Chapter 217 Aurélie
aurélie
I don’t need a palace, a crowd, or fame. Just give me her—storm-drenched, stubborn, laughing in my arms, and I’ll call it Heaven. –Cal
Rain trickled down the car window, loud yet soothing like a lullaby. Fat drops streaked across the glass, scattering the soft gold blur of the countryside as we wound into the hills. The storm had rolled in just as we crossed the border, all slow and moody and summer-warm.
Cal had arranged to have my car trailered back from Monaco so we could go home together.
Back to the countryside house. Back to the life we were still learning how to build. Back to the quiet to keep us in our bliss bubble honeymoon haze for just a little bit longer.
Cal’s voice drifted through the car in low, clipped murmurs—somewhere between casual and commanding.
His Scottish drawl made words like “Vegas” and “meeting” and “private club” sound like coded promises instead of logistics.
He was on the phone with Beckett and Maverick, finalizing some plan for November.
A sit-down during GP week, inside Maverick and Sophie’s club at Pillars Resort.
I didn’t even blink.
Now I had nothing else to prove. Because I’d already won.
The last two days had been a blur of sun and salt and soft cotton sheets. Of jet skis and beachside wine tastings. Of tangled limbs in the water and salt on my tongue and Callum’s voice in my ear when the night was deep enough that it felt like the world belonged to us alone.
We’d made love. A lot.
We laughed until we cried and then cried until we kissed.
We did touristy sightseeing in shorts and sunglasses while Lucy took a blurry picture of us holding hands like the idiotic, stupidly-in-love newlyweds we were.
We stayed offline. Ignored every message.
We let the world burn without us.
I rested my forehead to the window now, the glass cool against my skin, and let the rhythm of the rain guide me back into myself.
It was so quiet in my chest. For once, I didn’t dread what came next. Not the logistics of being married. Not the collateral damage from the leak. Not the speculative headlines. Not the dangers of racing in a sabotaged car or the heat from the media or the gossip in the paddock.
Because now… I had him.
I had Callum Fraser. The only family I’d ever need.
And the feral gremlins, of course, because somehow those ridiculous, loyal, ride-or-die idiots had become part of us too. Marco and Ivy, Kimi and Lucy—my found chaos, my sacred circle. My safe place.
The rest would come. The rest we’d fight. But it would be hope that carried us uphill now, not fear.
And when we turned down the long gravel driveway, the lantern lights blinking through the trees like breadcrumbs leading us home, I felt it all hit me at once.
This was ours. The cottage in the French countryside we were making into a home. The place we loved felt like a breath we’d been holding for years and finally exhaled.
Cal ended the call just as the tires crunched into the final bend. He reached across the console, fingers threading through mine.
I looked at him.
He grinned like a man with no regrets. “You ready?”
I nodded, my heart already pulling ahead of me, legs bouncing restlessly, ready to be inside. The storm picked up in intensity, mist curling around the car like a secret, the windshield blurred with streaking rain. As we rolled to a stop, thunder cracked overhead.
He parked, got out, and ducked his head as he rounded the front to open my door.
And I should’ve known. Should’ve known.
He leaned down, one arm braced against the frame, that fucking dimple cocky as hell in the flicker of the lantern-style lights lining the driveway, raindrops running in rivulets down the angles of his face—his temples, cheekbones, jaw.
My eyes trailed the movement, heart flipping hard in my chest.
He looked devastating like this—soaked and smug, dark curls dripping onto his forehead, t-shirt clinging to his chest like a second skin, jeans plastered to his thighs. All muscle and grin and sex god energy. A slutty little husband ready to take his prize inside.
And I had to take a breath. Had to physically breathe through the realization that this was my life now.
This man. This mouthy, feral, reckless man was mine.
Not just the parts the world wanted—the fame, the wins, the wreckage—no.
I got it all. The soft mornings and the storm-soaked nights.
The stubble burn and the sanctuary. The smirk and the vow and the man who still looked at me like I hung the stars.
The man who—despite everything—knew that what we had was sacred.
How the fuck was I supposed to survive this man for the rest of my life?
“Whatever you’re planning, don’t,” I warned, laughter already spilling out of me as I clocked the glint in his eyes.
But he didn’t listen.
Instead, he reached across me, unbuckled my seatbelt, and before I could blink, hauled me over his shoulder with an obnoxious grunt of satisfaction.
“Callum!” I shrieked, clinging to his back as the rain drenched my dress in seconds, slicking it to my thighs.
He didn’t even flinch. Just started striding through the downpour like it was his fucking coronation.
“You’re absurd,” I yelled over the storm, breathless with laughter as my hair plastered to my face and the wind lashed around us. “I’m not even in heels!”
“Exactly,” he called back, completely unfazed. “You’ve got no excuse to slow me down.”
Lightning cracked in the distance. My entire body was vibrating—cold and giddy and drunk on the way he always made even the simplest things feel like a fever dream.
“You could’ve carried me like a normal person, you lunatic!” I added.
“Could’ve,” he agreed. “But then how the hell would I smack your ass and unlock the door at the same time?”
I snorted with laughter, head dropping forward against his back as he delivered a very enthusiastic slap to my thigh and juggled me effortlessly in one arm.
“This is not how the bridal tradition goes!” I cried through my hysterics.
“It is now,” he said smugly. “Fraser-style.”
And fuck if that didn’t make something low in me tighten.
He reached the door, still carrying me effortlessly, and unlocked the door with one hand. He stepped inside, kicked the door shut, and finally set me down in the entryway. Both of us dripping, breathless.
“You’re soaked,” I murmured, grinning up at him.
His eyes flicked over me, slow and reverent. “So are you.” He tucked my wet hair behind my ear. “And this is the first time I get to say: welcome home, Mrs. Fraser.”
God. The way he said it. Like a promise. Like a prayer. Like a man who never thought he’d get to say the words out loud.
My chest burned.
“Welcome home,” I echoed softly, pressing up on my toes to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Now get those wet clothes off before you ruin the floors.”
He smirked. “Is that what we care about now? Floors?”
“Yes,” I said, flicking the waistband of his jeans with a grin. “Because we own them.”
He groaned but stepped back, dragging his shirt over his head and tossing it toward the laundry nook like he’d lived here forever.
Like this was already second nature. I peeled out of my damp dress as we moved into the kitchen, each of us shedding layers and laughing under our breath—skin clammy from rain, hair tangled from wind, hearts still raw and cheeks still flushed from our sexcation-turned-honeymoon.
I lit one of the candles on the counter while he fumbled with the kettle, the scent of sandalwood and cedar rising up.
Our house smelled like wood and home and old books. Like lavender and citrus from my shampoo. Like leather from his jacket. Like rain and salt and the love we’d left steeped into the sheets.
It smelled like us. Our life.
He passed me a mug of tea, and we stood there for a while in our underwear, sipping quietly as the storm crackled outside.
“I still can’t believe it,” I whispered eventually, setting my mug down and leaning into him. “We’re married.”
“I can,” he said, his voice low and sure. “I’ve spent my whole life running, thinking I had to earn peace. But with you, I stopped chasing it and started living it.”
I blinked up at him, tears threatening again—but this time they didn’t scare me. They didn’t unravel me.
Because I wasn’t coming apart anymore. I was settling in.
We cleaned up in tandem after that, moving like we’d done this a hundred times.
And I guess we had, just on our own. Motorsport was a traveling lifestyle, but doing this routine with him felt less like sacrifice and more like the language of living.
Unpacking suitcases, throwing the laundry in, restocking the bathroom with our favorite things.
He put his cologne on the shelf next to my perfume.
I folded his shirts into the dresser next to my silk slips.
It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t loud. But it was real.
This was the dream.
And when he crawled into bed beside me hours later, fresh from the shower, hair still damp, chest still warm—I let myself exhale.
And I was home in every sense of the word.