Chapter 10 Callum #2
By the time we stepped out, the mirror was fogged, our fingers wrinkled, and her hair was slick and heavy down her back. I wrapped a towel around her shoulders and another around her body, then took my time drying her off, just because I could.
“You’re ridiculous,” she muttered, but she didn’t stop me.
“You love it,” I said.
“Unfortunately,” she said, but there was no bite in it.
I shoved my own towel through my hair until it stuck up at worse angles than usual and went hunting for clothes in the dresser. The thought of actual buttons made my head throb in self-defense.
“Absolutely not,” I muttered, bypassing the linen shirt that had made me feel like a rich yacht prick. I grabbed a soft, washed-black t-shirt and a pair of grey joggers instead. My body sighed in relief just looking at them.
Behind me, drawers slid and hangers rattled. “What’s our vibing aesthetic today?” she asked. Her voice was still scratchy from sleep and wine. “Rich bitch? Paddock chic? ‘We definitely did not drink six bottles of wine between six people’?”
“Pretty sure it was seven,” I said, pulling the shirt over my head. My brain flinched at the movement. “We opened three inside, brought three down with us, and then Marco came back with another after he went to the bathroom. When we were already on the beach.”
She paused. “Seven?”
“Yeah.” I scrubbed a hand over my face. “We’re idiots.”
“Correction,” she said. “We are champions of bad decisions.”
I chuckled, turned around, and promptly forgot how language worked.
She’d gone full comfort. Soft black sleep shorts that barely covered her ass, one of my old red Vanguard shirts—her favorite one since Silverstone—the neckline slouching off one shoulder.
Hair twisted into a messy knot on top of her head, a few wavy pieces escaping to frame her face.
Bare feet and ring glittering bright and smug on her finger.
My fiancée, in my shirt, on our little private beach, looking like a hungover cherub that had learned all the worst swear words.
“I look like I’ve been hit by a train. You look like you invented hangovers and then made them couture,” I said fondly.
She grinned, then immediately winced and put a hand to her forehead. “Ow. Don’t make me laugh. My brain is… comment on dit… vibrating.”
“Pounding,” I supplied. “Your head is pounding.”
“Oui, that. I have the pound-head.”
I snorted. “You have a hangover.”
“I am a hangover,” she whined, slumping her shoulders tragically and dropping her head. “My blood is eighty percent wine, twenty percent pasta.”
“That’s… not inaccurate,” I admitted. “Come on, hangover incarnate. Let’s go see how many survivors we’ve got.”
We shuffled out of the room like pensioners, shoulders brushing with every step. The villa’s main room opened up ahead, the living room flowing into the kitchen flowing and dining area. The closer we got, the more it sounded like a very quiet war zone.
The smell of coffee hit us first, then. Marco’s voice drifted down the corridor in a harsh whisper. “I am begging you, macchina, please. Just one more pot. Don’t do this to me.”
“I swear to God, if you break that machine, I will send photos of your tattoos to your Nonna,” Ivy hissed back.
We rounded the corner into the kitchen and found all four of them already gathered, speaking in the hushed tones of people who knew loud noises were a hate crime.
Marco stood at the coffee machine, shirt rumpled, hair a disaster, staring at the coffee machine like it had personally wronged him.
There were two used coffee filters next to each other on the counter and more grounds on the marble than in the bin.
He had an ice pack tucked under one arm like a baby and was muttering in Italian at the machine between pulls.
Kimi leaned against the opposite counter, hip propped and arms crossed. His eyes were half-lidded, hair damp from a recent shower, expression mostly neutral except for the faint furrow in his brow that said his head was splitting.
Ivy sat at the island on a barstool with a blanket wrapped around her head, black hair poking out in frizzy tufts, mascara smudged under her eyes. A half-drunk glass of water and a mug of something dark and menacing sat in front of her.
Lucy occupied the stool beside her, both hands wrapped around a mug. The sleeves of an oversized hoodie were pulled down over her fingers. She looked like a hungover baby owl.
Four heads swiveled in our direction as we appeared.
“Did we wake you?” Marco whispered hoarsely. Then he glanced at the other three. “We agreed to be quiet and let the love birds sleep in.”
“We did not agree on anything,” Kimi said quietly. “You passed out on the sofa while trying to explain DRS to Lucy using breadsticks.”
Lucy blinked into her mug. “In my defense, I thought drag reduction system was something kinky,” she said. “I was very drunk and still thinking about the whole ‘sexcation rules’ thing. That entire conversation was a little blurry.”
I felt Aurélie’s laugh bubble up against my arm before she slapped a hand over her own mouth.
“Too loud,” Ivy groaned, massaging her temples. “No laughter before eleven.”
“It’s barely nine,” I pointed out, crossing to the counter. “You look like you licked the bottom of the bottle.”
“We did,” Marco muttered. “It was wasteful not to.”
Aurélie wove herself between them and slid onto the empty stool on Lucy’s other side, tugging at the hem of my T-shirt where it hit her bare thighs. “Bonjour, my little hangover club,” she croaked. “Everyone survived the night? No one drowned in the ocean or choked on their own vomit?”
“Wow,” Ivy said. “Such bedside manner. Ten out of ten.”
Lucy squinted at us, then blinked. “You two look… unfairly fresh,” she said, eyeing our soft clothes with mock disgust. “Did you make a deal with a Greek god or something? Is this what being in love does? Because my eyeballs hurt.”
Aurélie pressed a dramatic hand to her chest. “Non. I am also suffering,” she said solemnly. “I just have a very high pain enjoyance.”
I choked.
“Tolerance,” Ivy said flatly without missing a beat. “You have a high pain tolerance, Frenchie.”
“That is what I said,” Aurélie insisted.
“No,” Kimi murmured into his coffee. “It was not.”
“Though I have a high pain enjoyance too,” Aurélie admitted. “Just ask Callum.”
“Ew. No. Absolutely not. I saw enough in Silverstone to warrant a therapy session,” Ivy quipped, tugging the blanket tighter around her head so just her face showed.
“You work in PR. You’ve seen worse.”
Lucy snorted, then winced and touched her temple. “Nope. No laughing. Laughter is cancelled.”
There was a click as Marco finally managed to lock something into place on the espresso machine and it whirred to life. He stared at it like it was the answer to his prayers, then looked up at us. A collective sigh of relief rippled around the kitchen.
Except from me. Coffee was still the devil.
I stepped up beside him and reached for the kettle, filling it and setting it on the hob. Tea. Sanity. Civilization.
“Traitor,” I said to Ivy, nodding at her evil-looking mug full of steaming black coffee. “You used to be on the right side of history. Now you’re enabling this filth.”
She shrugged, the blanket wobbling on her head. “I like both,” she rasped. “Depends on the mood. Sometimes I need gentle emotional support. Sometimes I need to mainline rocket fuel. Today I’m hoping it miraculously cures this hangover.”
Aurélie perked up just enough to point at me.
“He tried coffee for the first time at our home in the French countryside,” she told Lucy, eyes glinting.
My heart flipped. Our home. Sure, we agreed half our life would be there, but hearing it out loud, shared with our people, made it feel real in a whole new way.
“One long sip of my favorite French roast. Twenty minutes later, he was doubled over in the bathroom swearing at me for trying to poison him.”
Marco grabbed the carafe before it could finish brewing and filled his mug. A few drips of coffee sizzled and burned as he put the carafe back. “You lost a fight with coffee?” he croaked, a little too gleeful.
“He was very dramatic,” Aurélie went on mercilessly. “He kept saying his ancestors—”
“Okay,” I cut in. “We don’t need to traumatize the popstar with my digestive history, thank you.”
Lucy made a weak sound that might’ve been a laugh. “Too late. Visual is already there.”
Aurélie smirked. “I had to get ahead of the sob-vomit. Equal embarrassment.”
The words slipped out of me before I could catch them. “You know exactly what that sob-vomit was from,” I said quietly. Fuck. Apparently, my filter was gone.
The look she gave me was sharp enough to cut through the hangover fog. A warning. A reminder. And underneath it, something like resolve.
“You’re right,” she conceded, voice softer now. “I do.” She swallowed, then glanced around the island at Ivy cocooned in her blanket, at Marco clutching his mug like a relic, at Kimi steady and silent, at Lucy blinking owlishly between us. “Which is… probably why we should tell them.”
My stomach churned uneasily. We hadn’t spoken to anyone about it except a doctor we consulted virtually.
Aurélie rolled her lips together as the energy in the room shifted.
The machine hissed. The kettle rumbled. Outside, a gull shrieked. Inside, four hangover-fogged brains tried to catch up.
Ivy was the first to react. She groaned and hauled the blanket completely over her head like a turtle retreating into its shell. “Oh my God,” came her muffled voice. “I feel like this is just going to keep getting worse.”
“Thank you,” I said dryly. “Love that glowing vote of confidence.”
Her head popped back out, mascara smudged and eyes bloodshot but very, very awake now.
“Not you,” she said. “The situation. I came here because Marco’s big mouth leaked your location, and now Luminis is sending a company official and medical professionals on a surprise wellness visit.
I thought the worst thing I’d have to deal with was a pregnancy rumor and Henric being a dick.
Now I’m helping harbor a billionaire pop princess” Her gaze flicked between me and Aurélie.
“If there’s more to it than that, I’m going to need… so much more coffee.”
Pregnancy rumor?
Marco winced. “In my defense, I only told one person where you were,” he said. “I did not realize that it was going to make it back to Henric or anyone at Luminis.”
Kimi sighed as he poured a cup of coffee before returning to his spot of leaning against the counter.
“You talk too much,” he said. “I’ve warned you about this before.
That your big fucking mouth was going to bite us all in the ass someday.
And now look.” He gestured flippantly at the group.
“Both Luminis and Vanguard drivers, under one roof and an incognito international sensation. That’s at least five headlines waiting to happen and a ruined holiday for the soon-to-be newlyweds.
I hope you feel like the dickhead you are, mate. ”
Marco’s face fell, guilt and remorse flooding his features, and part of me sympathized with him. It was an honest mistake, but it did impact a lot of people… us more than anyone else.
Especially my fiancée, who’d gone pale and wide-eyed at this revelation, but hadn’t said anything.
I rounded the island, grabbed Aurélie’s shoulders, and hauled her to her feet.
She fell into my arms like her knees had decided to clock out, and I steered us toward the counter, one hand firm at her back.
I grabbed a clean mug, filled it with coffee, and wrapped her fingers around the ceramic, rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades while the steam curled up around us.
“Wait. You both knew Luminis was sending people?” Lucy asked slowly, looking from face to face. “Like… official people?”
Ivy nodded, pushing the blanket back from her hair with one hand.
Crisis mode settled over her features like a familiar mask.
“Yes,” she said. “They’re flying in today.
Henric wants a full workup. There are rumors you’re pregnant, Frenchie.
Someone leaked something about your behavior after Silverstone, the public started picking you apart, and you know how fast this shit spreads.
I tried to get in front of it, shut it down, but it kept snowballing.
“Which is how Dom got looped in,” she continued.
“He had to start preparing for potential blowback on you, Scottie, in case the narrative turned into ‘Fraser knocked up his rival and derailed her season’ on top of everything else. Especially because he still doesn’t know about your retirement talk.
” Her mouth flattened. “The Luminis board apparently has ‘concerns’ about liability if Frenchie gets back in the car after break without—” she made air quotes that looked like they physically hurt “—‘clarity.’ So they want to confirm before they sign off on you racing again.”
Lucy’s eyes went huge. “That’s not legal,” she breathed.
“Welcome to motorsport,” I grumbled.
“No. Welcome to motorsport as a woman,” Ivy sneered.
Aurélie stared at the marble for a second, jaw clenched, hands white-knuckled around her mug. Then she set it down very carefully and straightened her spine.
“Okay,” she said. “Alors. Here’s what we have already.
” She ticked points off on her fingers. “One: Marco leaked our location.” He made a wounded noise.
She ignored it. “Two: Luminis is sending a doctor under the guise of caring about my health, but really because they want control over my uterus. Three: everyone on the internet has decided they are entitled to speculate about my body like it’s a public stock. ” Her brow furrowed. “And four…”
She glanced at me.
For a second, it was just her and me in that kitchen. France. The countryside. The bathroom. The blood. The way she’d collapsed against me and sobbed about the pain, and then the way the world had gone red.
I nodded once.
“Well, to clear things up,” she said quietly, looking back at the others, “there was a pregnancy. There isn’t anymore. I—we—lost it.”