Chapter 120 Aurélie （Her Ending）
aurélie (her ending)
I loved her too much to let her see what was left of me, because I couldn't take care of her the way she deserved. –Callum
I’ve had one hour of sleep in two days.
My body ached—every joint, every muscle, every rib that had been compressed into the Luminis chassis like I was made to bend but not break.
My skin felt tight with salt and stress.
My eyes burned from exhaustion. My stomach hurt from living on protein bars and bad espresso.
My entire body screamed for rest, a shower, and a meal that didn’t come in plastic wrap.
But I wasn’t here to rest.
I was here for war.
I’d flown across time zones, launched a media campaign mid-air, planned a week of interviews, and I was still forty-two minutes late to emotionally spiraling on Callum Fraser’s front doorstep.
The only question left was whether I was about to scream at him… or fuck him into the wall until we both forgot who betrayed who first.
The black car dropped me off in front of his building in the heart of Monaco—sleek, modern, over-secure. It loomed above the marina like a goddamn throne. Of course it did.
What I didn’t expect was the frenzy waiting outside. Photographers. Microphones. Paparazzi in overpriced sunglasses and weekend-casual linen, shouting my name like I was late to a red carpet.
Yeah, should’ve expected that after the severity of his accident.
“Aurélie! Did you come here to see Fraser?”
“Is it true the FIA’s investigating you again?”
“What do you have to say about breaching contract terms?”
“Are you and Callum together?! Any comment on him kissing you before the race?”
That one hit the softest, deepest part of my battered soul, but I didn’t slow. I slipped off my sunglasses and shot them a sugar-sweet, rage-laced smile. “I came to speak with a friend. Not the press.”
And with that, I turned. My shoes slapped against the steps. My phone buzzed in my palm.
Security waved me through. Not because I gave a name—they knew me from the last time I’d been here. When Callum and I were drunk in love. Before this shitstorm hit.
And if they didn’t? They would’ve learned not to fuck with me.
The lift was mercifully empty. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirrored walls and nearly laughed. He’d held me in this lift after my breakdown. He’d loved me through it. And I knew he still loved me, even if he was pulling away for some godforsaken reason.
My skin was dull. My shirt was wrinkled. My hair—a bun from my pinned post-race braid—now looked like a stress-induced disaster. My mascara was smudged and nearly non-existent, my eyes puffy.
I looked like absolute hell.
Good.
Let him see what he’d reduced me to on my crusade to get to him and make sure he was okay. Maybe get some fucking answers and a diagnosis from the crash. What was the damage? Recovery time?
The lift dinged and I stepped into the top floor hallway, the scent of bergamot and luxury thick in the air, my heart punching against my ribs as though it wanted out. Callum’s door stood at the end—matte black with that sleek little digital lock and video doorbell.
I walked up to it slowly, every step tightening the coil in my gut. My heart started pounding. Not soft and romantic—no. Violent. Furious. Fragile.
Knocked.
Waited.
Knocked again.
Nothing.
I knew he was here. His jet had landed hours ago. Marco confirmed it when I got off the plane. Hell, Instagram confirmed it—he’d commented on a post Marco had made about our shared podium not even twenty minutes ago.
Besides, I could smell his fucking cologne from out here.
Then… the soft glow. The blue halo around the camera. He was watching. He saw me.
And he still didn’t open the fucking door.
Something inside me broke open.
The adrenaline, the pride, the press-ready poise I’d practiced for forty-eight hours—it all evaporated.
I covered my mouth as the tears surged up my throat and spilled over my cheeks before I could catch them.
My shoulders shook, and I hated it. I hated this.
I never let myself fall apart in front of anyone.
But this wasn’t just anyone. This was Callum. He’d seen me like this before—at my absolute fucking worse—and he still had wanted me.
This was the man who’d dragged me out of a dark place and made me feel special.
The one who touched me like I was something sacred and said nothing…
because he didn’t have to. The one who saw me wrecked and chose to stay anyway.
The one who fell apart at my feet in the shower and gave me all the power that had been taken from me my whole life.
Until now. Now he was watching. And choosing nothing.
I swiped at my face, furious, teeth clenched, body trembling.
“I came here,” I whispered, voice fraying as I bent at the waist to look at his doorbell.
“But maybe I should’ve gone to Paris. I have five hours until I meet my realtor for a property I’ve been dreaming about.
I’ve got interviews. I have a full face to paint.
A movement to lead. But I came here first. Because you mattered more than all of it. ”
Still nothing.
No footsteps.
No creak of the lock.
Just the little blue ring glowing, burning into my soul.
Maybe he really was done.
Maybe the man who made love to me under the moonlight and told me I was his last conscious thought before he blacked out after his accident—as if he already knew every way I was going to hurt him—had finally decided I wasn’t worth the pain.
My fists clenched. My jaw hurt from clenching it.
Fucking fine.
But I wasn’t leaving without being seen.
I dropped my bag to the floor with a thud.
Reached up and yanked every bobby pin from my hair.
The messy bun fell down my back, unraveling in messy, humid waves.
My hands trembled as I let him see it all: the wreck, the warpath, the woman he asked to stop running away from him and instead went running to him.
I stepped closer to the camera, close enough that he could see every crack in my foundation, every drop of mascara-streaked rebellion.
“You underestimate me like the rest of the world, you bastard,” I whispered into the doorbell. “But I don’t walk away quietly. And I don’t lose.”
And then—because I never followed the rules to a T—I crouched and slid two of those bobby pins between my fingers.
Just like the reckless little menace I used to be, sneaking out of my parents’ estate with a helmet tucked under one arm and a bottle of pilfered wine under the other, I jammed the pins into the lock.
Because if he wouldn’t open the door?
I’d break it the fuck down.
But I wouldn’t stop there.
I would give him close contact in every sense of the word—the kind that leaves marks. The kind that rewrites history. The kind you beg for, even if it ruins you.