The chapel was small, wood-panelled, the kind of place that held voices close. Sun streamed through stained glass in soft reds and golds, painting the pews like dying embers. Days before Christmas, the air carried the faint, sharp scent of pine from wreaths hung outside—reminders of holidays Nan would never see.
The pews filled slowly at first: Nan’s bridge club ladies in neat cardigans, tissues already crumpled in their hands; Mrs. Davies from next door, eyes shining; the night-shift nurse who’d held Nan’s hand until the end.
Mia, Lucas, Dana, Eddie, and Etienne sat with Aria. Mia’s face was already streaked, her quick smile replaced by something fierce and tender. Lucas kept his hand steady on her lower back, jaw locked. Dana sat beside them, arms crossed tight, eyes blazing as if she could stare grief into retreat. Eddie was right next to Dana—quiet, head bowed. Etienne sat beside Eddie, the two Ascari drivers shoulder-to-shoulder, solemn, no rivalry in sight, just respect when it counted.
Marcus and Claire sat directly behind them. Marcus quiet in his crisp dark suit, stillness carrying weight. Claire with hands folded, gaze steady. They anchored the row, leading the Ashworth team that stretched out behind them. Mechanics in unfamiliar dark suits sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with engineers, strategists, data guys. They filled the back half of the chapel without fanfare, heads bowed, hands clasped or resting on knees—there because Jax was family, and grief didn’t need explaining.
Robert and Lena took seats a row further back, near enough to Aria for silent support.Aria sat among her friends, heart hammering, tears already tracking down her cheeks before the service began. She hadn’t let go of Jax’s hand until he walked to the front.
Jax stood beside the simple wooden casket. No flowers—just that one framed photo of Nan: young, laughing, arms wrapped around a teenage Jax after his first real win, both of them glowing like the sun had decided to stay.
The celebrant spoke gently, briefly. Then Jax stepped to the microphone.
He looked out at the faces—old friends, chosen family, the Ashworth crew filling the back like an anchor—and something inside him steadied, even as his throat burned.
“Nan—Evelyn—would hate this,” he began, a cracked laugh escaping. “All these people crying over her. She’d tell me, ‘For God’s sake, Jaxon, someone put the kettle on and stop snivelling.’”
A ripple of soft, wet laughter moved through the room, fragile but real.
“She raised me after my parents died. I was thirteen, furious at everything. Nan didn’t try to fix me. She just… stayed. Burnt theporridge because Mum used to make it with honey. Drove three hours each way to karting meets in that rattling old Holden, thermos of tea was mandatory, cheering louder than anyone on the grid. When I brought home that first cheap plastic trophy, she polished it like it was solid gold and set it on the mantel. ‘Your parents would be proud, love. So proud.’”
He paused, swallowed hard, eyes glistening.
“She taught me how to lose. She taught me how to win—quietly, no spotlight needed. And she taught me how to love—without scorecards, without conditions. His gaze found Aria in the third row—tears shining on her face, but her eyes locked on his, steady as an anchor. She gave the smallest nod, the one that said I’m here. Keep going.
“Near the end, when the doctors were all ‘rest’ and ‘no more travel,’ she made me promise something. She told me ‘I want to see you raise that world championship trophy, Jaxon. Before I go. I want to know you did it. For you. For them. For me.’”
His voice cracked, quieter now, almost like he was telling her again.
“I told her I’d try. She said, ‘Don’t try. Do it. And when you do, you lift it high and tell everyone it’s for your Nan.’”
He took a shaky breath, eyes distant for a second.
Someone—maybe one of the mechanics—let out a quiet, choked sound.
“I drove that race for her. Every lap. Crossed the line first. When they handed me the trophy on the podium, I lifted it high—just like she said. ’”
He looked down at the casket now, voice dropping to a raw whisper that somehow filled the whole chapel.
“She got to see it. In person. Because she fought to be there. Because she never stopped believing I could.”
He steadied himself, throat working.
“Nan told me that strength isn’t never crying. It’s letting someone hold you while you do.” He glanced briefly at Aria again, then back. “She was right.”
“I love you, Nan. Thank you for raising me. For teaching me. For staying when it was impossible—and for showing up when everyone said you couldn’t. I’m going to keep driving—fast, but smart. And I’m going to keep loving—properly, all the way. Because that’s what you showed me.”
He stepped back. The room held its breath.
A song rose, fragile. A prayer. Then it was done.
Outside, under the bright summer sun, people came to him in waves—hugs that lingered, quiet words that meant everything. Mia held him longest, murmuring something only he could hear; he nodded against her shoulder. Lucas clapped his back hard, eyes wet. Dana pulled him into a fierce, wordless embrace. Marcus, Claire, Eddie, Etienne—they each came in turn, hands on his shoulder or a brief clasp of his arm, silent nods that said we’ve got you.
Aria waited at the edge until the crowd thinned. When the last person stepped away, she walked straight to him.
He pulled her in without a word—arms tight, face buried in her hair. She felt the shudder go through him, the quiet sob he’d held back all day.
“She’d have loved that speech,” Aria whispered, fingers threading through his.
