Chapter 229 Callum
callum
My husband only has two speeds: winning, and ruining my self-control. –Auri
Iclinched it.
The fucking World Championship was mine. Number five—and what a way to do it.
I barely heard the anthem. The Strip burned neon-bright beyond the circuit, champagne already spraying, cameras everywhere, but none of it landed. The only thing I saw, felt, or registered was my wife.
P3.
Her third podium in four races.
She climbed the steps beside me, eyes bright, chest heaving, and the pride hit harder than the win ever could. She was up there with me—celebrating my title, standing in the same light—and for not the first time since I’d met the woman, my eyes burned.
I blamed the champagne spray. No one questioned it.
I kissed her senseless in front of the world, forehead pressed to hers, voice rough and wrecked as I breathed, “I fucking did it.”
She laughed against my mouth, hands fisting my race suit like she needed the proof. “I told you, mon champion. I’m so fucking proud of you.”
I kept kissing her—hard, grateful, reverent—like it was my first win. Like it was my first championship. Like this wasn’t just the end of something monumental, but the beginning of everything else.
“Auri,” I gasped, chest rattling with emotion as I pulled back to meet her watery hazel gaze. “It has never meant this much to me. And I am honored to have you up here with me.”
Tears fell, and we kissed once more before we were forced to part ways. It was a blur, and I was desperate to get back to her.
When the post-race interviews started, she showed up like she always did when it mattered most—braids undone, hair a wild spill of waves, dressed in a Vanguard shirt with our name across the back and a short black skirt, and red heels that damn near knocked the breath out of me.
She stood just off camera, cheering with the fans while Marco and Kimi flanked her like ceremonial guards.
All of it just to support me.
My wife. My anchor. My loudest believer.
I broke from the interview without a second thought, dragged her into frame, and told the world the truth—that the only person I wanted beside me, rain or shine, win or loss, was her.
And that they were looking at another future champion.
Then I dragged her to my hospitality suite and fucked the adrenaline out of both of us.
Later that night, we ended up where the true celebrations always began: under the surface, behind closed doors, beneath the velvet-draped weight of something darker.
Velvet Hour—Maverick and Sophie’s hidden club inside Pillars—sat on the top floor with exclusive access. No press. No fans. Just shadows, silk, and surrender.
And in one of the back rooms, I gave myself to my wife in a way I never had for her.
Stripped down. Spine bowed. Bleeding for her just like she’d bled our life out of her. Restrained. Shaking. Riding the edge, over and over again.
She took me apart with reverent violence, every whispered praise a possession, every mark a promise, every kiss a reminder of the love and trust shared between us. She crowned me that night—not as champion of the world, but as hers.
And I wanted it. All of it.