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 thestart 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.”
