But God, it still knew how to hurt me.
The memory cracked open before I could stop it.
It had been cold in that office. Not physically—there’dbeen enough heat in the air to suggest something had just happened—but emotionally? It was ice. His cologne still lingered. So did the scent of liquor and skin and sweat.
I stood there, in the fresh wake of infidelity—if it could even be called that because we were just a tryst, and why should another woman matter?—staringat him across a desk I used to feel wanted on. Now it felt like a slab between a predator and prey.
His parting words were crystal clear.
“You’re too much,Aurélie,” he said. Dismissive. Harsh. “Demanding. Dramatic. Always needing something. What were you expecting from this? That I’d take you seriously? You’re a distraction, nothing more. A convenience.”
My chest tightened, the first fracture forming like a hairline crack in a carbon chassis. I didn’t speak. Couldn’t. I just stood there, choking on disbelief.
“You try so hard to be perfect. Smile, body, performance. But it’s exhausting. You’re exhausting. You’ll never be enough.” My hands curled into fists, nails biting into my palms. “You’ll never beÉtienne.”
Fuck. That blow landed.
“You’ll never be good enough. Not on track, not off it. You’re just some loud little girl clinging to relevance because your twin stole the spotlight. The extra kid no one wanted.”
My throat closed up, choking me on my own shame.
I didn’t cry until the door slammed behind him.
Not until I was alone.
The memory began to fade, bringing me back into the present where I found myself pacing as if I were physically reliving the moment. When I finally blinked it away, my chest ached, panic converging down like it was a personal mission, but I steadied my breathing.
It still hurt. Even all these months later, his words tried to root themselves in my skin, sinking like hooks into flesh. But I dug my nails into the cool porcelain of the sink.
No. Not tonight.
He doesn’t get to live here anymore. He doesn’t get to own this. That man? That past? It had no claim over this present.
Not whenCallum’svoice was still echoing in my ears, filthy and reverent.I haven’t tasted you yet.
I wasn’t going to shrink. I wasn’t going to fold. Not again. Instead, I clung to the challenge in his words. I was a competitive spirit, after all.
If he wanted all of me—he’d get it. But on my terms.
I peeled off the rest of my clothes, one piece at a time. Not rushed or ashamed. I folded my skirt and kicked aside the ruined tank top. A final glimpse in the mirror told me I was raw, but I wasn’t broken.
Not even close.
The door creaked as I opened it, the cool air biting my bare skin. I stepped out slowly, my pulse hammering again—but not with fear.
He wasn’t where I left him.
Callumsat at the edge of the bed, shirtless, head bowed over his phone. The screen cast soft light across his face. He looked up as the door clicked, and when his eyes landed on me, the phone dropped from his hand without a sound.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t so much as move. Just stared.
“I didn’t know you spoke French. I thought you were just throwing it around earlier,” I said, breaking the silence. My voice was steadier than I felt. Measured. A little breathy. A little defiant.
His mouth curved. Not his usual smirk—a warmer smile.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he replied, his smirk softening, and then he cleared his throat. “I’ve lived in Monaco for years. Felt it was worth knowing the language.”
My heart tumbled.
