Chapter 186 Aurélie
aurélie
Sometimes I forget how to breathe without her. And when I do remember, it hurts. –Callum
The windows were down, and for the first time all day, I could breathe.
The wind tangled through my hair as I journeyed further south, letting the sun-warmed, salt-tinged air rush through the car and sweep everything else away. Just for a moment, it worked. No blood. No test in my pocket. No grief heavy in my throat.
Just the open road and the prominent scent of salt and pine, the purr of the engine beneath me.
I kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting out the window, catching sunlight between my fingers.
The sea wasn’t far now, its pull familiar, magnetic.
My ribs ached, but not just from the cramps, but from holding everything in.
I watched dark, dense clouds gathering on the horizon. They felt like a mirror of my own body—heavy, churning, weeping. I couldn’t tell if they were coming toward me or if I was headed straight into them.
Finally, I turned off the main road and onto the long gravel drive.
The tires crunched, slow and steady, up the private path that carved through a grove of olive trees and wild rosemary. Cypress lined the edges like sentries, tall and quiet. The house emerged at the top of the hill, and my heart fluttered. Not with dread this time, but something akin to hope.
It was just as I remembered, nestled among tall grasses and wildflowers that would be overgrown by the end of summer. Four bedrooms, two floors, and so much character it could write a book of its own.
A stone facade the color of warm sand weathered by time, with ivy creeping up one side and a slate roof stained darker from the rain.
Shutters painted the faded green of antique wine bottles.
A wide porch, partially covered, wrapped around the front of the house.
Garden beds flanked either side of the walkway, still bare but brimming with potential.
A weathered lion’s head knocker stood guard on the thick wooden door.
Beneath every window were matching planters carved from limestone, overflowing with lavender and pale blush peonies, their petals still damp from the earlier rain.
The scent wafted faintly even from the steps, fresh and familiar.
Like… my life before Callum and after Callum.
Lavender for the girl I was before him. For the quiet ache I carried alone, for the nights I learned to endure instead of dream.
Peonies for the life he gave me, even when I was bleeding our life out of me.
The thought was sobering, painful enough to steal my breath, and I had to look away, had to keep moving. The test was still in my pocket, but I couldn’t look at it again. Not yet, not here.
To the left was the detached four-car garage. That had sealed it for me when I toured the property the first time. It had concrete floors, tall raftered ceilings, and reinforced storage. I could rebuild an engine there with no problem. I could rebuild myself there, if I wanted to.
This wasn’t some marble palace in Monaco or soulless penthouse in Paris.
It was better.
A fenced yard sprawled out to the side, with nothing but woods and old trails spilling beyond the property line. The sea was maybe a quarter mile away, tucked behind the trees, always close. Always roaring.
I pulled up beside the porch and cut the engine.
Packages were stacked neatly beneath the overhang, parcels I’d half-forgotten I ordered. Some decorative shelves. A set of dishes I didn’t need, but wanted. Accent pieces, cookware, a floor lamp I’d fallen in love with at a boutique in Lisbon. Rugs, new linens, furniture that didn’t come assembled.
Things meant to make this place feel like home. Seeing it all piled there, the cardboard softened by coastal humidity, sent a strange wave of pride and nausea through me. It was proof that I’d been planning for this even while the rest of my life burned.
I stepped out of the car, gravel shifting beneath my trainers, and stared up at the house.
My house. My first home.
The silence was deafening but welcome. The movers hadn’t arrived yet; neither had my siblings. It was just me and the walls that would come to know me.
I climbed the steps, brushing my hand along the railing, the wood worn smooth by years of salt air.
A lockbox hung on the ornate bronze doorknob.
I entered the code and flipped the lockbox open, fingers brushing the keys.
They jingled faintly as I slipped one into the door.
The latch clicked open, and I paused, just for a breath, before pushing it wide and crossing the threshold.
The inside was cool and still, filled with the scent of limestone, rosemary, and wood polish.
The creak of the floorboards was the only sound.
I let the door drift closed behind me and stepped deeper into the space, heart thudding.
Without thinking, my fingers reached for the light switches, illuminating the space one area at a time.
To the left of the entry was the kitchen.
Warm, earthy tones bathed the space in comfort.
Muted terracotta tile, butcher block counters, a soft clay backsplash.
There was a long center island with a breakfast bar, and high-end stainless steel appliances gleamed under the soft overhead lighting.
A small bay window overlooked the front of the property, garden beds visible just beyond the glass.
To the right was the formal dining room, technically its own room, but only half-enclosed, with wide archways that opened it up to the entry and living room beyond. It had space for eight but intimacy for four, with wide French doors that opened onto a stone patio covered in ivy and bougainvillea.
Past the far edge of the kitchen, stood the staircase winding up to the second floor. Behind the staircase, a narrow hallway led to the primary bedroom with an ensuite and a soaking tub I’d already dreamed about.
My hand brushed the edge of the banister as I rounded the kitchen island and passed the staircase. Just ahead was the living room, where I paused to take it all in.
A stone fireplace flanked by empty built-in shelves waited for photos and stories of a life worth telling.
The cream-colored walls soaked up the soft daylight filtering through the abundance of windows, casting a gentle glow across the floors.
Someone had opened a few windows after cleaning—maybe the seller’s agent—and now the space lived and breathed. The sheer curtains left behind fluttered with the breeze, casting faint shadows across the floor like moving lace.
Through the windows at the back of the house, the view unfolded like a dream.
The property stretched for several acres, the first of which was enclosed in a chestnut wood fence, weathered to a soft silver with age, giving the backyard a sense of quiet privacy rather than confinement.
Plush green grass blanketed the ground, dotted with sprigs of white clover and wild violets.
Beneath the back windows, flower boxes spilled over with more lavender and star jasmine, the blooms tangled like a secret kept between lovers.
Beyond the fenceline, dirt trails wove through low stone markers and into a thicket of French woodland—old oak, wild laurel, and pine. Trails I could run, walk, or ride for hours. Trails that led not just through the land, but into the kind of silence that could heal.
The quiet wasn’t an absence of anything. It was breath and hope and yearning. The kind that fills a place waiting to be lived in.
I spun in a slow circle, letting my eyes roam the open layout. High-beamed ceilings. Delicate molding around the corners of the ceiling. Arched doorways connected each room with fluid ease. The hardwoods carried markings of lives past, polished and preserved.
This house was old, but had so much character. Flawed, imperfect, and real.
It wasn’t perfect. But it was mine. And right now, it was the distraction I needed from what my body was going through.
The signing bonus from Ferrari had made it possible—something I’d justified as both a reward and a retreat. I’d told myself it was for solitude. Recovery. Rest.
But deep down, I’d imagined more.
I’d imagined holidays. Music playing in the kitchen, laughter echoing off the walls, dirty shoes by the back door. A life built slowly, carefully. Maybe not right away. But one day.
I hadn’t let myself want that before. Now I couldn’t stop seeing it.
I saw it with Callum.
With whatever life we chose to have; kids or no kids, racing or not racing, weekends spent hiking those trails or stretched out on beach towels with sand stuck to our thighs. Maybe building a pool in the back someday, hosting dinners with string lights overhead.
Late-night talks over tea. Meals prepped in the kitchen with music playing low. Breakfasts shared on the patio, still in pajamas, hair messy, toes bare.
Sitting outside, stargazing or listening to the sea. Thunderstorms watched from the couch, curled beneath a blanket, fire crackling beside us.
Not perfect. Not performative. Just… ours.
A home. A safe place. A future.
The movers arrived not long after I’d finished wandering through the house, their boots thudding across the porch as they began to unload the truck.
I signed where they pointed, smiled where I needed to, and kept my body moving. It was easier that way. Easier to stay in motion than to think about what was sitting in my hoodie pocket in the primary bedroom.
In and out they went, taking boxes to their respective rooms. I stood in the middle of the living room, surrounded by stacked parcels and half-opened boxes, and swallowed a Vicodin dry. Not the full dose the bottle called for, but enough to dull the sharper edges of the cramps tearing through me.
I should’ve rested or unpacked the essentials, but I couldn’t bring myself to sit still. Instead, I worked.