Chapter 15 - Callum
The whiskey didn’t help.
It was good whiskey—warm, sharp, expensive—but it didn’t do a damn thing to calm the thoughts clawing their way through my skull.
Ivy was sipping some blood orange Aperol spritz she’d insisted on modifying with a lime instead of the usual orange slice because she “wasn’t a peasant”.
Kimi and Marco were passionately debating the correct gin-to-tonic ratio like it was a moral issue.
Aurélie had a tall glass of water in one hand and the corner of her mouth tucked up like she was trying not to smile.
I’d taken my muscle relaxer an hour earlier, but now I was wishing I’d taken a second.
Because she was still in that dress. The safest of all the options, and yet it had done nothing to quell this uncontrollable desire racing through me. Like what had happened between us last night had unlocked something in me that had been dormant. This bone-aching arousal and soul-deep possession.
And of all things, she was in black. Not navy and gold like her Luminis attire.
Not white or pale pink or anything sweet and girlish that matched her press persona.
No. This was dangerous. This was don’t-fuck-with-me couture.
That plunging neckline, the twisted waist that accentuated every inch of her.
The way the hem rode up and the slit parted just enough when she crossed one leg over the other.
Her bare thighs pressed together, muscles taut.
She looked like something off a Vanity Fair cover and out of a goddamn wet dream at the same time.
And it was getting to me.
She was chaos wrapped in whatever the fuck that soft fabric was.
This wasn’t the version the cameras got, the one the sponsors could sell.
This was for us. For me. For whoever she decided was lucky enough to see it.
And I was seconds away from dragging her back to the bedroom and undoing the knot on that dress with my teeth.
“—so I said if you don’t want your nuts scraped off like cheese on a grater, don’t comment on my tits like that again,” Ivy declared, swirling her drink as if she was some kind of mob wife.
I blinked, dragging my attention back to the room.
Aurélie eyed my drink closely, likely calculating how much I was consuming.
I wanted to assure her I’d learned my lesson when she snatched my sake from me and scolded me for mixing prescription pills with alcohol.
But I was only on one now, and the dosage was lower, and I think that knowledge alone gave her some peace of mind.
Marco was sprawled on the couch like he lived here, shoveling trail mix into his mouth by the fistful. “Can’t believe that’s a real sentence you said to an actual billionaire,” he said. “God, I missed you.”
Ivy gave him a smug little smile. He gave her one back, and I glanced at Aurélie just in time to catch her biting back a grin.
We knew what that look meant. She glanced at Marco, then back at me, lips twitching with something warm and knowing.
I matched it, because yeah, I saw it too.
That look between them that basically confirmed everything she and I talked about earlier.
“Technically,” Kimi cut in from the desk without looking up from his phone, “he’s only a billionaire if you include crypto. Which I don’t.”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re pretty close though,” Ivy added, eyes sliding to me. “Right, Fraser?”
“Am not,” I muttered, frowning down at my glass. I hadn’t poured much because of my meds, but suddenly I wished there was more.
“An eight-hundred million dollar net worth doesn’t count as close?”
Aurélie made a choked sound across the room, nearly toppling over as she bent to strap on her heels. “Je suis désolée. How much?”
I sighed. “One hundred and seventy-five thousand off net is still quite a bit, Sinclair.”
Marco gawked. “You basically make that in a year.”
“Oh, to be Formula 1’s highest-paid driver of all time,” Kimi said with a grin.
Aurélie was still frozen, one heel in her hand and her mouth hanging open. “How. Much?!” she hissed.
I smirked, lifting my glass. “Want me to say it slower, baby?”
Ivy cackled. “Your family’s already loaded and somehow you’re still managing to marry into even richer. That’s real talent.”
Marco raised his eyebrows. “Does that make her a gold digger? Or a platinum one?”
“We’re not getting married,” Auri cut in, cheeks flushed. “Not anytime soon.”
“Oh please,” Ivy said, waving a hand. “You’re basically common-law married after last night.”
Aurélie picked up a throw pillow from the chair she was on and threw it at Ivy. “I told you that in confidence, you bitch.”
Marco barked out a laugh. “Malina’s literally planning the wedding,” he teased, referring to my mum who was, in fact, doing just that. “And what, you think if Fraser put a ring on it, Dubois would say no?”
Kimi didn’t even look up from his phone. “She wouldn’t just say yes. She’d mount him in front of a live studio audience and then thank the viewers for coming.”
Heat sparked low in my gut as I glanced over at her. She was still on the chair, flustered and flushed, one leg curled beneath her in that dress like a black fucking dream. Our eyes met. And she gave me that look.
That goddamn look.
The one that said she’d do exactly what Kimi just said. Maybe not on camera, but definitely somewhere she shouldn’t. A balcony. A stairwell. The back of a team garage. I’d let her. I’d worship her for it.
“Christ,” I groaned. “Can you all at least pretend you weren’t raised by wild jackals?”
Ivy batted her lashes. “What if I was? You don’t know my life.”
Auri pinned me with a look. “Our friends are feral and need God.”
Marco made the sign of the cross. “Not news. I’m a proud member of the Catholic church and an even prouder believer in the sacred act of confession—especially when it involves roleplay.”
Ivy turned so red, she almost dropped her spritz. As much as she liked to pretend otherwise, subtlety when it came to Marco was not her strong suit. She lifted her glass, voice husky as she murmured, “Forgive me, Father, for I’m about to sin.”
Marco coughed into his drink. “Christ, Ivy—”
She grinned, wicked and unrepentant.
I glanced at Aurélie. She was already looking at me with a smirk that said they’re not the only ones who sin in silk. My girl. Always two seconds from drama.
Kimi snorted. “I just saw a tweet with a still from the Orion garage when Callum went after Morel. The lighting was weirdly cinematic. And Dom? He looked like a protective guard dog. People are calling him Daddy Dom now.”
I froze mid-sip.
Daddy Dom.
Fuck.
Aurélie had purred that exact phrase to me not even twelve hours ago, all breathless gratitude and glossy-eyed wreckage. Thank you for your cock, Daddy Dom.
I did not need this right now.
Ivy choked.
Aurélie choked harder.
I glanced at Marco. Marco glanced back. The moment lasted one second too long.
Wait.
Did he know something? Did Ivy? What the hell did Aurélie tell her?
Realization dawned on Marco’s face before he deadpanned, “Did you tell him your nickname, or is that just divine intervention?”
I didn’t respond. Just raised my glass and took a slow, deliberate sip of whiskey, letting the silence speak for me.
Truth was, I didn’t mind. Let the world guess what kind of man I was behind closed doors.
They didn’t need to know that half the time, Aurélie had me on my knees metaphorically—or literally—and the other half of the time, she had me undone.
They definitely didn’t need to know how sacred it felt to be with her in every way I could.
That when it was just the two of us, we broke every rule we made up for the world to follow.
Aurélie covered her face with both hands.
“Okay, okay,” Ivy interrupted, clapping her hands before stealing a croissant from the room service tray that had been delivered while the girls were in the room getting ready. “Business time. We’ve got roughly”—she checked her watch—“an hour before the GPDA dinner. So. Let’s talk optics.”
“Oh, goody,” I muttered, tossing back the last of my drink.
“First of all,” she continued, fully in PR-goblin mode now, “the crash footage has officially gone viral. Every angle. Every slow-mo. Every dramatic fan edit set to Hozier. Congratulations.”
Marco raised a hand. “Is it wrong if I ask for links?”
“Yes,” Ivy retorted. “But I’ll send them anyway.”
She spun her iPad around and showed us the latest headline:
IS F1’S HOTTEST COUPLE ALREADY SPINNING OUT? TROUBLE IN PARADISE FOR DUBOIS AND FRASER?
I groaned. “Fucking hell.”
Kimi leaned in, squinting. “Where’d they get that photo?”
“From the pit lane,” Ivy replied. “You flipping off the cameras, Aurélie yelling at Callum, Callum grabbing Morel. It’s giving Bonnie and Clyde. But like… make it F1.”
Aurélie sighed. “That was not part of the plan.”
“That was before the plan,” I corrected.
She scowled at me, hazel eyes glittering with mirth.
Ivy snapped her fingers. “Focus, you two. No eye-fucking before we leave for dinner.” She turned to Aurélie.
“This is good, Frenchie,” she said brightly.
“Dramatic. Fiery. To the world, it proves you’re not faking anything.
Not the fight. Not the crash. Not the fact that your team forced you to keep driving a sabotaged car while your sport let Morel coast without so much as a slap on the wrist. And definitely not the fact that your car, and Morel, are dangerous to the rest of the goddamn grid.
That doesn’t make either of you a villain.
It makes you the only ones with integrity. ”
She clicked again, spinning her iPad toward us again like she was running a TED Talk. “And better yet, the FIA just scheduled a follow-up meeting with us during the break.”
Aurélie’s perfectly shaped brow arched. “They did?”
“Yep. A teleconference in a week and a half during the Silverstone to Belgium gap. They want to talk ‘driver cohesion strategy.’”