Kimionly shrugged, tipping his drink toward me. “If you're looking forAurélie, you won't find her here.”
I stilled. It wasn't what he said. It was how he said it. Casual. Easy. Like he already knew I'd been looking for her.
I should've denied it. Should've shrugged it off like it didn't matter. But instead?—
“Where is she?” I asked before I could stop myself.
Kimicleared his throat to hide a snicker, clearly enjoying himself. “Flew home. I figured you knew.”
“Why would I know?”
Then he gave me a look, one that sent my stomach straight into my fucking feet.
Marco snorted. “Because you've been acting like she lives rent-free in your head since the fucking podium.”
Fuck you, I wanted to snap, but he wasn't wrong.
I turned back toKimi, something strange growing and unfurling in my chest. “She just left?”
“She didn't want to deal with all this,”Kimisaid, motioning vaguely at the crowd. “Said she wanted some quiet. The vineyard's good for that.”
I nodded like it made sense, like it didn't bother me way more than it should.
The vineyard her family owned. Her brother, Étienne, talked aboutit all the time. Right. That's where she was headed now. Far from this. Far from me.
I took a long sip of my drink, the burn of the whiskey barely registering as my grip flexed tighter around the glass.
I needed to get my fucking head on straight before Shanghai.
And the fact thatKimiclocked me looking for her?That was a fucking problem, because if she was already in my head this obviously after one weekend?
Then I was utterly, completely fucked.
The estate wassilent when I arrived home late the next night, the soft glow of the lanterns lining the cobblestone drive guiding my way. The familiar sight of the sprawlingDuboisVineyard, with its rolling hills of grapevines and the faint lavender haze in the distance, brought a wave of nostalgia and calm. I parked the car and stepped out, the crisp French air enveloping me, carrying the faintest hints of grapes and lavender.
I didn’t announce my arrival. It wasn’t necessary. My family would be asleep at this hour, their faith in my independence and routines unshakable. They didn’t even know I’d be home tonight. It was an impulsive decision to come back this quickly.
I slipped into the house, the comforting creak of the grand oak door welcoming me back. The quiet hum of the estate at night wrapped around me like a blanket.
The wine cellar beckoned as I made my way downstairs. TheDuboisVineyard’s pride and joy lay neatly displayed: bottles ofPinotNoir, Chardonnay, and the estate’s signature blend,Soleild’Or, a sparkling wine with a hint of lavender. Alongside them sat collaborations with local creameries—wine-infused cheeses, lavender brie—and lavender honey produced byneighboring beekeepers. The family’s influence extended beyond wine; theDuboisname was synonymous withartisanalluxury.
I selected a bottle ofSoleild’Or, the chilled glass smooth against my palm, and grabbed a crystal wine glass. Pouring myself a generous amount, I carried it to the east terrace.
The large terrace overlooked the lavender fields, their silvery-purple hue glowing faintly under the starlight. This had always been my favorite spot—a place where time seemed to stand still. It was magical, enchanting, dreamy.
I sank into one of the cozy outdoor chairs, wrapping a blanket around my shoulders, and flicked on the gas heater. Its soft warmth pushed away the cool night air, letting me finally relax.
The stars were impossibly clear tonight, scattered across the dark canvas of the sky, and for the first time since the race, I let myself breathe. The exhaustion I’d ignored all week threatened to pull me under, but I fought it off, savoring the peace this moment offered. I snapped a quick picture of the wine bottle and glass against the backdrop of the terrace and posted it to my personal Instagram with a simple caption:Home.
A notification buzzed almost immediately. A like. Then a comment.
@cal_fraser19.96: Beautiful view.
I stared at the notification,my lips twitching into a small smile despite myself. Of course he’d comment. And of course I didn’t know what to make of it. Maybe he meant the vineyard. Maybe he meant something else.
My thumb hovered over the screen. Respond? Ignore it? Say something flirty? I typed a reply—just a simple, cheeky emoji—but then deleted it. I set my phone on the table beside me and took another sip of wine instead.
Inside, the house remained quiet as I made my way upstairs, the soft groan of the wooden floors the only sound accompanying me. Mychildhood bedroom was unchanged, a time capsule of the girl I used to be before I became the woman standing on the Formula 1 grid. Old trophies lined the shelves, framed pictures ofÉtienne’sand mykartingdays hanging alongside posters of racing legends.
