“Exactly.” His hand slipped into my hair. “I branded myself with the truth,” he continued. “Because I knew—before you ever knew me—I was always going to be yours.”
I was in his lap before I could think better of it, tears threatening and pulse pounding. I kissed his ink, he kissed mine, and in what was becoming our comfort zone, we didn’t say anything else. Just held each other, because that was all we needed.
“I know,” I finally responded.
And I meant it.
The wind wasgentle that morning. Not quite a breeze, not quite a stillness, but enough movement to rustle the linen curtains as I curled tighter into Callum’s hoodie in an attempt to escape this hangover from hell.
My legs were bare, tucked sideways beneath me on one of the cushioned outdoor loungers. His sweatshirt was too bigand smelled like sunscreen and sleep and something deeper—something intimate. Like belonging, marriage.
My fingers traced the edge of my mug, still warm between my palms. The waves crashed gently in the distance, rhythmic and slow. Our phones were on the wicker table between us. My sunglasses were perched too low on my nose. Neither of us had spoken in twenty minutes.
Not because there was nothing to say.
But because there was nothing that needed to be said.
We’d branded each other. Not just with rings and vows, but with ink. With names. With permanent reminders that even when we fucked everything else up, we found a way back. And this time, we were staying.
I glanced sideways. Callum was stretched out beside me on the second lounger, feet bare, hair messy, arms crossed behind his head. One tattooed bicep flexed slightly when he turned toward me, lips curved in a lazy, satisfied smile.
Husband.
Mine.
I sipped my coffee. He reached for his tea. And then one of our phones buzzed. We both ignored it. Then another buzz, then both phones simultaneously, then the iPad on the table lit up.
One by one, they blew up, and not like a normal burst of texts. Like a tsunami of alerts. Group chats. Missed calls. Screens lighting up with notifications so fast I couldn’t read them. I reached forward and picked mine up.
BBC Sport Breaking: FIA President Under Fire After Leaked Internal Files Show Pattern of Retaliation Against F1 Drivers
Trending on X: #ScandalInSilverstone #JusticeForAurélie #FraserFiles #FIALeaks #MorelsBadMorals
Email Inbox: 192 unread
My chest tightened.I sat up straighter. “Callum…”
He was already grabbing his phone. “What the fuck?—”
Before he could finish, the sliding glass doors behind us slid open. Ivy emerged, bare-faced and wild-haired, wearing the smuggest, most hungover expression I’d ever seen on a human.
Marco waltzed out behind her, shoulders shaking like he was trying to contain a laugh. Kimi followed, scowling as he shoved Marco’s shoulder. Lucy brought up the rear, sipping something in a coconut and wearing a sunhat bigger than her entire torso.
They looked as rough as we felt.
“Your timing is impeccable,” I grumbled.
Ivy took one look at us—half-dressed, sun-dazed, blinking through the chaos—and grinned.
“Surprise,” she said. “As a gift for your nuptials. You’re welcome, by the way.”
Callum stood slowly, brows furrowed. “What did you do?”
“Oh, nothing too crazy.” Ivy draped herself on the lounger he’d just vacated, winking at me and then wincing. “Leaked the files.”
Marco threw up his hands like a game show host. “Everything Reinhardt gave us. Every single goddamn document. No redactions.”
“They’re calling it the Fraser Files,” Lucy added helpfully, scrolling on her phone. “Which, by the way? Iconic.”
