“You’re not in the car, darling,” she teased, appearing in my periphery in the doorway, her posh English accent curling around the pet name fondly and beautifully. “You don’t have to say ‘copy’.”
I laughed. “D’accord, I don’t have to say copy. But you’ll always be my steady line, Ivy. You walked into my life like you’d been there the whole time and somehow stitched our little chaos into a family. You keep all of us in orbit. Like a mother hen witha dagger and an angel with a press badge. You fight first and hold after. You’re the one who makes sure we eat, sleep, breathe, and don’t burn down the world out of spite—even if sometimes, it deserves it.”
The old floorboards creaked under her as she stepped into the room. This was unfamiliar territory for us. Even though we talked about everything under the sun, we rarely talked about our feelings about each other. We didn’t need to, because our souls just…knew.
But today I was feeling particularly sappy and emotional. Probably had something to do with the fact that I was getting married to the love of my life. You know, just easy breezy stuff.
“You came when everything hurt, and you brought order that felt like love,” I continued, avoiding eye contact and wringing my hands in front of me, almost nervously. But really, I was staving off tears. “You turned my panic into plans, my silence into sentences. You understand my edges, my storms and you never asked me to be smaller. You made room for me, then you kept me. If Callum is my home, you are my shelter. If he’s my vow, you’re the breath I take before I speak it.
“This friendship may have started as a way for us to mutually benefit professionally, but baby, you and I were always meant to collide. Not in a crash, but more like a rendezvous. We’re the impact turned alignment, two stubborn trajectories finally choosing the same sky. So no, I don’t need to say copy. But I’ll keep saying this: merci, mon ami âme sœur. Thank you for choosing me to chase down. You’re my forever friend, the poetry in our pain, and the headline I trust with my life.”
I finally turned to look at her. Ivy wore a soft champagne slip dress that hit mid-calf. A slim satin tie cinched her waist; a thin gold chain glinted at her throat. Her dark hair was half-up in an easy twist, a few face-framing pieces brushing her cheeks. Barefeet, pedicured toes, glossy lips, the press badge swapped for a dainty bracelet with a cross on top.
Her mouth trembled, then she huffed a laugh to save us both. “God, Frenchie, can you say you love me without making me redo my mascara?” She swallowed, squared her shoulders, and went for levity. She took one breath and blinked hard, composing herself. “And okay, rude. How dare you look like a hand-painted sin?”
“Shut up, Brit. Just fix my veil and call me nice things,” I responded, laughing.
Eleni, Colette’s documentary-style photographer, hovered in the doorway with a soft smile, shooting on quiet film and staying invisible, the click of her shutter barely a whisper under the breeze.
She smoothed the tulle, tightened the comb, and pressed her cheek to mine for one long second. “Nice thing number one: you survived the impossible and then you built a life anyway. Nice thing number two: you picked the right man.”
My throat pinched. “I know,” I whispered. “God, I know.”
She swallowed, her lashes damp. “Nice thing number three,” she managed, and my eyes welled with tears, “is that I love you. I didn’t expect you. Barcelona was impulsive and you were a disaster without direction, but you are exactly who I needed. You make me braver. You let me be soft and rabid in the same breath. I see you, Frenchie. All of you. And I’m so proud of how far we’ve come from almost crashing into each other in a paddock to… this.” She let out a fragile laugh. “You’re a fucking inspiration. Everything you fight for, who you are, what you’ve endured. When I met you, I was nervous, because what if you’d turned out to be a total bitch and didn’t give me the time of day?”
I tipped my head back and laughed.
“I couldn’t have been more wrong. You have a fire in your soul that I refuse to let be extinguished, and you use it to bebetter. You gave me a chance when you knew nothing about me. You’ve changed my life, encouraged me to chase my own dreams, but most of all, Frenchie… you made a home out of chaos and set a place for me at the table, then made sure I ate.” She sniffled, dabbing carefully at her eyes. “My best friend is about to marry her forever, and that’s my favorite headline I’ve ever written.”
Colette’s voice rose from the terrace. “Positions, s’il vous plaît.”
Ivy squeezed my fingers. “You ready?”
“More than I ever thought possible.”
And that was true. I thought back to February, when I walked into the paddock for the first time as a Formula 1 driver, feeling as ready as I could be to prove my worth.
I didn’t know that within minutes, I’d meet my idol and months later become his wife.
We’d entered each other’s orbit, no warning, no mercy, unable to resist the pull. We didn’t fall in love; we collapsed into it, together and tangled. Maybe it was always going to happen that way. Not softly, not slowly, but all at once.
“Atta girl.” Ivy took my bouquet. “I’ll hold onto these. Go get your man, Frenchie.”
It felt right to save our first look for the bridal processional. But I wanted him—neededhim—before our small ceremony in front of just our handcrafted family.
So we decided to meet on the L-shaped terrace off the main building, where the stone balustrade turned a corner and framed the same stretch of sea from two angles. The Aegean glittered in tropical shades of orange and blue, and the air was thick with lavender perfume, crushed thyme, and the sweet fresh bite of olive branches.
One final moment together before we changed our lives forever. Right now, nothing was signed, nothing was permanent, but soon, it would be.
Callum gave me a love that made me feel seen, and he did it loudly, after a lifetime of being silenced in my own family. He never once flinched at my fury or my fire. He kissed the scars I tried to hide and loved me more for them.
And in return, I gave him a love that let him rest. A place to land when the race was over, a knowing that didn’t require words. My heart yearned to give him the kind of softness he never thought he deserved, but always did.
With a final, deep exhale, I grinned at Ivy and lifted my skirt. She followed me through the tasting room and out the back door, padding barefoot across the warm flagstone—olive tradition already in full effect. A camera lens shuttered somewhere behind me. I’d grown so accustomed to it being for the public eye, but for once, it was for us. For our memory. For our forever.
So I wore my heart on my metaphorical sleeve while my veil fluttered in the breeze, until I reached my wall. Ivy hung back, giving me some space to breathe.
Colette said this spot was the spiritual energy of the land, because the stone stayed cool no matter how the sun behaved. She described it like a sanctuary. A pause, a promise. Something old that kept its word.
