Chapter 66 Callum
callum
Monaco is for masks, so I wore mine with a smile and pretended I hadn't begged for his touch two nights ago. I told him we needed space, and then spent every second craving the way he fills it. –Aurelie
The Monégasque sun bounced off the chrome and marble of the city, turning every surface into a mirror and every breath into a warm gust of decadence.
It wasn’t race day—not yet, but Monaco didn’t need a green flag to show off. Today was the fan experience day—a sponsor event with cameras, chaos, and exclusive access. The kind of thing only Monaco could make feel like the Met Gala.
We were parading through Monte Carlo on an open-air flatbed truck—basically a float without all the ridiculous decorations—all dressed in our livery kits for the week. It was a PR stunt disguised as a celebration. And everyone was watching.
It should’ve been a rush. Monaco always was.
The scene here was always an addicting combination of new and old money.
And if you had enough of it, you blended right in, no matter how humble your beginnings.
It always made me feel like I’d made it, that I’d earned my place in this world, that all my parents’ sacrifices weren’t for nought.
It was technically my home race—only because I lived here, not because I was born here.
There was no Scottish Grand Prix, no nostalgic return to the Highlands, no waving my country’s flag like some kind of hometown hero.
Vanguard’s headquarters weren’t even in a country on the F1 calendar, tucked in the mountains outside Salzburg, so this was as close to home turf as I’d get.
And somehow, Aurélie had always been close. France and Monaco weren’t even separated by a proper border. We’d probably spent the past few years living within a couple hours of each other—same climate, same streets, same skyline—never realizing we were destined to collide.
But instead of soaking it in, I was looking for her, as always.
Two days. That’s how long it had been since I’d watched her walk out of my hotel room in Imola, leaving behind a silence that’s still fucking echoing.
She was near the front of the truck, caught between the two Red Bull drivers who looked entirely too smug for their own good.
Her Luminis polo was light blue instead of navy this week—part of their Monaco limited edition kit—and tucked into a pair of khaki shorts that did absolutely nothing to help my self-control.
Her name was stitched across the chest in pale gold, delicate and loud all at once. She looked like a sun-drenched weapon.
I, on the other hand, was in Vanguard’s inverted colors—red over black instead of the usual black over red. It was the same kit I’d worn for the Vogue shoot last year, and if they were trying to make me look like a villain, well… they fucking nailed it.
I couldn’t take my eyes off Aurélie. Her hair was clipped up off her neck, cascading like a blonde waterfall and exposing the soft curve of her spine. She looked tan, tense, and somehow… like the world’s most irritated tour guide.
And I ached. I didn’t know how I could miss a person so much when she was technically right there, but I felt it like a pulled muscle you couldn’t stop testing. I especially didn’t know how I could miss her when she wasn’t mine in all the ways I wanted her to be.
I made my way over before I could think better of it, cameras be damned. The closer I got, the goofier the smile threatening my mouth. She hadn’t noticed me yet, but that was about to change.
I lifted my hand, leaned in, and let my fingers lightly skim the small of her back—just enough to tease, but not enough to get caught on camera. There were at least three lenses pointed in our direction, but I didn’t care.
“Your tattoo’s showing.”
She jumped as if I’d set her spine on fire, whirling on me and smacking my arm hard enough to make the Red Bull drivers next to us blink. “You dick,” she hissed. “Don’t say that out loud!” The sun caught all the green hues in her hazel eyes as she turned to adjust her shirt.
I grinned. “Relax. Your shorts are covering it. Mostly.”
She narrowed her eyes. “My parents could be watching this broadcast. I swear to God, Fraser, if they ever find out I have a tattoo there because of you—”
“I’ll write them a formal apology,” I said, still grinning like an idiot. “Dear Monsieur and Madame Dubois, sorry your daughter has immaculate taste in ink placement.” She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks flushed, and fuck if that didn’t undo me a little.
I leaned in and lowered my voice just enough for her alone. “Also, sorry she’s a little slut.”
Her gasp was instant. She whipped her head toward me, scandalized, and God, I lived for that fire in her eyes. “Callum!”
I winked. “You said it first, remember?”
She was full-on blushing now—furious and flustered and stunning—and it took every ounce of self-control not to drag her into my lap right there on the back of the truck.
Yeah, this was entirely too dangerous to do in public.
We were only inches apart now, the hum of the crowd loud and close.
She turned toward the screaming fans and started waving, slipping back into PR mode like a pro.
Her next words were quiet, just for me. “Thought we agreed to keep our distance.”
I stepped in just enough that my shoulder brushed hers. “We also agreed to lie to ourselves and call it just one night. That didn’t stick either.”
She didn’t look at me, but the corner of her mouth twitched. I watched her wave again, all graceful, professional, and untouchable, but I saw the tightness in her jaw and the defeat in her shoulders.
I fucking hated it.
“You look like you were made in heaven,” I murmured, letting the words drip like honey. “Fait au paradis.”
She stilled, her breath catching so subtly I might’ve missed it if I hadn’t been waiting for it. Then she tilted her head slightly, eyes still on the crowd, and whispered, “You’re not supposed to know what it means.”
I smiled and finally looked at the crowd. “I do. Almost fluent, remember?”
A full beat of silence passed before she said, soft and dangerous, “You really are a menace.”
I chuckled darkly, resting my hands on the railing, feeling the cool metal bite my palms. “You haven’t even seen the worst of it.” As the driver’s parade rounded the harbor and the crowd roared louder, I waved like I was doing my job, but all I could think about was her.
And the fact that fait au paradis wasn’t just a tattoo anymore. It was a fucking declaration.
“But a menace who knows where to find the best pistachio lattes in Monte Carlo. It’s a seasonal flavor.”
She uncrossed her arms slowly, eyes narrowing like she wasn’t sure whether to be suspicious or amused. The wind whipped some of her long wayward strands, and they brushed the exposed skin of my biceps. I remembered the feeling of her hair dragging across my thighs when she rode me.
Fucking hell, Fraser.
I swore sometimes I was a goddamn masochist. Why the fuck would I think about that right now?
“That’s random,” Aurélie said, and a small smile fought its way across her face. It was radiant, and my heart pounded. What was it about this woman that had me in a chokehold?
“Is it?” I tilted my head. “Thought you might want to go get some tomorrow. Post-Media Day treat.”
“What, so you can interrogate me about my tattoos and destroy my last shred of privacy?”
“No,” I said, quieter now. “So I can see you smile like you did before we woke up on Monday.”
She rolled her lips together, hesitating as she leaned her forearms against the railing. “I only seem to smile like that when you’re involved.” Her expression shifted and her shoulders dipped slightly, lips parting, as if she hadn’t meant to confess that. I didn’t want her to retreat into herself.
“Auri—“
“You messaged me once,” she said, her voice softer than I’d ever heard it. “After Shanghai. You sent a message about pistachio croissants and said you saw them and thought of me.”
I blinked. That wasn’t flirting. That had been… instinct. Desire, want, longing—I didn’t know how to name it back then.
“That’s the café I want to take you to,” I murmured.
She looked down at her hands. “That message meant more than you probably realized.” Her voice cracked, barely above the noise of the crowd, but it hit me like a gut punch. There was a beat of silence before she added, “It was my birthday.”
The air went still.
Fuck.
“I didn’t know,” I said, guilt coiling instantly in my gut. But I should’ve known, right? There should have been posts, acknowledgements… anything.
She gave the tiniest shrug. “No one did. Or they did and didn’t care.
” She forced a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“étienne and I share a birthday, obviously—the tenth of April. Guess who got the birthday wishes and all the attention? I didn’t get a single birthday wish from the team, barely any acknowledgement from my family. ” She shook her head.
My throat constricted. I wanted to reach out and pull her into my arms, but we were out in the open, and thousands of fans were waving and screaming at us.
We both took a moment to wave and offer fake smiles.
Then she sighed and turned to me, leaning her hip on the railing.
I shifted to face her, crossing my arms over my chest. Her eyes dipped to my arms, and she bit her lip.
I glanced down, trying to see what she was distracted by, but I came up empty. When I looked at her face again, I groaned. “Jesus, Auri, you cannot look at me like that in public.” It was a mumble, for her ears only.
She sucked in a breath and snapped her eyes to mine. And suddenly all I could think about was her entire body glowing that post-orgasm color.
“I wasn’t—I didn’t mean—mon Dieu,” she stuttered. “You’ve just got those… forearm ropes.”
I blinked. “Forearm ropes?”
She winced. “No, wait. That’s not right. That’s not the word.”
“Oh, it’s exactly the word now.”
Her face went red and she did this adorable little stomp that totally went with the whole pissed-off tourist look she had going on.
It also made Marco and Kimi look over at us from their spot on the other side of the truck.
They grinned like the idiots they were. I wanted to flip them off but wasn’t in the mood to deal with a fine from the FIA over it.
Because this was a serious sport and should be treated as such. Their words, not mine, because here I was, lusting after this five-foot-three woman of a driver and thinking about how good she looked when she came screaming my name.
“Merde. No. I meant veins. Veins! I don’t know why I said ropes. That sounds... pirate-y.”
A laugh burst out of me. “You called my veins pirate ropes. You’re flustered.”
“I panicked!”
“You always panic when you’re flustered,” I said, taking a tiny step closer.
“I do not,” she seethed, turning away from me.
“You do. It’s adorable. And you only fuck up English when you’re flustered, which, evidently, only happens when I’m around.”
Aurélie huffed. “I’m going to push you off this truck.”
“Try, love. I’ll drag you down with me.”
“I spent the night in my flat in Paris,” she continued, eyes locked on the water as the truck rolled along the marina.
“No calls, no gifts, no flowers. I bought myself a cupcake and ate half of it by myself after…” She paused and sniffled.
“After singing to myself. And then your text popped up, talking about pistachio croissants, and for a second…” She swallowed hard.
“For a second, I didn’t feel invisible.”
I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until she looked up at me again, her eyes glassy but steady. I don’t think I’d ever hurt for someone else as much as I had at this moment.
“I’m sorry,” I said, voice low and sincere. “For all of it. You deserved better. That day. Every day.”
“You didn’t even know,” she whispered.
“I should have, but I only went on Instagram that day to message you. If I’d taken a second to scroll… I would have known.”
Her lips parted slightly, like she didn’t know what to do with that.
My hand was still brushing hers. I could’ve taken it, held it. God, I wanted to, but we were on a fucking F1 sponsor float surrounded by half the sport, all the drivers on the grid, and every brand rep with a lens, so I didn’t.
Instead, I said, “Next time your birthday comes around, we’ll celebrate properly. Pistachios and all.”
She huffed a soft laugh, but it cracked in the middle. “I’ll hold you to that.”
“You better.”
Just like that, I was fucking ruined again, because she wasn’t invisible to me. She never had been, and I’d never let her feel that way again, even if I had to smile through every fake PR stunt Monaco could throw at us.