She was the only fangirl I’d ever care about.
When the celebration ended, she slipped beneath the rail like she belonged there—because she did—and I caught her before her boots even hit the concrete.
“Still got it, old man,” she teased against my mouth, breath warm despite the cold storm around us.
I tugged lightly on the end of one of her braids, smirking. “Language barrier, love. Pretty sure what you meant was ‘my sexy, ageless husband remains undefeated.’”
She rolled her eyes, but her smile softened, blooming into something reverent. Something only I ever got to see.
Then she kissed me—hard, messy, rain-salted, champagne-sticky, victorious.
And for one second, I wasn’t a four-time world champion.
I was just a man in love with the woman who made the world worth slowing down for.
I was pretty suremy blood turned Ferrari-scarlet the second I stepped onto the track in Monza. The tifosi—known for not accepting new drivers until they’d proven themselves—had already decided I belonged to them.Ferrari’s future princess, they called me. Red banners, red smoke, red everywhere.
It was intoxicating. And when I crossed the line in P2, just behind Callum, the whole place erupted.
I found him the second we climbed out of the cars. My husband. My rival. My safest place.
Callum watched the crowd chanting my name, watched me soak it all in, pride bright and unapologetic on his face—like my win mattered just as much as his. When his anthem finished, he pulled me onto the top step of the podium with him, ignoring protocol like it had never stood a chance. We held our trophies in the air together, grinning ear to ear, red smoke curling around us like a coronation.
Later, tucked into a quiet corner of the paddock, our race suits stripped down and knotted at our waists, his forehead pressed to mine, he murmured low enough that only I could hear it.
“You’re going to fucking own this place next year,Mrs. Fraser.”
Chaos.Wet conditions. Nearly half the grid in the wall.
Baku had always been a knife fight in the rain—no room, no mercy, no forgiveness. Cars snapped sideways, barriers swallowed mistakes whole, radios crackled with weather updates and thinly-veiled concern. It was madness.
I thrived in madness.
I won. Again.
By the time I climbed out of the car, soaked and shaking, the whispers had already started. Records. History. Numbers that would land me in the Hall of Fame. I didn’t chase them carefully—I chased them the only way I knew how.
All in and flat out.
Auri survived it. P6. Smart, controlled, stubborn as hell. She called it “damage limitation” over post-race drinks, scowling into her glass like Baku had personally insulted her pace.
I didn’t argue. I just tipped my drink in her direction, pride curling warm in my chest, then leaned in and pressed a kiss to her temple.
“You’ll learn to love the carnage,” I murmured.
She huffed, softening despite herself, fingers hooking into the waistband of my jeans. “Ouais, maybe,” she said. “But not as much as I love you, mon mari.”
And somehow, in the middle of the most violent race of the season, that felt like the real win.
A nightmare race.
The heat was suffocating—even at night—and my race drink stopped working halfway through. Every breath felt shallow, every corner a fight. I pushed anyway, the way I always did.
I made it through most of the race before I clipped the wall. It was just enough to damage my suspension. It meant DNF’ing the race.
My first in a long while.
I sat in the car longer than necessary, helmet still on, hands locked around the wheel like letting go would make it real. When I finally climbed out, the lights were too bright, the noise too loud. I carried the failure with me.
