“It’s not about shoes,” she said, eyes glittering. “It’s about discretion.” She raised our joined hands, twisting her wrist so the kitchen light caught on the ring. The diamonds threw fractured sparks across the marble and the front of my shirt. “You are not allowed to post about this until we say so.”
For a heartbeat, there was nothing.
Then the world detonated.
“YOU—” Ivy’s voice cracked straight through professional and into high-pitched girly squeal. She slapped a hand over her mouth, eyes already glassy. “You absolute assholes,” she managed, half-sob, half-laugh.
Marco let out a noise so loud the glasses practically rattled. “I FUCKING KNEW IT,” he yelled, then immediately shushed himself and looked around like the walls had ears. “I knew it. I knew it. Look at them. Look at your stupidly happy faces.”
Kimi just smiled, slow and sure, like the sun finally coming out after a long, shit winter. “About time,” he said simply, lifting his glass toward us. “Dubois has been crushing on you for ten fucking years, mate. Proof that manifestation works, I guess.”
Aurélie snatched the dish towel that I’d used to clean up her thighs earlier and tossed it at him.
I laughed. “Nah, mate. You’ve got it backwards. I clocked her on the pit lane first—team cap pulled low, braids swinging, studying telemetry with that laser-focus she gets when it comes to racing. Right before my F1 debut. She had no clue who I was.”
Her head snapped toward me. “Quoi?” she demanded, eyes wide. Color rushed into her cheeks. “You never told me that.”
“Why do you think I’ve also been saying ten years, baby?” I shrugged like it wasn’t the single most vivid fucking memory branded into my skull. “You were impossible to miss, even then.”
“Which team?” Ivy cut in, already desperate for our lore.
“Doesn’t matter,” I said easily, eyes still on Aurélie. “She’s mine now.”
Lucy made a sound I’d only ever heard from fans at podiums. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “Oh my GOD.” Her hands flew to her cheeks. “Sorry, I’m being weird, I know I’m being weird, but—congratulations. You guys. This is—” She actually bounced on the barstool. “This is so much better than TikTok theories.”
Aurélie’s fingers tightened around mine. I could feel the fine tremor in her hand, the way her lungs were working overtime even as she smiled like she’d been born to handle rooms like this.
I couldn’t stop looking at the ring. At the way it sat there, unapologetically bright on her finger while our friends lost their minds around us. At the way she didn’t flinch under the attention this time. At the way my name, my future, was literally shining out of her hand.
Mine, something in me said. Not the sport’s. Not the media’s. Not the narrative’s.
Mine.
“You’re all very dramatic,” I interjected, because if I didn’t talk, I might actually choke on it. “It’s just an engagement.”
Ivy burst into fresh tears. “Just an engagement?” she echoed, outraged. “I have been emotionally invested in this rivals-to-lovers slow-burn workplace romance formonths, you absolute plank. Since before I caught you two half doing-it outside that stairwell in Barcelona.”
“Also,” Aurélie added breezily, like she was mentioning dessert, “we’re getting married while we’re here. We’ve completed all the paperwork for it. So, you know. Keep your schedules clear.”
Silence. Actual silence.
Marco’s mouth opened and closed three times before any sound came out. “I—You—February,” he finally managed, jabbing a finger between us. “You met in February. It’sAugust. That is not enough time for normal people to get married. Are youinsane?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Obviously,” Aurélie said at the exact same time. She lifted one shoulder. “When you know, you know. We already did the hard parts first.”
Kimi huffed a quiet laugh into his wineglass. “You think this is the easy part?” he asked.
“We think this is the good part,” I said. “The rest of it can catch up.”
Lucy looked like someone had just handed her front-row tickets to the most unhinged romance tour of all time. “You’re eloping,” she breathed. “Like. Properly eloping. While you’re off-grid. Oh my God, the PR nightmare. Oh my God, the romance. I don’t know which part of my brain to listen to.”
“Listen to the one that’s happy for us and will not tell her parents before we do,” I said.
She slapped a hand over her heart. “Sworn to secrecy,” she said solemnly. “Cross my heart, hope to—actually no, I’m not finishing that sentence after the Cailleach thing.”
“Did you tellyourparents, Fraser?” Marco demanded, still standing motionless with wide eyes.
