I remember my brother’s voice cutting through comms, thick and emotional in a way Étienne never let the world hear: “Je suis tellement fier de toi.”
I remember Marco’s voice breaking through the static, raw and ragged as we climbed out of our cars, “Allez, Bébé, fuck yes! You did it!”
Even though I’d narrowly won this title against him.
I remember slowing the car on the grid, hands shaking around the wheel, the world tilting like it was too big, too full.
And then my husband.
Two Frasers that now held titles. Two legacies becoming one.
I felt him before I saw him. I turned and spotted him standing at the edge of Parc Fermé, chest rising and falling like he’d run all the way down the paddock.
His eyes were on me. Only me. Always me.
The chaos around us blurred into white noise when I saw him take one step forward, then another, and another. Until I couldn’t breathe anymore because suddenly he came into focus.
My husband. My fierce, impossible, forever love. The man who had believed I would get here long before I did.
I didn’t remember running to him. I just rememberedflying,his arms catching me, his breath breaking against my neck, his voice shaking when he whispered, “I knew you could, baby. I always knew.”
Everything after that was colors and noise and champagne and tears.
A thousand memories. A thousand hands tugging me away for interviews, photos, cameras, celebrations, noise.
But the biggest thing I truly felt?
Him. His pride. His love. His joy for me—louder than any crowd.
Last night had beenthe best kind of chaos.
The podium. The anthem. The trophy in my hands. The champagne dripping from my hair. The weight I’d carried for years—lifted, released, bursting like fireworks above Abu Dhabi.
I won. I was a world champion.
And when the world finally quieted—when the last camera turned off, when the last interview wrapped, when the last fan chant faded into the desert air—there was a moment on the hotel rooftop where it all fell away.
And all that was left… was my husband.
Callum stood against the railing, sleeves rolled, hair a little messy from my fingers. The city lights cut sharp lines across his face, and he looked at me like he had last year in this same city, like everything he’d ever believed in was standing in front of him.
Not the trophy. Not the title. Me.
I walked into his chest and he caught me instantly, his arms sliding around me, holding me like he’d waited his entire life for this quiet.
Forus.
“Feels surreal?” he murmured into my hair.
I nodded against him. “It feels… like everything.”
He chuckled softly, pressing his lips to my temple. “You deserve everything, mo chridhe.”
And maybe it was the moonlight, or the adrenaline crash, or the way he kept kissing the top of my head like he was grounding himself with every breath, but the night blurred into warmth, into touches, into laughter, into whispered confessions between champagne-soft kisses.
Not frantic or hungry, just as at our core—whole and safe, forever.
I woke the next morning tangled in his arms, his breath warm against my shoulder, sunlight peeking through the curtains in soft cracks.
