epilogue - callum
He was my forever. –Auri
Final race of the season.
Final chance.
Abu Dhabi.
Aurélie Fraser—my fucking wife—was leading the championship by ten points.
I exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over my jaw as I stood in front of the screens, my eyes flicking between the live telemetry, the timing sheet, and the onboard camera from her car.
It was always there. Always.
I monitored our own drivers, too, of course.
Had been for the entire season, every session, every moment of this fucking wild first year in the paddock as a team owner.
Speed Demons Racing had exceeded every expectation—a rebranded rookie team that had taken third in the Constructors’ standings in its debut season.
Our drivers were sitting fourth and fifth in the World Drivers’ Championship.
A strong fucking year, one that made me feel safe about our investment into our future.
But right now none of that mattered.
Auri was on track, and I wanted this for her more than I had ever wanted anything for myself.
She had clawed her way here. A woman in a sport that never wanted to make room for her. A rookie turned title contender. The only female driver on the grid.
And she was about to make history—again—as the first female champion in F1.
I clenched my jaw as I listened to her engineer. Fifteen laps to go. She was still leading. Marco was behind her. They were only ten points apart.
He had to win this race to have a shot at the title. And if he did? Auri had to finish second to secure it.
I glanced at the timing.
Kimi was third, but close behind. If he won this race, Auri finished third, and Marco second, then he would win the title.
The rarity of this being a three-way title possibility was unlike anything I’d ever seen before. And of course, my wife was making it look easy. God, she reminded me of me.
I exhaled slowly, watching as the feed flicked between different angles.
Ferrari vs. Vanguard Racing.
Her scarlet red car against their black and red ones.
A fight between the woman I loved and the team I had built my entire career with. Marco, my former teammate and best friend, against Aurélie, my whole fucking world.
And here I was. Not behind the wheel. Not in the fight. Watching.
I thought it would kill me. I thought stepping away from racing would break me at some point.
But fuck—watching her race like this? Watching her push, her skill razor-sharp, her focus absolute, her talent undeniable, her confidence at its peak?
It felt better than winning ever had.
"Come on, baby," I murmured under my breath, my fingers gripping the headset.
Beckett Lachlan—one of the other two owners of Eclipse GP—was standing a few feet away with our attorney, Cade Saint, and Maverick Mercer watching our drivers. Our number one driver was in fourth place for the championship. Zayn Moreau.
The man I had fought to get into this sport.
He was fast. Arrogant. A fucking menace off the track. But when he was in a car? He was something else. A former IndyCar champion, a two-time Le Mans winner, and an absolute wildcard.
Zayn had been my top pick for Speed Demons, despite the media circus he came with.
And he was proving why.
But not at this very moment. Now, my eyes were locked on Auri. The woman who had wrecked me and turned my life upside down in every possible way.
Seven laps to go.
She was still leading, but Marco was gaining two-tenths every lap.
His tires were newer, hers were on their last fucking leg. She fought for grip, but was losing speed. Her team was talking to her, telling her the gap between her and Marco, but she didn’t respond.
She was locked in, and her focus could not be broken right now.
My heart slammed against my ribs, but I didn’t move, let alone breathe.
Lap 54 of 58.
Marco was within MOM range—the replacement DRS system.
"Fuck," I muttered.
The Speed Demons garage was silent. The whole paddock waited with bated breath.
Even the broadcasters weren’t speaking.
I glanced toward the Ferrari pit wall. étienne stood there, arms crossed, focused on the screens as he watched his twin sister in the fight of her life.
Lap 56.
Marco went for the overtake.
Auri covered him.
Lap 57.
He tried again.
She shut the door.
One more lap.
My grip on the edge of the counter was so tight I swore the metal was going to bend beneath my fingers. I could feel my wedding band squeezing my finger the harder I gripped.
I’d been here before. Fighting for a championship. Chasing the dream, the glory, in peak competitiveness.
Except this time, I wasn’t fighting for me. I was fighting for her. And God, I had never wanted to win more.
My pulse pounded.
She was still ahead.
"Come on, love, come on, come on," I whispered.
Final lap.
The lights of Abu Dhabi flashed overhead, the night sky a blur as she threw the car through the final few corners, her rear slipping, Marco right on her tail.
And then the checkered flag waved, and she crossed the finish line in P1.
Aurélie Fraser was the 2026 Formula 1 World Champion.
For a second, there was nothing.
And then carnage began.
Fireworks went off. The radio exploded. Her engineer screamed. The team lost their minds. The French anthem blared over the speakers as the crowd erupted. Her hands came off the steering wheel for a few moments as she slowed down on the grid, a broken sob coming through the radio.
I didn’t wait.
She’d fucking done it.
I ripped my headset off, pushed past Beckett and Maverick, past the engineers, past the cameras.
I needed to get to her, so I took off running like a man possessed.
By the time I reached the Parc Fermé, she was already out of the car.
Helmet off—the same one she’d worn during Abu Dhabi last year. The replica of mine, but instead, it was redesigned with scarlet red. Her hair was damp, her braids hanging all the way to her waist.
She was laughing, crying, absolutely fucking glowing, celebrating with her team.
And when her eyes met mine—she ran straight to me.
I caught her, lifting her off the ground, holding her against me as she wrapped her arms around my neck.
"Callum," she gasped, laughing against my ear. "I fucking did it."
My throat was too tight. I buried my face in her neck, holding on to her like I would never let go.
"I know, baby," I whispered, my voice wrecked. "I know. I always knew you could do it."
Her arms tightened around me.
"You're the champion," I said, pulling back to look at her. “You’re a world fucking champion, Auri. I am so proud of you.”
She was still breathless, still shaking, still the most incredible thing I had ever seen in my fucking life. I framed her face with both hands, my thumb sweeping over the damp curve of her cheek, and kissed her.
This was her moment, but she was still mine to claim.
Her hands slid into my hair, pulling me closer, stealing my breath, my soul, my fucking heartbeat. I heard someone—Kimi, probably—shouting something about champagne on the podium.
I heard her team cheering, screaming, losing their minds. I heard her family. Her brother and sister, her parents. My parents. All here to celebrate the best fucking season to date. I heard Marco.
But all I could feel was her.
All I could think was, I love you, I love you, I love you.
Then she was being swept away, blowing me kisses as she was ushered into interviews and post-race celebrations. Next thing I knew, I looked up and she was on the podium.
She had climbed all the way to the top. This was her moment. And this time, no one could take it from her. Not the media. Not the stewards. Not the weight of what came after her first win. This one was hers in every way.
She threw her head back as the French anthem played, lips parted on a breathless laugh, and lifted the championship trophy in both hands—arms shaking, eyes shining, her own legacy sealed in scarlet and steel.
And I knew, without a shadow of doubt:
This was her grid now.
The same track where last year she beat me during my final race, where we grieved the end of one era while celebrating the start of a new one. The one that crowned me once, belonged to her now.
Our names next to each other in history books. Same last name, different legacies, different records.
At her side was Marco, tears in his eyes, furiously swiping at them as if he was trying like hell to pretend they weren’t there.
Ivy stepped up next to me in the crowd, grinning through a sob. “She did it.”
“We always knew she would,” I responded.
Because the girl we all believed in?
She fucking did it.
I wiped at my own eyes and laughed under my breath, heart breaking open all over again.
I had known for a year that I wanted to give her a proper wedding, but in this moment, it wasn’t about vows or public declarations.
It was about her.
Her fire. Her grit. Her rise.
Tonight she didn’t need a pedestal or a partner. She was the victory. She was the dream.
And tomorrow—she’d wake up as a world champion. I’d take her hand quietly and casually, give her a pale pink dress to wear for unknown reasons.
Then I would walk her into the surprise reception I planned behind her back. She thought I’d forgotten, that maybe I’d wait until our five-year anniversary to do anything formal. But I’d been planning this for months.
Everything she ever said she wanted—every little detail, even the ones she thought I wasn’t listening to—was waiting for her.
The flowers. The music. The food from that tiny bistro in Monaco that we both loved.
A candlelit terrace, champagne, the people who mattered most. Marco.
Ivy. Kimi. étienne. Our teams. My parents. Her family. Everyone.
All of them already knew.
Because I didn’t need to say my vows again. I just needed to show her—like I always would—that I remembered.
That I built something for her.
That I made space for her name to live on, not just in the history books, but in every corner of my fucking life. In this sport. In our marriage. In me.
This wasn’t another wedding.
It was a promise, already fulfilled.
Because she was already mine. And I had always been hers.
But that was tomorrow. Tonight, I let the whole world fall in love with her.
Just like I did.
Since Spa. And now we’d have forever, too.
Both as legends in this sport, but most importantly, as the winners of each other’s hearts.