I didn’t even blink.
Now I had nothing else to prove. Because I’d already won.
The last two days had been a blur of sun and salt and soft cotton sheets. Of jet skis and beachside wine tastings. Of tangled limbs in the water and salt on my tongue and Callum’s voice in my ear when the night was deep enough that it felt like the world belonged to us alone.
We’d made love. A lot.
We laughed until we cried and then cried until we kissed.
We did touristy sightseeing in shorts and sunglasses while Lucy took a blurry picture of us holding hands like the idiotic, stupidly-in-love newlyweds we were.
We stayed offline. Ignored every message.
We let the world burn without us.
I rested my forehead to the window now, the glass cool against my skin, and let the rhythm of the rain guide me back into myself.
It was so quiet in my chest. For once, I didn’t dread what came next. Not the logistics of being married. Not the collateral damage from the leak. Not the speculative headlines. Not the dangers of racing in a sabotaged car or the heat from the media or the gossip in the paddock.
Because now… I had him.
I had Callum Fraser. The only family I’d ever need.
And the feral gremlins, of course, because somehow those ridiculous, loyal, ride-or-die idiots had become part of us too. Marco and Ivy, Kimi and Lucy—my found chaos, my sacred circle. My safe place.
The rest would come. The rest we’d fight. But it would be hope that carried us uphill now, not fear.
And when we turned down the long gravel driveway, the lantern lights blinking through the trees like breadcrumbs leading us home, I felt it all hit me at once.
This was ours. The cottage in the French countryside we were making into a home. The place we loved felt like a breath we’d been holding for years and finally exhaled.
Cal ended the call just as the tires crunched into the final bend. He reached across the console, fingers threading through mine.
I looked at him.
He grinned like a man with no regrets. “You ready?”
I nodded, my heart already pulling ahead of me, legs bouncing restlessly, ready to be inside. The storm picked up in intensity, mist curling around the car like a secret, the windshield blurred with streaking rain. As we rolled to a stop, thunder cracked overhead.
He parked, got out, and ducked his head as he rounded the front to open my door.
And I should’ve known. Should’veknown.
He leaned down, one arm braced against the frame, that fucking dimple cocky as hell in the flicker of the lantern-style lights lining the driveway, raindrops running in rivulets down the angles of his face—his temples, cheekbones, jaw.
My eyes trailed the movement, heart flipping hard in my chest.
He looked devastating like this—soaked and smug, dark curls dripping onto his forehead, t-shirt clinging to his chest like a second skin, jeans plastered to his thighs. All muscle and grin and sex god energy. A slutty little husband ready to take his prize inside.
And I had to take a breath. Had to physicallybreathethrough the realization that this was my life now.
This man. This mouthy, feral, reckless man was mine.
Not just the parts the world wanted—the fame, the wins, the wreckage—no. I got it all. The soft mornings and the storm-soaked nights. The stubble burn and the sanctuary. The smirk and the vow and the man who still looked at me like I hung the stars. The man who—despite everything—knew that what we had wassacred.
How the fuck was I supposed to survive this man for the rest of my life?
“Whatever you’re planning, don’t,” I warned, laughter already spilling out of me as I clocked the glint in his eyes.
