Epilogue
Six Months Later
Aria
The private jet hummed steadily above the Mediterranean, sunlight fracturing across the water in bright shards of turquoise and gold.
Aria curled tighter into Jax’s side, bare feet tucked beneath her on the wide leather seat, his favourite hoodie swallowing her frame and carrying the faint trace of his cologne.
His arm lay heavy and warm across her shoulders, thumb tracing the same slow, lazy circles on her skin that had become her favourite kind of comfort.
Six months. Sometimes it still felt like a dream she was afraid to wake from.
January had been gentle and heavy all at once.
They’d spent three quiet weeks in the Paddington house, sorting Nan’s life into boxes.
Jax had kept the faded recipe cards and the old wooden rolling pin that still carried the ghost of her touch; Aria had claimed the chipped teapot and the lavender-scented cardigan she wore whenever the nights felt too long.
They’d sat on the living-room floor for hours, crying over old photos, laughing at Nan’s terrible handwriting, and holding each other when the silence pressed too close.
The house sold in just nine days to a young couple expecting their first baby.
When the husband shook Jax’s hand on settlement day, Jax had said quietly, “Take care of her,” and Aria had known he meant the house, the memories, all of it.
From there they’d flown straight to Los Angeles.
Her mother’s house in the Silver Lake hills had felt like stepping into warm sunlight after months of grey.
Mum had thrown the door open before they even reached the porch, already tearing up.
She’d pulled Jax down into a fierce hug—tiny against his height—and immediately started fussing.
“You must be starving after that flight. Come, come, I made extra spicy kimchi jjigae just like Aria said you like.” Over the next four days she’d grilled him about everything: “Do you really go two hundred miles an hour? Does your heart ever race like mine does when I watch you on TV? Do you sleep enough?” Jax had answered every question with that easy, genuine laugh of his, helping carry plates out to the terrace, tasting her cooking with honest enthusiasm, and even washing dishes beside her like he’d been doing it for years.
On their last night Mum had cornered Aria in the hallway while Jax was outside on a quick call with the team.
She’d cupped Aria’s face with both hands and whispered, “He looks at you like you hung every star in the sky, sweetheart. Don’t you dare let that boy slip away.
” Aria had hugged her mother so tightly her ribs ached, because she already knew she never would.
Seoul had come next.
They’d gone straight to the sleek Gangnam apartment where Aria had moved as a teenager when training became everything—the first place that had ever felt like hers.
The floor-to-ceiling windows still overlooked the glittering city, and the wall of platinum records caught the light exactly as she remembered.
Jax had walked in, eyes wide, running a hand along the back of the couch where she used to collapse after fourteen-hour days.
She’d taken his hand and led him to the office the next morning for final tour planning.
The rehearsal studio buzzed with controlled chaos.
Lena was already there, clipboard in hand, barking gentle orders at the lighting crew.
Robert stood by the soundboard looking every inch the father figure he’d been since she was sixteen—jey black hair, rolled-up sleeves, that same steady presence that had gotten her through every debut panic.
“Lena, Robert—this is Jax,” Aria had said, voice soft with pride. “Jax, these are the two people who kept me sane for the last ten years.”
Lena had grinned, bowed slightly, then immediately hugged him. “Finally- its so nice to meet you properly. She talks about you non-stop. Welcome to the madhouse, racer boy.”
Robert had shaken Jax’s hand firmly, then pulled him into a one-armed hug.
“So you’re the one who finally made her smile like that again.
Hurt her and I know people who can make a car disappear in the Han River.
” His eyes were warm despite the threat.
Jax had laughed, but the respect between them had been instant.
That afternoon Jax had sat on a folding chair at the edge of the studio while Aria ran through the new choreography for the tour.
The music thumped, lights flashed, and she moved—sharp, fluid, powerful.
Sweat glistened on her skin, hair sticking to her neck, breath coming hard.
Every time she hit a turn or drop, she caught Jax’s gaze.
He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, watching her like she was the only thing in the room.
When the track ended and she walked over, chest heaving, he’d pulled her into his lap right there in front of everyone, whispering against her damp temple, “You’re going to kill me in the best way.
” The heat in his eyes had promised exactly how he planned to show her later.
February had exploded with the Seoul opening night. Jax had slipped into the wings straight from Bahrain testing, still smelling faintly of jet fuel and adrenaline. When the lights hit her and the crowd roared, she’d looked straight at him and felt the same spark that had started everything.
Melbourne in March had been pure joy. She’d arrived jet-lagged but glowing, sliding into the garage just in time for qualifying after squeezing in a quick two-day break between her Sydney and Brisbane shows.
Jax took pole—smooth, dominant, the way he always did when he was locked in.
That night in the hospitality suite, after debriefs wrapped and the mechanics had cleared out, Mia had pulled Aria and Dana into a quiet corner away from the cameras and the lingering crew.
The ring caught the overhead lights—simple platinum band, a single brilliant diamond that looked like it had been made for Mia’s hand.
Lucas had proposed at sunrise at their villa in Nice, Mia said, voice trembling with happiness.
He’d dropped to one knee in the middle of the olive grove and asked her to be his forever.
She’d said yes before he even finished the question.
Mia was radiant—cheeks flushed, eyes shining, practically vibrating as she held out her hand. “I can’t do this without you two,” she said, voice cracking just a little. “You’re family. Please say you will be my bridesmaids. Please.”
Aria felt her own eyes sting instantly. “Yes. God, yes.” She pulled Mia into a hug, laughing through the sudden rush of emotion.
Dana stared at the ring for a long beat, then lifted her gaze to Mia’s glowing face.
A slow, real smile spread across her own—wide, unguarded, the kind that reached her eyes even when something else flickered behind them.
She stepped forward without hesitation and wrapped Mia in a tight, fierce hug.
“Holy shit, Mia,” she said against her shoulder, voice thick but steady. “You’re getting married. To Lucas. This is… this is so fucking perfect for you two.”
She held on a second longer, then pulled back just enough to look Mia in the eye, her grin softening into something tender. “I’m so happy for you. Seriously. I’ve never seen you this lit up.”
Mia’s laugh was watery. “You’re not allowed to make me cry more than I already have.”
Dana gave a small, self-deprecating huff, wiping at the corner of her eye with her thumb.
“Too late.” She glanced away for half a second—barely noticeable—then back, smile firmly in place.
“Just promise me one thing: don’t make the dress too pretty.
I’m already going to look like the spare part next to you and Aria. ”
The three of them dissolved into helpless laughter—the messy, aching kind that made their stomachs hurt and tears spill over. It was one of those perfect, unguarded moments that felt like proof everything was going to be okay.
The six months that followed had been a passionate, chaotic, perfect blur—stolen between Aria’s tour legs and Jax’s race weekends.
Shanghai: a single night between her Shanghai shows and his Chinese Grand Prix, clothes barely making it past the hotel door.
Milan: a rare three-day window after her European leg opener and before Imola, mornings of slow kisses down her spine before he had to leave for the track.
Miami: a precious 48-hour break she’d fought to carve out mid-tour, afternoons tangled naked in the sheets, his head on her chest while she scrolled setlists and he traced lazy patterns on her hip.
Suzuka: late nights after her Japan dates wrapped early enough to catch his race, room service and dawn conversations melting into slow, deep lovemaking that felt like rewriting every inch of each other.
The passion hadn’t faded—it had grown roots, hotter and more constant with every hard-won hour they managed to claim.
Now the mid-season break stretched ahead like the gift they’d both earned.
Two weeks in France for Lucas and Mia’s wedding—sun-drenched villages, olive groves, barefoot dancing under string lights.
After that, Monaco: Jax’s apartment with the tiny terrace overlooking the harbour, coffee in the mornings, no alarms, no goodbyes at airport gates.
Aria’s tour would pause again—just long enough for them to breathe.
Aria lifted her head and met his eyes. “You’re quiet.”
He smiled, slow and tender. “Just thinking how lucky I am that you’re mine.”
Her heart flipped. “Me too.”
◆◆◆
Jax
The jet banked gently, the French coastline rising to meet them—white villas scattered across green hills, the sea a deep, endless blue that mirrored the calm he finally carried inside.
Aria’s fingers stayed laced through his, her head on his shoulder, and for a long moment he simply let himself feel the weight of her against him, the steady rise and fall of her breathing grounding everything.
He had the championship. The trophy sat on the shelf in Monaco, polished and gleaming, proof he’d finally silenced every doubter.
But it was no longer the centre of his universe.
The real victory was the woman curled beside him—the one who had started as a calculated PR move and had become the heartbeat he couldn’t imagine living without.
He had the title. He had Aria. And somehow, against every cynical voice that had ever whispered in his ear, that was more than enough.
He missed Nan every day. The ache still caught him off guard—reaching for his phone to send her a race result, or smelling lavender and expecting to hear her call him “love” from the kitchen.
But he could almost feel her beside him now, arms crossed, that fond, knowing smile on her face.
Nan would have been thrilled to see them now—happy, tangled up in each other, finally still.
She’d have said, “About bloody time,” and then hugged them both until they laughed.
His thoughts drifted back to 18 months earlier when everything had felt like it was slipping.
His seat had been under threat, headlines calling him the party boy who’d never grow up, sponsors whispering about “image issues.” He’d looked across the garage at Lucas—titles in the cabinet, Mia steady and smiling beside him—and felt a sharp, ugly twist of envy.
He’d wanted the championship. That was all he’d admitted to himself back then.
The girl, the steady love, the quiet certainty Lucas had?
That had seemed like a luxury he didn’t deserve.
Now he drove wheel-to-wheel with Lucas every weekend, no bad blood, no desperation.
They pushed each other clean and hard, traded podiums with grins, and laughed about it later over beers.
Lucas had pulled him aside after the last race, clapping him on the back.
“Best man?” Jax had answered without hesitation.
He was going to stand beside his friend while Lucas married the love of his life, and the symmetry of it all still hit him square in the chest.
Lucas was happy—radiantly, stupidly happy. And Jax finally understood what that looked like from the inside.
He hadn’t been sure how this would work.
Their schedules were brutal—her tour, his season, time zones that never aligned, airports that felt like second homes.
He’d lain awake more than once wondering if the distance would eventually wear them thin, if the stolen hours would stop being enough.
But they’d made it work. They’d carved out time like it was sacred: red-eye flights to surprise each other, hotel rooms turned into private worlds, mornings where neither of them moved until they had to.
And the wanting never faded. If anything, it burned hotter.
Even now, with her curled against him on this plane, he could feel the familiar heat pooling low in his gut—the way her hoodie rode up just enough to show a sliver of skin, the way her lips parted slightly, the memory of how she’d arched under him last night in the hotel, whispering his name like a secret.
He was still so damn horny for her it almost made him laugh.
Six months in, and one look, one brush of her fingers, and he was ready to drag her to the back of the jet and remind her exactly how much he still needed her.
Two weeks ahead: Mediterranean sun, long dinners under olive trees, dancing with Aria on stone terraces while Lucas and Mia started their forever. Then home to Monaco—the apartment with the tiny terrace, coffee in the mornings, lazy days tangled in sheets with no rush to leave.
Jax pressed a kiss to her temple, lingering there, breathing her in.
“Two weeks,” he murmured against her hair.
Aria tilted her face up, eyes bright and full of the same quiet certainty he felt. “No more airports.”
“Just us,” he said, voice low and rough with everything he still felt for her.
The pilot announced descent. The sea filled the window—blue, boundless, waiting.
Jax squeezed her hand. She squeezed back, harder.
They weren’t chasing the finish line anymore.
They had already crossed it.
Together.