43. Callum
But all I felt was the absence of her. I sprawled across the hotel bed, phone pressed to my ear.
“You’re late,” Aurélie said through a yawn, her voice warm and teasing.
“I was doing laps around the marina. Kept checking my phone like a loser.”
“You are a loser,” she said, “but you’re my loser.”
I smiled. Closed my eyes. Let her voice fill the hollow parts of me.
We hadn’t gone more than twelve hours without talking. Texts. Calls. FaceTimes with shaky hotel Wi-Fi.
She’d fall asleep to the sound of my voice. I’d wake up to a selfie of her in my lucky hoodie, biting her lip with a cheeky caption: Think this still smells like you.
And yet, it still wasn’t enough. Even knowing she had additional PR now—that woman from the other night, who apparently stormed into the Barcelona shoot like a devil in heels.
I still didn’t feel like I could breathe.
It should’ve made me feel safer, relieved, maybe even hopeful.
But all it did was remind me how vulnerable we still were.
Would I lose her if this went sideways? Was I worth it if her career was on the line?
She was in another hotel across town, locked in press cycles and engineering debriefs. I was stuck with sponsors and PR meetings that never seemed to end. Our calendars didn’t just clash—they were designed to keep us apart.
And the worst part was that it wasn’t an accident.
Barcelona proved how thin the veil really was, how easy it would be to lose her to public scrutiny, how one little slip up could result in gossip being spread like wildfire if the wrong person caught us.
The moment the rumors flared again, they pounced.
Ivy might’ve covered the fire, but it didn’t stop the team from trying to put out the smoke.
After Monaco, the rumors exploded.
Videos of us hugging and touching helmets after the race.
That post-race press conference, where the eye-fucking was nearly impossible to miss—as was the red skin around Aurélie’s mouth.
Us leaving the paddock together, my hand visibly bleeding, then later leaving the club looking entirely too smitten.
Every glance, every laugh, every time we were standing a little too close to each other.
But nothing that made it concrete.
Not even that night, after we’d run through the paddock together like a normal young, drunk-in-love couple, wild and carefree, instead of celebrity athletes with millions of people watching.
I wished I stayed, wished I kissed her again.
I should’ve told the woman who caught us to fuck off so I could have Aurélie to myself just a little bit longer.
I would’ve pressed her against the door, pulled those red lace panties to the side, and made her forget the whole fucking world again, just for a few minutes.
Except we’d already been caught. The damage was done. And in that moment, I didn’t care who knew. I just wanted her writhing under me, clawing at my back, calling me hers.
But Aurélie was thinking beyond the moment. About optics, about Ferrari, about everything she stood to lose if she got this wrong.
So I stepped back. Let the silence stretch between us. Walked away with my cock aching, my jaw clenched, my heart thudding like I’d just taken a corner flat out.
She didn’t text me until hours later, after her shoot, when my nerves were a jumbled mess and I had worried myself into oblivion.
Aurélie
We’re good, mon amour. She works for a private PR company and wanted to sign me.
Still smell like you. Wish you were here. Je t’aime. Bisous. xx
And it fucking wrecked me.
Her new personal rep—what’s her name, Ivy?
—seemed to be doing her job so far, and better than the Luminis PR team.
She shielded Aurélie from the worst of it, handled social media statements by spinning the story into something else.
Keeping things quiet, including turning my handprints on Aurélie’s ass into a fucking inspiration during the photoshoot.
But that didn’t mean we could be together.
Because God forbid people think we’re human.
We were only a few days into it, so only time would tell.
Even now, the articles kept popping up:
F1’sGolden Girl & the Fallen King—Are Sparks Flying or Is It Just Smoke?
CallumFraser Caught Glancing atDuboisin the Paddock Again—Fans Speculate on What’s REALLY Happening Behind the Scenes.
We were becoming a headline. A ship name. A marketing ploy. None of it in the ways that mattered.
All we wanted was to hold hands in peace, share a bed during race week, be together in private, have moments that were more than pinky holding when no one was looking and quick trysts in shadowed corners.
“I miss you,” I whispered.
She sighed. “I miss you, too.” A pause. “I can’t wait for Montreal,” she said. “I want to be in your arms. I want you inside me. I want to wake up next to you again.”
I swallowed hard. “Do you want me to come over tonight?”
“I do,” she said. “So fucking much.”
“But…”
“But my press starts at five, and I’m wearing a full face of makeup before sunrise. If I leave your hotel at three, the photos will hit X by 3:05.”
I closed my eyes again, groaning. “Fuck the optics.”
She didn’t answer right away. Then, softly, “We’re almost there.”
We said goodbye a few minutes later. Neither of us wanted to hang up, but we had to. She had an appearance. I had a debrief.
My room felt quieter afterward. Too quiet.
Don’t get me wrong, I was glad someone was finally looking out for her. Even if it wasn’t me—not fully, not the way I wanted. I just… wanted it to be me.
I sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, hands in my hair. My chest ached in a way the physio couldn’t treat as I opened her private Instagram because I missed her so fucking much.
A story, nothing special. Just a blurry photo of the city skyline from her hotel window.
But I saw her reflection in the glass, her silhouette in my hoodie with my driver number stitched across her shoulder. I saved it without thinking. This was how we loved right now—in all the quiet ways. Behind closed doors. Beneath headlines and press photos.
Not hiding.
Just waiting.