Chapter 233 - Aurélie
aurélie
I spent years trying to make a name for myself. But she’s the one who gave it meaning. –Cal
The Scottish countryside was coated in white, the kind of cold that crept into your bones and never quite left.
Snow blanketed everything—the stone cottages, the hedgerows, the single-lane roads that wound like secrets through the hills.
Everything looked like a dream. Or maybe a memory I hadn’t lived yet.
All I knew is it was like driving through a real life Christmas village.
We’d made the drive from the city in silence at first, soft music playing low while the wipers cut slow arcs through the snow. I’d never seen this part of his world, never driven this exact road, but it already felt like something I’d remember forever.
Callum’s hand gripped the wheel loosely, his posture relaxed, but I didn’t miss the way his thumb tapped restlessly or how his eyes kept flicking toward me when he thought I wouldn’t notice.
“This is insane,” I murmured, breath fogging the window as I watched the snow swirl beneath the amber glow of the streetlamps.
“You act like you’ve never seen snow before,” he teased, eyes still on the road but his smile unmistakable.
I turned to him, mock-offended. “I’ve skied in the Swiss Alps, thank you very much.”
“Oh, of course you have,” he replied, biting back a grin. “You and your little rich kid playgrounds.”
“I was good,” I said simply.
“I don’t doubt it.”
His voice held that quiet reverence again. The one that made my heart squeeze, like he still couldn’t believe I’d chosen him back.
I looked out the window again. “But this… this is different.”
He didn’t say anything, but I felt the shift in the air. The quiet attention he gave me. The way he always looked like he was still trying to memorize me, even now.
“You know, it actually explains a lot,” I said after a beat.
He glanced at me. “What does?”
“The wet climate. The endless rain and snow. The misty fog. Of course you’re good in the rain. You trained in it your whole life.”
He laughed under his breath. “Brilliant analysis, Professor Fraser.”
“Merci,” I said, chin high. “I’ll be submitting a thesis.”
He shook his head, amusement curling at the corners of his mouth.
“If we raced here, I’d still beat you,” I added casually.
His head turned. “I’m retired, love.”
“Convenient,” I said with a smug grin. “I bet I could take you in our own cars.”
He raised a brow. “You’re not racing anyone in that death trap of yours.”
I gasped. “My Porsche is a classic.”
“She has no ABS.”
“That’s part of the charm.”
“No traction control.”
“That’s what I’m for.”
He groaned and we started talking over each other—him listing every outdated spec, me defending them like a lawyer in court—until I started laughing.
Real laughter. Loud and breathless and completely unguarded.
And he just… looked at me.
Like I was his whole world. Like he couldn’t believe I was real.
It silenced me faster than anything else ever could.
Because Callum Fraser, for all his fame and ferocity, still looked at me like I was made of stardust and miracle.
And I knew, in that moment, that no matter how many races we won or countries we conquered, this—right here, in his car, in his homeland, in the hush between snowflakes—would always be the most precious thing we built.
I studied him as we passed through the village—his stubbled jaw, his profile, the little furrow between his brows as he drove. I’d seen him under podium lights, soaked in champagne. I’d seen him broken in my arms. I’d seen him make the impossible look easy.
But here… here he was just Callum. My Cal.
Raised in a place with no glitz, no glamour. Just grit and rain and wind and snow and a kind of quiet that forged steel.
And even though I’d grown up with more than enough—castles, private tutors, alpine winters—I felt the difference when I looked at him.
He wasn’t hardened by life. He was softened by purpose. He didn’t need to prove himself. He already knew who he was. And he’d chosen me—loved me so fully, so unconditionally, that I couldn’t help but fall every single day.
“You’re staring,” he said softly, glancing over.
I blinked. “Can you blame me?”
He smiled. Reached for my hand across the console. His palm was warm, rough from years of gripping wheels and holding history. I threaded our fingers together and leaned my head against the seat, eyes still on him.
“This might be the best birthday gift I could give you this year,” I said.
He raised a brow. “Me, driving us through a frozen tundra?”
I shook my head. “No. Me… loving you in it.”
And he didn’t say a word. Just brought my hand to his lips and kissed it, then kissed my wedding rings. We both knew this wasn’t just a drive. It was him showing me his humble beginnings, completely free from his chains, unashamed and proud of who he’d been and who he’d become.
I was so fucking proud of him.
The snow was still falling soft and slow when we pulled up to the cottage.
A sliver of moonlight cut through the trees, casting long shadows over the frost-covered stone. The red door was still a few paces away when it opened wide—like they’d been waiting.
Malina was the first to appear, cardigan sleeves pushed up to her elbows, a tartan brooch fastened proudly over her chest. Her dark brown hair—wavy like Cal’s—spilled down her shoulders, streaked through with silver, gleaming in the porch light.
“Oh, look at her!” she gasped, her thick Scottish accent like music, already teary-eyed as she bounded down the steps. “She’s real.”
Cal chuckled under his breath beside me. “Told you, mum.”
I barely had time to register the thick Scottish lilt before she surged forward and wrapped her arms around me. I let out a surprised breath as she crushed me into her chest, smelling of bergamot and shortbread.
“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this hug,” she whispered in my ear, and stupid tears pricked my eyes. “You’re gorgeous, hen. More so in person. My boy wasn’t exaggerating. And you’re shivering—Dougal!”
My father-in-law was already striding toward us, coat open, expression vaguely horrified as he caught sight of my legs beneath the hem of my tartan Christmas dress and peacoat.
“Stockings?” he barked, eyeing my attire like it personally offended him. “In this bloody weather?”
“I—”
“No trousers? No boots? Christ above, lass, you’ll catch your death—”
“Dougal,” Malina chided, smacking his chest lightly. “She’s dressed up for us, ya daft man. It’s her husband’s birthday and days before the holiday. Let her be pretty.”
“She can be pretty inside where it’s warm,” he muttered, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and ushering me toward the house. “Bloody hell. Frozen to the bone.”
I bit back a laugh. Cal was beaming in a way I’d never seen before and—merde—it made me fall just a bit harder.
Malina climbed the steps first, pushing the front door open. “Don’t mind him. He’s been grumbling about this weather since September.”
“She’s not wearing trousers,” he muttered, still scandalized, and God, he sounded just like Cal, just older.
This time I did laugh. Dougal released me as soon as we crossed the threshold.
Malina rolled her eyes. Cal followed us in and shut the heavy wooden door behind us. Warmth immediately hugged my cold body, and I sighed in relief. I bent to unzip my boots, and he kicked his shoes off… right in the middle of the entry.
Malina scowled down at the floor and clucked her tongue. “Christ, Callum James, would it kill ye to act like a grown man in yer own mother’s house? Shoes in the bloody middle of the floor like yer five years old again?”
Cal went wide-eyed like he’d just been hit by a ghost of Christmas past, cheeks flushing red as he scrambled to move them.
“I—sorry, I was—”
“Oh, he knows better,” she huffed, turning to me with an exasperated grin. “Used to leave muddy boots all over the cottage, swear tae God, I nearly chucked him in the burn one winter.”
I snorted, nudging his foot with mine. “Wow. And here I thought you were the tidy one.”
He muttered something under his breath and shoved his boots to the side, aiming a betrayed glare at me. “I was trying to warm you up, Mrs. Fraser. Not get publicly executed by my mother.”
I just grinned, smug as hell, and reached for his hand again. “Guess I better start preparing for a lifetime of being your maid.”
Dougal stood behind Malina, tall and stoic, eyes sharp but kind. He gave Cal a nod, then looked at me. “You’re smaller than I thought,” he grunted, but there was warmth in it. “Didn’t expect that. Not with the way you drive.”
“Don’t let her fool you,” Cal teased, stepping up beside me, fingers brushing the small of my back. “She’s larger than life behind the wheel.”
Malina gave a scandalized laugh, grabbing my wrist to pull me further inside. “She’s perfect. Come on, both of you. Dinner’s ready. And I want to hear everything.”
The cottage was old—beautifully so. You could feel the weight of history in the floors, the walls, the beams above. A place that had endured love and loss, silence and song, like it had absorbed every emotion it ever sheltered.
And somehow, I didn’t feel like a guest. I felt…expected. Loved. Welcomed.
Cal didn’t take his eyes off me once, even as his mum gushed over my tartan Christmas dress and stockings, even as his father stubbornly mentioned wearing trousers again, and even as we stepped into the dining room and I caught the gleam of something unspoken in his expression.
Like he still couldn’t believe I’d chosen him. Like I was the gift. It was awe and pride and gratitude. It was everything.
Dinner felt warm. Not just because of the cozy glow of the fire crackling in the corner, or the rich scent of roast and root vegetables that my mother-in-law had prepared with practiced ease, or the way the wine had settled into my bloodstream, making everything feel a little softer, a little slower.
It was them.
The Fraser family—the one I was now a part of.