Not because she said it flawlessly—she didn’t—and not because it was a phrase anyone would casually learn.No one did.It wasn’t a language spoken anywhere outside of my home country. And suddenly I understood why speaking French to her meantso fucking much.
That term of endearment was sacred. My mother whispered it when she thought I was asleep. My father said it once, grief-rough, after my grandfather’s funeral. It was a phrase reserved for the people you’d bleed for.
I had never taught her that.
And she still found it.
Her accent wrapped around the vowels, softer, sweeter, impossibly intimate.
Three languages between us. Three ways to say the same truth. Three threads binding us tighter than any vow we’d spoken aloud.
She didn’t even look back to see if it landed. I knew she knew what it meant to me when she laced her fingers through mine and tugged gently.
“Viens, mon amour.”Come, my love.
I followed her up the steps, steadier now—grounded and ready.
I didn’t care about the house. I didn’t care about how goddamn massive it was, how the golden glow of the lights spilled across the grand entrance, or how the entire vineyard stretched beyond it in perfect, endless rows.
All I saw—all I fucking saw—was her. The most beautiful woman I’d ever laid eyes on, moving with effortless grace, her pink sundress swaying with each step, her hair catching the soft evening light.
And the words she’d just spoken?
I swallowed hard. She had told me she loved me a hundred different ways. Had kissed it into my skin, whispered it in the dead of night, moaned it against my mouth when she was coming undone in my arms.
But saying it like that? In her native language? It wasn’t just words. It wasintention.
My wife had spent most of her life speaking English, adapting to the sport, to the media, to the world that never fully belonged to her. But this was who she was at her core—French through and through, strong-willed, passionate, and all mine.
I squeezed her hand, bringing our clasped fingers up to press a kiss against her wedding rings, the moment sinking deep into my bones.
Then, before I could say anything, before I could let her see how fucking undone I was over her, we reached the top, and the heavy front doors opened.
Augustin and Geneviève Dubois stood in the frame—elegant, composed, carved from the same old-world stone as the château behind them. They weren’t intimidating because of their wealth or status. They were intimidating because they were hers.
Auri’s fingers tightened around mine, a silent reassurance that it was okay and we were in this together.
And without thinking, I tightened back.
It was only when her parents’ eyes lifted toward us as we crossed the sprawling landing—sharp and assessing in a way that wassoAuri—that she subtly shifted our joined hands behind the skirt of her sundress. I caught on instantly and tucked my left hand into my pocket, letting the fabric hide the glint of the rings we weren’t ready to explain yet.
It was our secret—for the next few minutes, at least.
Geneviève stepped forward first. Her posture lengthened, smile smoothing into something soft but practiced. “Aurélie, ma chère,” she murmured, stepping forward.
Auri released my hand and kissed her mother’s cheeks, then her father’s, light, polite, and distant in a way only someone raised in formality could master. And when she stepped back, she angled herself just enough that her hand was tucked away from their calculated gaze.
“Papa, Maman,” she said, voice composed. “This is Callum.”
I refused to flinch under Augustin’s scrutiny, so I held out my right hand. “Bonsoir,” I greeted in smooth French, bowing my head just slightly. “C’est un plaisir de vous rencontrer.”
A flicker—just a flicker—passed over her father’s face. Surprise, appraisal… and something that felt dangerously close to approval. His grip closed around mine firmly, the kind of handshake meant to test a man’s spine. He didn’t squeezeharder, but he held on just long enough to make it clear he saw me. Me—not the driver, not the headlines, not the net worth.
When he released me, the tension in my shoulders eased by a fraction.
Geneviève’s eyes brightened with the kind of hopeful curiosity reserved for someone trying to decide whether a stranger is a threat or a gift. I shifted smoothly, tucking my left arm behind my back in a gesture so old-fashioned I could practically hear my mother’s approving hum—then offered my right hand, palm up, waiting.
Her brows lifted, pleasantly surprised. When she placed her hand in mine, I bowed slightly and kissed the back of her knuckles, a show of respect more intimate than a handshake but formal enough to be unimpeachable. Geneviève blinked, once, twice, her composure cracking just enough to reveal a flicker of warmth beneath the refinement. “Bienvenue,” she said softly. “Entrez, s’il vous plaît.”
