Chapter 192 Callum
callum
He doesn’t chase me on the track anymore. He waits for me at the finish line. –Aurelie
The air in Spa felt different. Or maybe that was just me.
Everything had changed after Silverstone. A couple weeks ago, I thought I might lose her. Now she was beside me, alive and sharp and fucking radiant, sipping a coffee while we strolled through the paddock.
Our steps were leisure, like we had nowhere else to be. We weren’t pretending, we weren’t performing, we weren’t plotting. She was pressed to my side, tucked under my arm, and she let me guide us through the chaos like we weren’t returning to the grid after a secret loss and a silent war.
We passed a few cameras. Neither of us looked.
It wasn’t a secret anymore, but it wasn’t a spectacle either.
This week wasn’t about media spins or damage control or what came next with the FIA or the team. It was for us.
Decisions had been made. Things were in motion. But here? Here, I just wanted to fucking celebrate her. Spa had always been my favorite track. And not just because of the layout or the legacy or the way Eau Rouge lit my veins on fire.
This was the place I first saw her. Ten years ago.
She didn’t know that.
No one did.
But I’d never forgotten it, how she moved even then like she belonged. Like the future was hers and the rest of us were just watching her rise. And now here we were, walking shoulder to shoulder like we’d always been headed to this moment.
“Still your favorite?” she murmured, glancing up at me, her hazel eyes gleaming with curiosity..
I frowned. “Spa?”
She hummed. “Ouais. You said so. Miami media day, remember?. After the segment about dream destinations.”
My head tilted. “You remember that, too?”
“You forget how much I idolize you, Cal. I hang on to every word you say.”
Not idolized in the past tense. Present tense.
I smiled. “You still idolize me, baby?”
“Of course I do, mon champion,” she said simply. “You’re still my hero. Just in more than one way, now.”
My chest went tight, like she’d just reached in and squeezed the heart right out of me. “You make it really fucking hard not to believe in myself when you talk like that,” I murmured. “You know that, right?”
Her lips curved, and I swear the sun broke through the clouds just to find her.
We reached the Luminis hospitality area a few minutes later, the buzz of the paddock fading as we neared the entrance. Aurélie gave my waist a soft squeeze—her silent way of asking, You good?
I smirked, knowing she already knew the answer. Better than ever.
The past few weeks had been everything we needed. Time to breathe. To process. To just be.
For the first time since the season started, there was no ambiguity. No blurred lines. No wondering when the other shoe would drop.
And yeah, it felt fucking good.
We didn’t just pick up where we left off after Silverstone. We had to find our way back to each other in the quiet. In the after. In the hollow places where grief had left cracks we were still learning how to heal.
But we did. And when we came back together, it wasn’t desperate or manic or wild. It wasn’t rough or punishing. It was gentle. Reverent. Love-making at its core. Like building something sacred out of the wreckage.
And yeah—if I was being honest? It was the best sex of my fucking life.
It was all just… different. It was the way she held me in the middle of the night when neither of us could sleep. The way I washed her hair while she sobbed. The way she curled into my chest like she was relearning the shape of home.
Because it wasn’t about drowning out the pain or proving we’d survived. It was about staying. Choosing.
“Callum.” The voice broke me out of my thoughts.
I turned to see two familiar figures striding toward us. Beckett and Maverick looked better dressed for a boardroom coup than a Formula 1 paddock appearance.
I realized it was the first time Aurélie was meeting them, but I wanted her position made clear: she wasn’t just my partner. She was a powerhouse in her own right, a key player in the fight against the FIA’s corruption, and the reason any of this strategy had a shot in hell of working.
They exchanged handshakes and hellos, Maverick offering an indifferent, “Been hearing a lot about you,” and Aurélie responding with a smooth, “Only the good things, I hope,” before turning to give me a what the fuck look behind their backs.
“When you said ‘an old friend,’” she murmured under her breath, “I was picturing an actual old friend.”
Beckett smirked. Maverick snorted.
“Language barrier, love,” I teased. “Not my fault you thought I was making deals with a couple of sixty-year-old executives.”
Beckett shot me a fuck you look. “I’m thirty-two.”
“Barely out of diapers,” I added.
Aurélie elbowed me, and I barely managed to swallow my grin. She gave them both a slow once-over, like they were some kind of expensive mirage. “Huh. Weird. Neither of you look like people who make multi-million-dollar deals. Nor do you look old enough to be a billionaire.”
Beckett arched a brow. “Does your boyfriend look like he’s worth almost a billion dollars, about to invest in a Formula 1 team, and finish out his last season as a five-time world champion?”
She turned to me slowly, her eyes dragging down my body and back up again.
“Yeah,” she said, flashing me a sultry grin. “He does.”
The conversation shifted quickly to business. Plans for media leaks, legal counsel, and what came next. But we didn’t linger long. FP1 started in a couple hours. They had meetings. I had briefings. Aurélie had some PR stuff to handle with her team.
Before she and I parted ways, I stopped her, fingers brushing her wrist. “Hey.”
She glanced up at me, tugging one of her braids. I watched the movement, thinking about how much I would miss this, but then I remembered that I’d get to cheer her on in a different way, and it eased the ache.
I wanted to tell her again how good it felt to be here with her. How three weeks ago I thought I’d ruined it. How all of this—today, us, everything in the work—was only possible because of her.
But I didn’t need to say any of that. She already knew.
“I’ll see you after?” I murmured.
She smiled. “Try not to crash, Fraser.”
I pressed a kiss to her cheek, then to her lips. “Try not to distract me too much. Love you.”
“Love you, mon champion.” She winked and then walked away without another word, hips swaying, knowing full fucking well that she already had distracted me.
Ihad never felt more in control behind the wheel.
My body was healed. My mind was clear. The contract was signed, the future mine to dictate. The weight I’d been carrying since Montreal had finally lifted, and with it came the kind of calm I hadn’t felt in years.
It landed me pole position. Then from the moment the lights went out, I was untouchable.
My launch was perfect. The first sector was flawless.
Each lap, I widened the gap with clean lines, calculated precision.
Spa demanded respect, especially with the clouds threatening above Eau Rouge and the mist rising through the trees. But I didn’t flinch.
This was my track. My race. My actual return from injury. And this year, for reasons I couldn’t fully explain, it felt different. More sacred. Like I was returning to something I didn’t know I’d lost.
By Lap 32, I was nearly eighteen seconds clear of P2. The checkered flag waved, and I crossed the line with ice in my veins and fire in my chest.
Eighteen fucking seconds.
And P2 was… Aurélie.
She’d started mid-pack after a rough qualifying, but clawed her way through the field like a woman possessed.
Her overtakes were clinical. Her defense was impressive.
When she took Turn 9 three-wide and came out ahead, the entire crowd lost its mind.
And she still finished eight seconds ahead of Marco in P3.
That finish bumped her to third in the Drivers’ Championship.
One point ahead of Morel.
A perfect podium.
The three of us—the ones they tried to silence, to control, to bury under scandal and sabotage—standing together, shoulder to shoulder, on the steps they never wanted us to climb.
And Morel? DNF. The FIA had allowed him to race up to the summer break under “active investigation,” some political bullshit to save face while the evidence stacked higher each day. But karma, apparently, had a schedule of her own.
He spun out on Lap 12. No one was sorry.
I didn’t even bother hiding my smirk as I stood on the top step of the podium, Scotland anthem playing behind me. The cameras caught everything—the subtle nods between us, the grin tugging at Aurélie’s lips, the way Marco hooked his arm around both our shoulders like we’d just rewritten the script.
Because we had.
We owned this grid.
I pulled Aurélie in for a champagne-soaked kiss, uncaring of the world watching. She kissed me back like she didn’t give a damn who saw, then promptly turned and sprayed me full blast with her bottle.
We burst into laughter.
And then, drenched in victory and defiance, we walked off the stage hand in hand.