way the spotlight burns. I needed you too. You kept me grounded when everything else was spinning. But the past couple of years… as your career took off, as you started filling arenas and headlines started following you instead of me… you didn’t need me anymore.
Not like that. I think we both saw it coming.
I just refused to admit it until it was too late. ”
He let out a small, bitter laugh. “The first breakup—when I cheated, that wasn’t just me being selfish.
It was me trying to prove to myself that someone still needed me.
That I still mattered to somebody. Pathetic, right?
But I couldn’t handle being the one left behind. So I made sure I left first.”
Aria stared at him, the words landing heavy but not shattering. She’d suspected pieces of this for a long time. Hearing him say it out loud didn’t hurt the way it once would have. It just felt… final.
“I’m not angry anymore,” she said softly. “Not really. I was, for a while. But I’ve moved on. I’ve found someone who doesn’t need me to need him. He just… wants me. All of me. The messy parts, the ambitious parts, the parts that scare people. And he’s not afraid of any of it.”
Min-Jae’s jaw tightened, just for a second. “This Jax guy, right? Doesn’t seem like your type.”
She raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugged, but the gesture was too casual, too forced. “He just seems… too sure of himself. Too comfortable in his own skin. I thought you liked guys who were a little uncertain, a little hungry. The ones who looked at you like you were the answer. ”
Aria felt a spark of protectiveness flare in her chest—hot, immediate.
“He is sure of himself,” she said, voice steady.
“In every way that matters. He’s sure enough to let me shine without dimming himself.
Sure enough to stand beside me instead of behind me or in front of me.
Sure enough to admit when he’s wrong, to fight for what he wants without games or ultimatums. He’s not pretending to be less so I can feel more.
And yeah—that’s new for me. But it’s good. It’s really fucking good.”
Min-Jae’s smile was thin, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m glad. Really.”
But she could see it—the flicker of bruised ego, the way his shoulders stiffened just slightly, the quick glance away. She’d hit a nerve. Not because he wanted her back—she believed him when he said he knew it was over—but because she’d described something he’d never quite managed to give her.
He pulled out his phone, angled it toward them—casual, quick—snapped a photo of the two of them standing there, coffees in frame, studio lights soft behind them.
“For old times’ sake,” he said, voice light but eyes darker than before. “No caption. No post. Just… us. Once.”
She didn’t stop him.
He pocketed the phone, gave her a small, sad smile that didn’t quite hide the edge beneath it.
“Take care, Aria.”
He left.
She stood there for a long minute—chest tight, but not broken—reflecting on the closure that had just settled over them like a quiet exhale. Then she turned back to the mixing desk.
Hours later—voice raw, track finally locked—it was Sunday evening in Seoul. She reached for her phone to send Jax the finished file and wish him luck before his race started.
Dead.
She found a charger in the corner, plugged it in, waited for it to wake up.
Ten missed calls from Jax. All from the last few hours.
Her stomach dropped.
She called him back immediately.
Straight to voicemail.
She tried again. Voicemail.
She stared at the screen—heart hammering—then opened her messages.
No new texts.
She closed her eyes.
Something was wrong.
And she had no idea what.
She texted: Jax, call me when you can. Everything okay?
No immediate response. She gathered her things, left the studio, and headed back to her apartment to watch the race, phone in hand, hoping he'd call back soon.