He sat up, scrubbed a hand over his face. “I swear, Aria. Nothing happened.”
She looked at him—really looked. The worry in his eyes. The way his hand reached for hers like he was afraid she’d pull away.
She wanted to believe him.
But the doubt was there—small, sharp, stubborn. A tiny voice whispering:What if this is still justfor show?
She swallowed it down.
“I believe you,” she said quietly.
He exhaled—relieved, shaky—pulled her into his arms.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured against her hair. “I should’ve shut it down faster. Should’ve left sooner.”
She nodded against his chest. “It’s okay. We’ll handle it. Statement or something. It’ll blow over.”
They stayed like that for a long minute—his hand stroking her back, her cheek against his heartbeat.
She didn’t tell him the rest.
That the photo stung more than it should have.
That part of her still wondered if this—whatever it was—was real for him, or just the easiest way to keep the sponsors happy.
She just held him tighter.
And hoped the doubt would fade.
Because right now, in this bed, with his arms around her and the Montreal sun spilling across the sheets, she didn’t want to let go.
Not yet.
???
Chapter Twenty-Two
Jax
Silverstone week arrived like a storm front—low clouds rolling in over Northamptonshire, the air thick with the smell of wet grass and anticipation. The British Grand Prix always carried extra weight: Union Jacks everywhere, the ghosts of past races at the old circuit. Jax had been building momentum since Montreal—P1 there, then P2 in Austria after a flawless defence in the closing laps. Leading the championship, only a handful of points ahead. Every weekend felt like another brick in the wall he was building toward the title.
But the high never quite landed.
He woke early Sunday morning—race day—jet lag still clinging, body clock refusing to fully sync to UK time—and checked his phone out of habit. A missed call from Nan. 6:42 a.m. her time. She never called this early unless something was wrong.
He called back immediately.
She answered on the second ring, voice thinner than he remembered, but still carrying that same stubborn warmth.
“Jaxon.”
“Nan.” He sat up, sheets pooling around his waist. “Everything okay? You called early.”
A small pause—too long. Then she exhaled, soft and tired.
“I know it’s race day today, love. I wondered about calling. But I decided you’ve got this. You always have. And I need you to know how proud I am of you. So proud. Watched every race since Melbourne. You’re flying out there. My boy’s finally showing them what he’s made of.”
He smiled despite the knot forming in his chest. “Thanks, Nan. Means a lot.”
