I laughed, too blissed-out to care. “You say that like you’re doingmea favor.”
He peeked at me, smirking in that cocksure way that made my pussy flutter from the moment I met him. “I am. You’re welcome.”
“Menace.”
A beat passed. My heart swelled so hard it hurt.
“So that’s a yes to the elopement, then?” he said it so quietly, as if he wasn’t sure if that’s what I meant by all thisnot waitingtalk.
I turned my head to face him. Grinning. Glowing. A little ruined. A lot in love. “It’s ahell yes,Fraser.”
He didn’t lunge this time. He just grabbed my left hand, brought my ring finger to his lips, and murmured against my skin, “Then let’s make it happen, Dubois.”
Aurélie didn’t knowI was watching her. Not at first.
She’d gotten distracted trying to untangle a necklace, pausing halfway through rubbing sunscreen on her thigh. Her brows pulled together in the kind of concentration that made her bite the inside of her cheek. We were meant to leave for the trailhead fifteen minutes ago, but I couldn’t bring myself to say a word. Not when she looked like that.
Not when she looked like mine.
I leaned against the doorframe of the bedroom, still towel-drying my hair. The villa smelled like saltwater and her lavender body wash. She was perched on the edge of the bed, tan legs bent, sunscreen glistening along the curve of her calf. That stupid little gold anklet she got when we went shopping our first day here with the cherry charm winked at me every time her foot flexed.
God help me.
I stopped counting the hours after the third or fourth day. The sunrises blurred into sunsets, and the moon seemed to rise earlier every night. We were so blissfully removed from reality here, it felt like the universe had slowed down just for us.
Somewhere between lounging in the sand and fucking against every hard surface this place had to offer, we’d looked up marriage requirements in Greece, too. Eloping in Milos wasn’t simple—it involved a lot of paperwork and a joint mailing address. But we didn’t care; we were figuring it out. We had time. And now… now I couldn’t help but soak in every glorious day, realizing the peace I’d gained in all our decisions. The future didn’t scare me. Itexcitedme.
And somewhere between Googling officiants and arguing over which beach had the softest sand, we started talking about everything else. Next steps. Residency. Where we’d live. What “home” meant when you had three passports between the two of you, a penthouse in Monaco, a country house in France, and jobs in different countries.
We’d joked that getting married would be the easy part.
It was everythingafterthat had us mapping out legal paths over breakfast, lying on the floor with my laptop open and her leg draped over my back as we half-argued about which country was the bigger pain in the ass.
“You already have dual citizenship,” she’d said, nose scrunched, eyes still sleep-heavy. “Scotland and Monaco. You’re a walking diplomatic immunity loophole.”
“And you’re half French, half brat.”
“Brat is not a nationality.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
We’d laughed, but the truth was, it mattered. Not just for our future—though that was at the center of everything now—but for the logistics. The paperwork. The addresses. The part where we actually had to tell the governmentsomething.
I was still sorting things with Beckett. He’d given me full flexibility, said he didn’t care if I worked from Monaco or Milan or Mars, so long as I showed up for board meetings in person and kept the team steady while they rebuilt. We were still locking down where Speed Demons Racing would be headquartered. I knew he wanted it in Switzerland, but Orion’s old offices were still in Silverstone, and I wasn’t sure what the final call would be. Either way, I’d have a home office and a standing desk, and if I had to fly a few times a month, I’d do it. That was the deal.
Aurélie, on the other hand, was headed to Italy next year. For the first time inherlife, her career would take her out of her home country. Ferrari was everything she’d fought for, offered to her on a silver platter with her name already etched in the center.
So we were moving in together. No more only seeing each other during race weeks or stolen moments in the paddock. We’d be married, and that meant this was full-time. For real. But whose place, and whose country, would becomehome?
She could keep French residency without issue because of the country house. Easy. Or she could apply for Monégasque citizenship. Which was harder to get, but not when you were married to someone who already resided there permanently.
“Technically,” I’d said last night, skimming a website as she painted her toenails beside me, “you’d be eligible for expedited Monaco residency once we file the marriage paperwork. You’d have to establish legal residence for at least six months of the year.”
“So we keep both places,” she suggested. “We can alternate between the penthouse and the country house. Split it down the middle. It’s not like it would be difficult seeing as they’re less than an hour apart.”
“It would be dual-country domestic bliss.”
“You just want to keep fucking me in luxury tax brackets.”
