Chapter 220 Callum
callum
I never had to beg him to love me. But God, I loved to beg for him to touch me. –Auri
We were three-quarters through dinner. Conversation had gone from stiff to tolerable. We’d played our parts. I followed Auri’s lead. We managed to not draw attention to our rings. I thought we were safe.
Then Augustin set down his wine glass and calmly asked, like he was inquiring about the weather, “How serious is this?” He gestured between us. “You two… whatever you call it now. ‘Seeing each other’. And are you two… intimate?”
I choked. Violently. Like I’d swallowed an entire spark plug.
Because how was I supposed to answer that?
Yes, sir, I’ve had your daughter bent over more furniture than your chateau even contains. Yes, sir, she calls me husband when she’s coming. Yes, sir, and you’re not the only one she’s called Daddy. Yes, sir—
Fuck me. Why did that cross my mind now?
My brain short-circuited.
Wine went down the wrong pipe, I coughed, and in a blind reflex to keep from humiliating myself in front of my in-laws, I slapped a hand over my mouth.
My left hand.
And suddenly the room went dead silent.
Geneviève gasped. Emilie’s phone fell face-first onto the table. étienne didn’t even blink—just crossed his arms and waited like he’d been sitting front-row for this reveal all evening.
Auri froze for half a second—eyes wide, pupils blown, a muttered Cal, what the fuck whispered across the bond only we could hear—but then her expression shifted.
There was no panic, no embarrassment. Just resolve.
She reached out with her left hand, gently lowering my wrist with both hands, exposing our bands fully to her family. Her fingers threaded through mine, firm and claiming.
I watched her take a deep breath. The kind a warrior takes before stepping into the arena.
And then she dropped the bomb.
“We’re married.”
Her voice didn’t waver. Her chin didn’t dip. She didn’t shrink.
Instead, my wife sat taller. I was so goddamn proud of her, proud to be hers, proud to call her mine.
“Mariés…?” Geneviève wondered, gaping in bewilderment at our joined hands.
Augustin blinked, looking from our hands to our faces as if he needed a second confirmation.
Emilie dropped her phone face-first on the table.
Auri wasn’t done. She lifted our joined hands to chest height. “I chose him. And not because of pressure or timing or headlines. Because he is my partner. My home. My family.”
My throat tightened so hard I had to look down. The emotional whiplash this woman gave me was enough to make my heart palpitate.
“And yes, Papa,” she added, answering the original question with heroic restraint, “we are very intimate.”
God help me.
Her sister burst out laughing. Her mum hid a smile behind her wine glass. Augustin coughed like I had slapped him.
étienne muttered, “Soft landing, Ray. Really nailed that one.”
Auri just squeezed my hand. Hard. Like: I’ve got you. Like: We’re doing this together. Like: Breathe, husband.
And fuck… I wanted to marry her all over again.
Silence held for a heartbeat. Then two. Then three.
Augustin was the first to break the silence. His wine glass lowered slowly. His gaze flicked to the rings, then to Auri, then to me… and stayed there.
“Married,” he repeated, tasting the word like it was something foreign. “Since when?”
Auri lifted her chin, unblinking. “Greece.”
Geneviève’s hand flew to her chest. “Greece? You eloped?”
“Oui, Maman,” she said, gentle but not apologetic. “We eloped.”
Geneviève blinked fast, back straightening with a strange mixture of pride and hurt swirling behind her eyes. “But why not tell us?”
Auri squeezed my hand—a warning, a comfort, maybe both—before answering. “Because it was ours.”
God, I loved her.
But Augustin wasn’t done. His fingers steepled beneath his cleanly-shaven chin, voice calm in the way only a man trying not to explode could manage. “Aurélie. This is not a decision made lightly. Marriage is… it is not—”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Emilie cut in, flopping back in her chair dramatically. “Papa, look at them.” She gestured aggressively at our hands. “They’re gagging for each other. Of course they got married.”
I choked again. étienne bit the inside of his cheek so hard to hide a laugh he probably drew blood.
“Emilie,” her mother hissed.
“What?” she shrugged. “I’m right.”
Auri covered her mouth to hide a smile. I was less successful; I cleared my throat, but a chuckle still escaped.
Augustin drew a long breath through his nose. “Callum,” he said finally, turning fully toward me. “Do you have anything to say about this?”
Oh, I had several things to say. None appropriate for this table.
But I managed something measured.
“Yes,” I said. “I love your daughter.” A truth. Clean and sharp as a blade. “And I intend to spend my life proving worthy of her.”
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “And what happens,” he said, “when the season gets hard? When the media turns? When the pressure becomes unbearable? Do you stand by her then? Do you protect her? Or do you leave?”
Auri’s fingers tightened around mine, and something in me snapped cleanly into place. “There is no universe where I leave your daughter.”
The room stilled.
“She stayed for me when she had every reason not to. She loved me when I wasn’t easy to love. She held my hand while I recovered from things that should’ve broken me. She saw me at my worst, and she stayed anyway.”
I turned my palm up beneath hers, letting my ring catch the light.
“I am not going anywhere. You have my word.”
Geneviève pressed her fingertips to her mouth.
Augustin shut his eyes, just for a moment. When he opened them again, they were different. Not soft, no less intense, but understanding.
étienne broke the tension with a low, approving whistle. “Well,” he said, leaning back, arms still crossed, “personally, I’m excited for Ray to be moving out. I’ve wanted her view of the lavender fields for years.”
Auri and I exchanged a glance, both fighting laughter as we both remembered her joke about the east and west wings earlier.
Geneviève exhaled shakily, touching the base of her throat, French accent the thickest of everyone’s at the table. “Tell me, at least, that there was a ring ceremony? Something symbolic? Something meaningful?”
Auri’s eyes softened. “There was a handfasting. Overlooking the water, and at a vineyard that—get this—Colette Beauchamp now owns.”
“Oh,” Geneviève said, tears shimmering. “Mon dieu…”
Emilie scoffed in disbelief. “You had a fairytale ceremony and you didn’t invite me?”
Auri sighed.
“And,” her sister said, pointing accusingly, “You”—her finger swung to étienne—“knew?”
He shrugged. “Not my fault you didn’t clock their rings sooner.”
Augustin exhaled—slow, heavy, resigned. Then he stood, bracing his palms on the table’s edge as he looked at both of us.
“I would have liked to walk my daughter down the aisle,” he told us quietly.
My stomach twisted. Auri—closest to her father, across from her mother—touched his hand. The same way she touched mine when she was offering forgiveness, not asking for it. He looked down at her hand, how her rings glittered and her tattoo stood out on her skin, still fresh and dark.
“Papa,” she whispered. “You think I don’t know that? Cal and I talked about this. We’re going to hold a large reception later. Once we’re a little more settled in our home. Then you can walk me into the next chapter, have our father-daughter dance. All of it. If you want to.”
His brows pulled together—surprise, grief, love all tangled, and then he nodded.
A single, accepting nod. A shock rippled through the room, almost in disbelief that he seemed to recognize this for what it was: an adjustment and a new beginning.
A family reshaping itself around a truth spoken out loud.
Acknowledging that their daughter had made her own decisions, and that if they wanted to be a part of her life, their roles would have to change.
Auri had shown the world, her family, and most importantly herself, that she could make it. She trusted her instincts, and now she didn’t need their permission, money, or approval to determine her worth, let alone her place in this world.
She sat back beside me, sliding her hand into mine again. Her thumb brushed the inside of my wrist. Without hesitation, leaned in and kissed her temple. She let out a quiet giggle.
I leaned closer, not caring anymore that her parents’ eyes were on us. I’d made my first impression. I wouldn’t pretend to be someone I wasn’t. If my wife wanted them to like me, then they needed to see me.
“I’m so proud of you,” I whispered, quiet enough that only she could hear.
She melted, giving me the sweetest fucking smile I’d ever seen in my life, and it damn near stole my breath. Then she leaned in—lips brushing my jaw like she couldn’t help herself—and whispered, “Say that again when your mouth is between my legs tonight.”
My pulse stuttered. Blood rushed south so fast I saw stars. My eyes immediately dropped, catching that her legs were crossed tightly, thighs pressed together like she was chasing friction already.
Fuck.
I could practically feel it—how good that squeeze must feel for her, how warm and wet she probably already was.
I had to fight the urge to shift in my chair, to lean in and tell her exactly what I’d do if we were alone.
But her parents were still watching. Still scrutinizing every blink, every glance.
They probably knew how to fucking lip read too.
So I leaned back slowly, keeping my voice quiet. “Scale?”
Her head tilted. “Eight,” she said lightly. “Ten when we’re back home. You?”
I held her gaze and let a beat pass before murmuring, “Nine.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. Her posture changed as she shifted in her seat, subtly, legs still crossed. The tips of her ears turned pink, and if I were a man with a death wish, I would have checked to see if her nipples were hard.
But even my depravity had limits.