Chapter 181 Aurélie
aurélie
I spent my whole life chasing victory and legacy. But the second she turned away from me, I understood—there is no finish line if she’s not waiting at the end. –Callum
Ishould’ve walked away. If I turned on my heel and disappeared back inside, maybe I wouldn’t feel jagged from the inside out.
But instead, I bent down to pick up my purse.
My fingers curled around the handle slowly, mechanically, as if the movement might tether me to something solid.
When I straightened, Callum was still there.
A few feet away that was both so close and too far, with disheveled hair and wild eyes, his chest rising and falling like he’d sprinted through hell.
Maybe he had.
Rain pounded around us, sounding like guilt and heartache and betrayal all at once.
We stared at each other, not speaking, not moving, just watching each other. One blink and I might lose him. One breath and I might crumble.
Because he’d done it again, just as he had so many times before. He gave me a choice.
Not just any choice. The choice.
He stopped trying to control the situation. He wasn’t chasing me. Wasn’t begging. Wasn’t commanding. He was offering to let me decide. To walk away… or to stay.
And it killed me more than anything else could have.
Because that was love. Not the possessive kind or the world ending kind. The kind that stood bruised and battered in the aftermath of the hurricane and still said: I want you. Even now. Even still. Even if.
And fuck, I was still so goddamn angry and hurt in places I hadn’t found words for yet.
But I saw him—not the version who dominated the grid, but the man.
The boy behind the wheel who didn’t know how to pump the brakes until it cost him everything.
The one who was terrified of losing the things he loved, so he never let anyone in.
He always found new ways to show me who he really was beneath the armor. And every time another layer fell away, it only made me love him more. Even when I wanted to scream. Even when I wanted to swing at his chest and demand why he hurt me like this.
Callum was right. One argument didn’t rewrite our story.
Not if we didn’t let it. It’s not the fights that define us.
It’s what we do after. And maybe I wasn’t ready to fully forgive him yet.
Maybe I still needed to grieve what he made me feel in that moment.
But I sure as hell wasn’t ready to lose him.
So fine. He wanted to give me the choice?
Then I’d take it. I’d give him a taste of his own medicine. I’d remind him who the fuck I was.
Because I wasn’t the girl who waited for a man to tell her what her future looked like. I wasn’t the woman who cowered when someone she loved disappointed her, not anymore. And I wasn’t going to let him mistake this love for weakness.
I was his equal. His rival. His match. And he didn’t get to take my autonomy away just because he thought silence was safer than honesty.
He could command a room, control a race, take over my body with just his voice—but I’d given him that power willingly.
I’d trusted him enough to hand it over. Time and time again, I surrendered to him—not out of weakness, but because I chose to.
Because I believed he’d never misuse it. Because I thought he saw me.
Clearly, that wasn’t reciprocated.
So yeah, I’d make him feel exactly what I felt every time I took a blind step into the dark and trusted him to catch me.
Let’s see what it’s like when the lights are cut and the road disappears and he’s the one left grasping for control.
Let’s see what the man who always holds the wheel does when the woman he loves hits the fucking gas.
So I stepped forward, chin tipped up like I could brand my fury into his fucking skin.
I walked right into his space, close enough that our chests brushed.
Close enough to steal the air between us.
He didn’t move—just closed his eyes like the nearness of me was too much to bear.
Like he needed a full second to gather his sanity before I stole it again.
I studied him. The way his throat worked with a tight swallow. The silent flex of his jaw. His fists twitching at his sides like he wanted to reach for me, but didn’t know if he was allowed to anymore. He looked broken. Worshipful. Wrecked.
Good.
Then I turned and darted around him, my heart thundering louder than the rain pouring around us. A waft of his cologne clung to me, all bergamot and sin and masculinity. The sound of my heels echoed under the carport like gunshots. Loud and lethal.
I snatched the keys from the stunned valet attendant without a word, stormed to the driver’s side, and slid behind the wheel. I was done waiting for someone else to decide the outcome of my life.
Let him follow. Let him chase. But this time, I was the one in control.
The valet hesitated, then stepped directly in front of the car, glancing at Callum like he was waiting for confirmation. “Uh, sir?” he said awkwardly, making no move to step away. “Are you… sure she knows how to handle a manual?”
My rage was instant.
I started the car, let the engine growl to life beneath me, and slammed my hand on the wheel hard enough to make the horn chirp. The kid startled, jumping back half a step.
I rolled the window down and stuck my head out, my hair whipping around my face in the stormy breeze. “I’m a woman, not a fucking toddler. And yes, I know how to drive stick shift. I’m also a Formula 1 driver. Still got a problem with that?”
His face went sheet white. He backed up and stepped onto the curb. “N-no, ma’am. Sorry, I didn’t know—”
“Next time,” I snapped, “don’t ask the man for permission before you let the woman drive a damn car.”
Before the valet could mutter another apology, the passenger door opened and Callum slid in beside me.
He was trying not to smile. Failing, but trying.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand over his face. “You terrify me.”
I dropped the clutch and shot him a glare. “Good.”
Then I peeled out of the hotel driveway like I had something to prove.
Which, frankly, I did.
The tires squealed as the car fishtailed slightly when I pulled onto the road.
I corrected without thinking, because driving was second nature to me.
I was practically born and raised in a car.
I’d rebuilt them from the ground up. I studied them for a goddamn living to be faster and more aggressive.
And I was about to show this title-wielding man who thought he could control me outside the bedroom what I was really capable of behind the wheel. The true meaning of hell hath no fury like a woman scorned was about to become his reality.
The rage that had pounded through my bloodstream like motor oil on fire cooled to a simmer as my focus took over.
The outskirts of Silverstone blurred past in wet streaks of white and grey, the kind of sleepy English town that wrapped itself in stone walls and crooked streets and rose-covered inns.
We’d been staying at some sprawling countryside estate-turned-boutique hotel, all carved wood beams and gravel pathways and ivy climbing up the walls like it had something to prove.
It looked like old money, quiet and grand.
But as we peeled out of the circular drive and onto the narrow lane that led through the surrounding hills, the storm swallowed the skyline.
Clouds hung low, bloated with rain. The roads were slick with it, puddles pooling at the edges, and the faint haze of mist hugged the hedgerows like smoke.
No streetlights. No cameras. Just the wild, winding backroads that twisted like a serpent around the edges of the estate.
My hands tightened on the wheel.
Focus narrowed. The rest of the world fell away.
I felt the car more than I drove it. Through the wheel, through the floor, through the calibrated balance of clutch and gas as I shifted gears with muscle memory and venom.
My feet knew exactly where to land. My fingers moved with precision.
I saw the slick patches before the tires ever hit them.
Adjusted with the flick of my wrist. I knew what to push and when.
Where to break the rules, where to toe the line.
This wasn’t reckless. This was art. Controlled, calculated dominance over a machine that begged to be taken to the edge.
And when the road straightened?
I fucking floored it.
Our backs slammed into the seats with a satisfying jolt.
I didn’t care where we were going anymore.
Fuck the dinner. Let them wait. I’d show up fashionably late, saunter in with Callum Fraser in tow and my lipstick still perfect, and they’d listen to every goddamn word I said.
No more being silenced. No more pretending I was just here for the optics.
I was done shrinking for anyone. Including him.
I shifted again and felt the car purr beneath me like it liked it rough.
Sleek. Responsive. Built for speed and sin.
No wonder he liked this one so much. The drive was sensual—clean lines, tight handling, just enough give when I gripped hard enough.
God, the thought of him behind the wheel in this thing was a fucking turn-on.
That laser focus and precision to handle this car.
I remembered Monaco. Remembered how he’d pulled me out of my own spiral, drove me in this very car to the outskirts of Monte Carlo to bungee jump off a bridge. How he’d told me to fly, how I’d listened, how I’d trusted him even when I didn’t trust myself.
But that was then.
This was now.
Now it was my turn to drive. My turn to take the corners without warning. My turn to show him what it felt like to surrender control and pray the person in charge didn’t let go. I wanted him to squirm.