Chapter 22 - Aurélie
I woke to the weight of Callum… and everything else emotionally.
His body was wrapped around me like a second skin. His breath warmed the nape of my neck, slow and steady. One arm cinched tight around my ribs, fingers curled over my side as if he’d fallen asleep mid-promise. His thigh pressed between mine. A shackle made of love.
I didn’t move. I wasn't even sure if I could.
My body was sore in all the worst ways. Not just bruised and fucked-out.
Not the kind of ache I could wear like a badge.
This was… deeper, hollow. My limbs felt waterlogged and heavy.
My spine throbbed from the beating it had taken from my car.
My stomach cramped with a sharp, bloated pressure that warned me it was far from over.
Every breath felt like it came at a cost.
The sheets were damp with sweat. Or blood. I wasn’t sure, and honestly, I didn’t want to look.
Everything was hazy and slow, like wading through molasses. My brain still slurred from the Vicodin I’d taken God knows how long ago. My eyes burned. My tongue felt like sandpaper. I was stuck somewhere between sleep and waking, somewhere between then and now.
But the memories bled through anyway.
The meeting with Reinhardt. The hotel valet. The fight. The rain. The blood.
I squeezed my eyes shut, bile creeping up my throat.
Something was wrong. Still wrong. I didn’t know if it was my body or my brain or the bleeding that hadn’t slowed. But I knew this wasn’t peace.
This was the eye of the storm. The part where everything was too quiet. The part that came before the next wave hit.
Callum shifted behind me, arm moving slightly to pull me tighter, and pain lanced down my side.
I flinched. “Fuck—ouch.” It came out hoarse and strangled.
His hand stopped instantly. “Shit, sorry. What’s wrong?”
“Everything hurts,” I rasped, blinking back the sudden sting of tears. “Literally everything. My back, my stomach. My legs feel like I ran a marathon and then got hit by a truck.”
A beat.
“Might be the sub drop.” His voice was husky, thick with sleep and rough around the edges.
I stilled. “The what?”
He hesitated. “Submissive drop. It’s a… crash, basically.
A come-down. After intense…” His voice trailed off.
“Sessions, I guess? Can happen to both people, but especially the submissive. You go through something emotional and physical and your body just… kind of shuts down for a bit. Hormones, adrenaline, endorphins, all of it drops off.”
I blinked slowly, processing that. He shifted again, just enough for me to glance back over my shoulder. His eyes were still soft with sleep, his hair a chaotic mess, voice scratchy as hell, but he looked worried. Like he’d been waiting for this, maybe even bracing for it.
“You did research?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper.
His brow creased. “Of course I did. I needed to make sure I took care of you right.”
Something cracked open in my chest.
I stared at him for a long moment. His eyes held mine. Tired, earnest, steady. Still tethered to me even after everything. And somehow, the knowledge that he’d done this—that he’d looked this up, studied it, prepared for it—made something molten bloom beneath the ache.
I reached back blindly, fingers seeking his under the covers. He caught them, no hesitation.
"You’re feeling it too?" I murmured.
He chuckled and pressed a featherlight kiss to my mouth. “Like I got turned inside out and left out to dry.”
I breathed in slow. "Yeah. That sounds about right."
Callum shifted again, pushing up onto one elbow, the duvet rustling as he rolled me to my back. He lifted one of my bruised wrists—carefully, reverently—and brought it to his mouth. His lips brushed the inside of it, soft as breath.
“We’ve had a few intense days,” he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion and concern. “Not just last night. Austria fucked you up. Silverstone fucked you up. This whole goddamn season’s been an avalanche.”
His mouth pressed there again, right at the fluttering point of my pulse.
“And now this,” he added quietly, nodding toward my stomach. Meaning the blood, whatever it meant.
My eyes prickled, but I said nothing.
“You need to take it easy, mon c?ur,” he whispered, dragging his thumb over the spot his lips had kissed. “Let your body rest. Let your heart breathe. The three week break starts now, so use it.”
“I don’t know how to rest,” I rasped, because it was the truth.
He smiled sadly. “Then I’ll teach you.”
Something splintered in my chest. My throat ached from holding back the sob that wanted to crawl up, but I blinked hard and let him guide my wrist back down between us, tucked into the space where our bodies met under the covers.
He laid back down beside me, close but careful, and I felt him watching me. His hand grazed my lower stomach—just above the cramps, not pressing, just hovering there in silent empathy. A placeholder for comfort.
“Still hurting?” he asked after a long pause.
“Yeah,” I whispered. “Not just from the drop. It’s… everything.”
“I know.” His voice was raw again. “I’m here.”
I sighed. “Only for a little bit. I have to get to Paris.” I turned my head to look at him. “Tu vas me manquer.” I’ll miss you.
His thumb traced the back of my knuckles.
“Not as much as I’ll miss you.” A tired smile ghosted his mouth, and he rolled onto his back with a low exhale, staring up at the ceiling.
I knew that sound. It was the one he made when his mind was already two days ahead, chewing on things he couldn’t quite say yet.
I waited for him to be ready to talk about it as we laid there together. My eyes closed, and I wasn’t sure how much time passed before I cracked them open again. When I glanced over, I saw the faint glow of his phone screen.
“What are you looking at?”
He flipped the screen toward me. “Mercer emailed.”
That woke me up a little more. “From Reinhardt’s contact?”
He nodded. “Late last night. Just saw it now.”
I squinted at the screen. There were two emails—one from Maverick Mercer, and one from Beckett Lachlan. They were short, sharp, and strategic. Investor speak and real-world consequences, coded just enough to skate plausible deniability, but the message was clear: the door was open.
One that kept him in the sport beside me.
From: Maverick Mercer
To: Callum Fraser
CC: Beckett Lachlan
Subject: Initial Conversation
Date: 3:12 AM CET
Callum,
I was referred to you via Victor Reinhardt, who spoke highly of your integrity and influence in the Formula 1 community, not just as a driver but as an advocate and overall spokesperson of the sport.
I understand you're navigating a number of transitions right now, both personal and professional. Beckett and I would like to meet privately to discuss what might come next for you, should you choose to step back from the grid.
Beckett may have already mentioned that my wife and I are preparing to invest in Orion GP (new name TBD), pending final review from her ongoing investigation into the company’s leadership, history, and employee backgrounds.
Since this is a new venture for us both, we’d feel more confident moving forward with the right partners in place.
Should you choose to invest or advise, your insight and presence from on and off the track could prove invaluable.
We have a few initial models for ownership restructuring. If you’re open to it, I’d like to walk you through them and hear your priorities firsthand.
Let us know if you’re available to meet while you’re still in Europe. Beckett’s flying in this week. We can make time.
—M. M.
From: Beckett Lachlan
To: Callum Fraser
CC: Maverick Mercer
Subject: Schedule + Strategic Discussion
Date: 8:42 AM CET
Fraser,
Mercer looped me in. We’re aligned on this. There’s a path forward here, but it’ll take strategy, discretion, and the right people in the room. You’d have skin in the game, not just a title. Not just for show.
I know this is personal. I know Morel made it personal. But that doesn’t mean we can’t flip the script. If you’re ready to talk, I’ll be in Geneva Tuesday and Wednesday. Mercer’s schedule is flexible. We’ll find a room with no press and see if this makes sense.
Cheers,
Beckett
I swallowed. This was the part we’d only half-discussed. The maybe. The theoretical future. The we’ll-figure-it-out-together. After everything Reinhardt told us, this was one of the few paths forward that didn’t immediately lead to collapse for one—or both—of us.
“Do you think you’ll go?”
He gave a small shrug, taking his phone back and dropping it on his chest. “Yeah, I think I should hear them out.”
I nodded, slow and steady. “Okay. What happens after that?”
He looked at me then, soft and unreadable. “I don’t know.”
And for once, that didn’t sound like a warning. It just sounded honest. I loved it.
“Alright.” I rolled over and pressed a kiss to his shoulder, doing my best to ignore the protest of my body.
“Alright?” He sounded surprised. “That’s it?”
I just giggled. “Yes, Cal. I’m not asking for you to have it all figured out. I’m asking to be included in the conversation. I want to be part of this decision with you. Even if it’s just letting you talk it out.”
He stared at me like I’d just opened the sky with my bare hands. “What did I do to deserve you?”
My heart flipped. I scrunched my nose and murmured, “Tu m’as trouvée dans la tempête… et tu n’as jamais laché ma main.” You found me in the storm… and you never let go. “You stayed.”
His throat bobbed. Then, without missing a beat, he huffed a crooked grin.
“Christ, you’re such a romantic, baby.” He made a mock-swoon sound and clutched his chest.“How am I supposed to be a brooding sex symbol when my French revolutionary girlfriend keeps saying shit like that? I have a brand to uphold.”