Chapter 123 Callum
callum
Somehow, against all odds, he came home to me. That kind of mercy deserved a prayer. And if God was listening, He needed to know: I would never survive losing Callum. -Aurelie
Iknew this race, knew it in my bones, my blood, my goddamn spirit. In the last four years, I’d lived it a thousand times. I’d recognize it from anywhere
Silverstone Circuit. It was the final lap, the final sector, and everything was on the line.
The crowd was a thunderous roar in my ears, vibrating through my chest until it became white noise that pushed me.
My pulse synced with the car and my breath locked into rhythm with every shift.
The wheel hummed in my hands like an extension of my body, fused by years of instinct and need.
I felt weightless in the cockpit, flying low to the ground with heat bleeding into the soles of my boots.
The halo cast a soft blur across my periphery, the sun slicing through it in gold flares.
Sweat ran down the back of my neck, down into the collar of my fire suit. I barely noticed, barely even blinked.
Every bump of the curbs and millimeter of tire placement was all muscle memory now.
I hit Copse flat–no lift, just the tires biting.
The car twitched under me but held. Next was Maggots.
Left-right-left and full speed. Becketts carved after like a blade, all tight, brutal, and beautiful.
Then into Chapel I went as if it was second nature.
Downforce sucked the car to the asphalt like glue.
“Push, Callum!” Dom barked into my ear. “Two corners! THIS IS IT, SON! Final sector—DON’T FUCKING LIFT!”
I didn’t. I didn’t even breathe. A burst of speed cracked through me like a drug hit. Stowe came at me like a freight train. I braked late into the turn—too late—but I held it. I felt the rear slide just a little, but corrected and nailed it. The tires screamed but clung by some miracle.
We’d taken a huge risk not pitting again, and the tires were costing me speed in each sector, on every turn, chicane and straight.
Next I went down into Vale. It was a quick left, and a quicker right. I clipped the sausage kerb so hard I felt the jolt in my spine. I gritted my teeth but continued to push.
There it was. The final turn, Club corner. The finish line was straight ahead, awaiting not just any victory, but my first title.
But I saw her first.
Aurélie.
She was trackside, past the finish line but glowing like a fucking angel. At first, I thought it was just one of the engineers, maybe even her in fire proofs. But the closer I got, the more it unraveled me.
She wasn’t in racing gear, nor a team jacket. Was it a blouse? No, it was a dress. A fucking wedding dress.
There were thin straps over her shoulders, a bodice that clung to her body like devotion, and a flowy skirt catching in the breeze, light and lace and fucking impossible.
A veil flowed behind her, pulled gently by the wind like it didn’t want to let her go.
Her hands were clasped together just under her chin. Eyes wide and lips parted.
She looked like she was about to cry. Or scream, or run, or wait forever.
She looked like home, like Heaven, like every moment I never let myself want.
The radio exploded—
“CALLUM FRASER, YOU ARE A WORLD CHAMPION!” Dom’s voice cracked with emotion. “YOU FUCKING DID IT! WORLD CHAMPION! YOU HEAR ME? WORLD FUCKING CHAMPION!”
But I barely heard him, because all I could see was her. I didn’t even care that I didn’t do a victory lap before parking in Parc Fermé. I slowed right in front of where she stood cheering for me and let go of the wheel to make a heart with my hands.
She gave me the most beautiful smile before tossing her head back and laughing. I couldn’t hear her over the crowd, but I knew what that sounded like. It was a laugh reserved just for our private moments, a sound of joy that would never belong to anyone but me.
And in that moment—helmet still on, heart about to burst—I knew.
It wasn’t just a fantasy. It wasn’t just love. It was her.
She wasn’t just the girl I wanted. She was the life I wanted. My girl, my future, my wife.
I opened my mouth to say her name, to tell her I was coming and that I was hers.
But then I blinked, and when my eyes opened again, she was holding a baby on her hip.
Dark curly hair and big hazel eyes identical to Auri’s blinked at me, a chubby hand raised and a big smile on her face.
Two top teeth were peeking out and her full cheeks were rosy.
That was our baby. A perfect combination of us both.
I killed the engine just as raindrops started to fall, ready to run to them and pull them into my arms. The rain picked up, falling harder, faster. A curtain of water came down across the track, and they started to blur.
I couldn’t see her face anymore. Couldn’t see the baby. Panic rose in my throat like a scream. They were right there.
I blinked, and the circuit was gone–but not really, because suddenly I was driving again. The colors around me shifted. The grip was off. The barriers looked all wrong.
Oh.
This wasn’t Silverstone. It was Montreal. I was headed into Turn 9. The chicane, the wall, the moment everything broke.
And she was there again, this time on the other side of the track. Still holding the baby, smiling and waving, barely visible through the rain.
Just as I was about to pass them while approaching Turn 9, I turned the wheel, but it felt loose. It was too sharp, too late, and the rear gave out. I took the chicane wide–an amateur mistake–and my wheels hit loose gravel. Suddenly I was airborne.
There was no sound, no weight, as the world flipped once, twice, and then–impact.
The crash didn’t feel real. It felt like hitting a wall in slow motion.
My body jerked forward, harness tightening around my chest. My helmet slammed against the headrest. Everything inside me protested, but no sound left my mouth.
I blinked through the blur of smoke, wet visor, and flickering warning lights. Then I spotted Aurélie waving her free arm from across the track, where she stood on the edge of the runoff, in front of the goddamn barriers.
What was she doing? She was going to get herself killed.
“No,” I whispered, but the sound was nothing more than a rasp.
She looked frantic–wide eyes, dress soaked from the rain, hair plastered to her neck. Her mouth opened in a scream I couldn’t hear, but felt. Her arms curled protectively around our baby, a pink bow I hadn’t noticed before crushed from the movement.
I tried to raise my hand, to tell her I was fine, to unclip these godforsaken restraints, but nothing moved. Aurélie gaped at me before she took off in a run. No hesitation in her steps, veil billowing behind her and white dress whipping in the wind. Our baby was cradled against her chest.
“Stop—” I tried to yell. “Auri, STOP!” But my voice didn’t exist here.
I fought against the five-point harness—desperate, wild, tearing at it with everything I had—but I was stuck.
And then I saw it all unfolding. In my periphery, there was a flash of orange. Morel. He came around the corner too fast, the visibility low from sheets of rain.
His car was a blur. Auri and the baby were in the center of the track in soft shades of pink and white.
And I was trapped.
“I’m okay!” I screamed, but the sound never left my lungs. “MOVE!”
She didn’t look scared, not until the last second. Her concern turned to confusion. Confusion turned to fear. I saw her pivot, turning her body to shield the baby, before her mouth opened again. She gave me one last look.
And then the track disintegrated. The roar disappeared, the car vanished from beneath me, and the world went silent.
I was gone again.
The race sounds still buzzed in my ears, but everything else was quiet.
My ribs ached and my neck was stiff as hell.
Every muscle in my body pulsed with the kind of pain you don’t just walk off.
I didn’t know where I was for a moment as panic clawed at my throat and my heart slammed against my sternum so hard I thought it might break.
Then I remembered I was in my flat, tucked in bed, the sheets feeling heavy on my bruised chest.
Aurélie was sitting beside me. I could feel the weight of her body dip the mattress, her warmth beneath my palms, the gentle scrape of her nails across my scalp. I heard her voice. She spoke in French—low, melodic, and close to my ear.
It wasn’t a race. It was a lullaby.
“Tu es mon c?ur. Tu n’es pas seul.”
You are my heart. You are not alone.
There was a slow, quiet hum beneath the words—too faint to follow, but steady enough to keep me from drifting too far. Her voice curled around me like a security blanket, wrapping me in things I’d never known how to ask for. Comfort, forgiveness, a home.
She kept speaking, like a litany only the two of us knew, a string of tender nonsense and sacred truths.
“Mon amour. Mon champion. Reviens-moi. Je t’attends.”
My love. My champion. Come back to me. I’m waiting.
The lullaby shifted into something older, and I realized it was prayer.
I didn’t understand all the words, not fully—just pieces of it. They were hopes tucked into syllables like stitches. Wishes I didn’t deserve, but wanted to earn.
Her fingers threaded through my hair, her lips occasionally pressing to my temple.
She prayed for rest, for healing. For peace and for the pain to ease.
For me.
And I nearly broke. Somewhere deep inside, behind the fog and the fire and the ache, I felt something twist. A pressure behind my eyes. A tremble I couldn’t name.
No one had ever prayed for me, not like this.
And even if I couldn’t move or speak, I heard her. I felt her. She was here with me. Body, mind, and soul, comforting me and caring for me. She wasn’t crossing a live track about to get hit by a Formula 1 car. She was here.
I could feel her. I could hear her. And that knowledge meant I wasn’t alone.
I wanted to turn my head to look at her, but my neck screamed in protest. Pain lanced through my ribs and my eyes wouldn’t open, so I stayed still. I just let her speak, let her touch, let her love me in the ways she needed to.
It was all hazy and choppy. One second I was fading into a slumber, and the next I was back with her. I tried to hold on to it—this moment, this feeling—but it was like trying to cling to fog.
Time stretched. I drifted.
When I surfaced again, it was dark, and the sheets were cool beside me. Her scent lingered–lavender and something sweeter. It was the distinct scent of the woman I loved, the woman I could’ve been permanently torn from.
I heard her voice somewhere, but it was so quiet I wondered if I imagined it. I thought I heard her laugh coming from the kitchen, or maybe the hallway. And I yearned for her. Craved her warmth again, her touch, the comfort of her voice, but my body was too heavy to follow.
Then, for the briefest moment, my eyes fluttered open. Just enough to see her by the bedroom door. Phone in hand, hair twisted in a towel, body clad in dark clothing.
I tried to call out, to beg her to stay, to not go, to apologize for my inconsiderate, selfish, idiotic tendencies. But nothing came out, just like my nightmare. Only my fingers twitched as I tried to reach for her across the bed.