Chapter Thirty-Four
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Aria
The phone buzzed on the nightstand—sharp, insistent, cutting through the pre-dawn quiet like a knife.
Jax stirred first, arm tightening around her waist instinctively before he registered the sound. He reached over her, fumbled for the device, answered without looking at the screen.
“Yeah?” His voice was thick with sleep.
A pause. Then his whole body went rigid.
Aria felt the change instantly—the way his breath stopped, the way his fingers dug into the sheet. She sat up, heart already hammering.
“When?” Jax asked, voice flat, mechanical. Another pause. “We’re coming. Now.”
He ended the call. Sat up slowly, staring at the wall like it had just spoken to him.
“They said she slipped into a coma an hour ago,” he whispered. “Hours left. Maybe less. Come now.”
Aria was already moving—throwing back the covers, pulling on yesterday’s jeans, grabbing a hoodie from the chair. Jax dressed in silence—same clothes from yesterday, no time for anything else. They didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. They just moved.
The drive to the respite centre was a blur of streetlights and empty roads. Jax’s hands were white on the wheel. Aria kept one hand on his thigh—steady pressure, a reminder he wasn’t alone.
They arrived just as the sky began to lighten at the edges—grey, cold, indifferent.
The nurse met them at the door,her face kind but practised. “She’s peaceful. No pain. Breathing has slowed. You’ve got time to say goodbye.”
The room looked the same—beige walls, wilted geraniums, monitor beeping slower now, each interval longer than the last. Nan lay still under the thin blanket, small and fragile, face slack but serene. No more shallow gasps. Just quiet, rhythmic breaths that seemed to come from somewhere far away.
They sat on either side of the bed. Jax took Nan’s right hand. Aria took her left.
No words at first.
Jax leaned forward, pressed his forehead to Nan’s knuckles. “I’m here, Nan,” he whispered. “We’re both here.”
Aria stroked the back of Nan’s hand—skin paper-thin, veins blue and delicate. She thought of the woman who’d hugged her at Christmas, who’d winked at them over scones, who’d told her not to waste a moment.
Minutes passed. Or hours. Time lost meaning.
Nan’s breaths grew further apart.
Then one long exhale.
A pause.
No inhale.
Jax made a small, broken sound.
Aria felt the sob rise in her own throat but swallowed it down. This was his moment.
He stayed bent over Nan’s hand, shoulders shaking silently. Aria moved around the bed, wrapped her arms around him from behind—chest to his back, cheek against his shoulder. He reached up, gripped her forearm, held on.
They stayed like that until the nurse gently came in, checked vitals, nodded.
“She’s gone peacefully,” the nurse said. “I’m so sorry.”
Jax nodded once—mechanical. Stood. Kissed Nan’s forehead—slow, lingering.
“Thank you,” he said to the nurse. “For everything.”
Then he moved through the next things like someone following a checklist he’d memorised long ago: paperwork, calls, arrangements. Numb. Efficient. Aria stayed beside him—silent support, hand on his back when he faltered, quiet answers when he looked at her like he’d forgotten how words worked.
Hours later they left the centre. The sun was up now—bright, cruelly cheerful.
They drove back to the flat in silence.
Inside, Jax stopped in the hallway, staring at Nan’s slippers like they were foreign objects.
Aria didn’t ask. She just moved to the kitchen.
She found chicken stock in the freezer, carrots, celery, onion, a packet of noodles. Her mum’s comforting soup recipe—the one she’d made every time someone was sick, heartbroken, or just tired of the world. Aria chopped, stirred, let the smell of broth and thyme fill the small space.
When it was ready she ladled two bowls, set them on the coffee table.
Jax sat on the couch—still in yesterday’s clothes, still hollow-eyed.
She sat beside him. Handed him a bowl.
He took it. Stared at it. Then lifted the spoon.
They ate in silence at first.
Then he spoke—voice cracked. “She always said hospital food was rubbish.”
He set the bowl down. Turned to her. Pulled her into his arms.
They cried then—quiet, shared grief. Holding each other while memories of Nan filled the room: her terrible bridge stories, her insistence on fairy lights all year round, the way she’d call him “Jaxon” when she was proud and “love” when he needed it most.
They spent the day like that—on the couch, wrapped in blankets, trading stories. Laughing through tears. Crying through laughter.
Late afternoon, Jax picked up his phone.
“I need to plan the funeral,” he said quietly. “Before Christmas. She’d hate it hanging over the holidays.”
Aria nodded. “What can I do?”
He looked at her—eyes red, but clearer than they’d been in weeks.
“Just be here.”
She squeezed his hand. “I am.”
He made the calls. Chose the day—December 22nd. Simple service. No flowers—Nan had hated waste. Donations to the local cancer ward instead.
When the last call ended, he set the phone down like it might burn him.
Aria watched the way his shoulders stayed hunched. “Do you want me to call Mia? Or text her, at least? So you don’t have to keep saying it out loud.”
Jax rubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah. Please.”
She dialled. Mia picked up fast.
“Aria?” Already gentle, already braced.
“Nan passed this morning.”
A soft, pained inhale. “God. I’m so sorry.”
“Jax is… he’s right here. Funeral’s the 22nd, 11 a.m. at Paddington chapel. He’ll send the details, but I thought you should know now.”
“Okay. I’ve got it.” Mia’s voice softened further. “How’s he holding up? ”
Aria glanced at him—blanket bunched in his lap, staring at nothing. “He’s… doing ok. Just quiet.”
“That’s good,” Mia said, relief clear. “That’s really good. Tell him Lucas and I will be there, and I’ll let the team know. They’ll all want to come. We’ve got him, okay? We’ve got you both.”
Aria’s eyes stung. “Thanks, Mia. I'll let him know. ”
“Love you both. See you soon.”
Aria set the phone down. Jax hadn’t moved.
“She’s telling the team,” she said quietly. “She and Lucas will be there. Everyone will.”
He gave a small nod, then reached for her hand again. His fingers slid between hers, loose but steady.
They stayed like that as the afternoon light turned amber, the room quiet except for breathing and the occasional rustle of blankets.
No more words needed.
Just presence.
Jax
The chapel was small, wood-panelled, the kind of place that held voices close.
Sun streamed through stained glass in soft reds and golds, painting the pews like dying embers.
Days before Christmas, the air carried the faint, sharp scent of pine from wreaths hung outside—reminders of holidays Nan would never see.
The pews filled slowly at first: Nan’s bridge club ladies in neat cardigans, tissues already crumpled in their hands; Mrs. Davies from next door, eyes shining; the night-shift nurse who’d held Nan’s hand until the end.
Mia, Lucas, Dana, Eddie, and Etienne sat with Aria.
Mia’s face was already streaked, her quick smile replaced by something fierce and tender.
Lucas kept his hand steady on her lower back, jaw locked.
Dana sat beside them, arms crossed tight, eyes blazing as if she could stare grief into retreat.
Eddie was right next to Dana—quiet, head bowed.
Etienne sat beside Eddie, the two Ascari drivers shoulder-to-shoulder, solemn, no rivalry in sight, just respect when it counted.
Marcus and Claire sat directly behind them.
Marcus quiet in his crisp dark suit, stillness carrying weight.
Claire with hands folded, gaze steady. They anchored the row, leading the Ashworth team that stretched out behind them.
Mechanics in unfamiliar dark suits sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with engineers, strategists, data guys.
They filled the back half of the chapel without fanfare, heads bowed, hands clasped or resting on knees—there because Jax was family, and grief didn’t need explaining.
Robert and Lena took seats a row further back, near enough to Aria for silent support. Aria sat among her friends, heart hammering, tears already tracking down her cheeks before the service began. She hadn’t let go of Jax’s hand until he walked to the front.
Jax stood beside the simple wooden casket. No flowers—just that one framed photo of Nan: young, laughing, arms wrapped around a teenage Jax after his first real win, both of them glowing like the sun had decided to stay.
The celebrant spoke gently, briefly. Then Jax stepped to the microphone.
He looked out at the faces—old friends, chosen family, the Ashworth crew filling the back like an anchor—and something inside him steadied, even as his throat burned.
“Nan—Evelyn—would hate this,” he began, a cracked laugh escaping. “All these people crying over her. She’d tell me, ‘For God’s sake, Jaxon, someone put the kettle on and stop snivelling.’”
A ripple of soft, wet laughter moved through the room, fragile but real.
“She raised me after my parents died. I was thirteen, furious at everything. Nan didn’t try to fix me.
She just… stayed. Burnt the porridge because Mum used to make it with honey.
Drove three hours each way to karting meets in that rattling old Holden, thermos of tea was mandatory, cheering louder than anyone on the grid.
When I brought home that first cheap plastic trophy, she polished it like it was solid gold and set it on the mantel.
‘Your parents would be proud, love. So proud.’”
He paused, swallowed hard, eyes glistening.
“She taught me how to lose. She taught me how to win—quietly, no spotlight needed. And she taught me how to love—without scorecards, without conditions. His gaze found Aria in the third row—tears shining on her face, but her eyes locked on his, steady as an anchor. She gave the smallest nod, the one that said I’m here. Keep going.
“Near the end, when the doctors were all ‘rest’ and ‘no more travel,’ she made me promise something. She told me ‘I want to see you raise that world championship trophy, Jaxon. Before I go. I want to know you did it. For you. For them. For me.’”
His voice cracked, quieter now, almost like he was telling her again.
“I told her I’d try. She said, ‘Don’t try. Do it. And when you do, you lift it high and tell everyone it’s for your Nan.’”
He took a shaky breath, eyes distant for a second.
Someone—maybe one of the mechanics—let out a quiet, choked sound.
“I drove that race for her. Every lap. Crossed the line first. When they handed me the trophy on the podium, I lifted it high—just like she said. ’”
He looked down at the casket now, voice dropping to a raw whisper that somehow filled the whole chapel.
“She got to see it. In person. Because she fought to be there. Because she never stopped believing I could.”
He steadied himself, throat working.
“Nan told me that strength isn’t never crying. It’s letting someone hold you while you do.” He glanced briefly at Aria again, then back. “She was right.”
“I love you, Nan. Thank you for raising me. For teaching me. For staying when it was impossible—and for showing up when everyone said you couldn’t. I’m going to keep driving—fast, but smart. And I’m going to keep loving—properly, all the way. Because that’s what you showed me.”
He stepped back. The room held its breath.
A song rose, fragile. A prayer. Then it was done.
Outside, under the bright summer sun, people came to him in waves—hugs that lingered, quiet words that meant everything.
Mia held him longest, murmuring something only he could hear; he nodded against her shoulder.
Lucas clapped his back hard, eyes wet. Dana pulled him into a fierce, wordless embrace.
Marcus, Claire, Eddie, Etienne—they each came in turn, hands on his shoulder or a brief clasp of his arm, silent nods that said we’ve got you.
Aria waited at the edge until the crowd thinned. When the last person stepped away, she walked straight to him.
He pulled her in without a word—arms tight, face buried in her hair. She felt the shudder go through him, the quiet sob he’d held back all day.
“She’d have loved that speech,” Aria whispered, fingers threading through his.
“She’d have told me to stop being soppy and say something funny” he murmured against her neck.
They laughed—soft, broken, but real. Tears mixing with the sound.
Then they walked to the car together—hand in hand, the weight of the day still heavy, but shared.
Ready for whatever came next.