the little mess you made pt.1 | Toto Wolff x reader
I was missing for a while but now I have a lot of free time, this story has been wandering in my head for a while and then I decided to put it on paper, I know that the plot is extremely dubious and I apologize! It can become a part two! Leave your opinions❤️
Pairing: Toto Wolff x driver!reader, married!Toto Wolff x lover!Reader
Warnings: changes in the timeline for the story to make sense, cheating, conflict of interest, age gap (toto is in his 40 and reader in her mid 20), obscenity, angst, grammar errors
Part 2
Second half of 2015
This was wrong in so many ways, my head hurts just thinking about the shit I did. And to make my crisis of conscience even worse, I didn’t regret it at all.
He was from the rival team and that should have already made me stop, I was trading an engine with him and this should be just business. He was married, God, I just spent the night with a married man, not just crazy and adrenaline-filled sex, but amazing sex, with connection and spending the rest of the night together.
Damn, I was still in his bed with his big body stretched out behind me and hugging me.
This could never happen again, I thought to myself.
And I probably didn’t listen to myself because what was supposed to be just a single and forgotten time became more and more frequent.
Toto never said it was a mistake, he woke up and said “we shouldn’t have done that” which was accompanied soon after a brief kiss on my mouth before I decided to get dressed and leave.
I already knew the cunning and powerful Toto Wolff, just at a common level that comes with working in the same area, many hi and nods. Nothing much more than that, only when Lewis left McLaren to go to Mercedes that I started to have a little more contact with him but the words had evolved only to a hi, okay?
I was at McLaren since 2008, being Lewis’ team partner since that time, we were many good friends, best friends actually and it was an easy and fast fit. We experienced the same problems in the team, he was the first black Formula 1 driver and I was the first woman to drive a Formula 1 In the main seat , and in the midst of so many emotions and difficulties the two managed to take a world title for each of us .
Then the shitty situation came in with the Honda engine that was completely inaccurate and doubtful and cost me a season that I wanted to erase from memory compared to the previous season that had left me in second place in the drivers’ championship. McLaren needed another engine, I needed another engine and why not go back to the old supplier?
The problem was that Mercedes was not facilitating the negotiations and with the departure of several team members of McLaren everything was chaos, and communication was worse than two newborns trying to talk and so I thought why not deal with the matter with my own hands when I was one of the most interested?
The first meeting with Toto was difficult, he was hard-headed just like me and it was difficult to reach a consensus, but then throughout the numerous meetings we had whether in Brackley, in the McLaren motorhome during the races or in hotels something began to change. His stoic facade began to smile a little lightly and even make jokes.
I don’t remember when we started orbiting more towards each other, it wasn’t just in the meetings discussing a contract, but when passing through the paddock with an exchange of glances or a conversation in line to get a coffee. At some point something changed and there was flirting, calm and discreet at first like two teenagers getting to know each other until the fateful and joyful day of signing the contract, depending on the point of view.
It was something simple, to review and sign the contract in the anteroom of his hotel room, me and the McLaren team principal with Toto and a Mercedes lawyer. It was quick, two signatures on paper, a handshake, a photo to send to the media and formalize the partnership with the new Mercedes engine, a pat on the back from my team principal and then it’s just the two of us in the room. A conversation about the weekend begins, a glass of whiskey is served and in the end it is not even taken when finally one of the two decides to approach and kiss.
It’s a slow kiss, as if testing the waters, the figure of almost two meters of him leaning to my mediocre height, I stretch on tiptoe, it’s all a test, how our mouths fit, where to touch, how to hold each other.
From that moment on everything starts to progress very fast, the touches, the kiss, the two of us looking at each other deciding what to do from there and it was at that moment that we lost our minds, I should have gone out that door cursing him and calling him crazy but I stay, and shamefully call him by his name all night while holding on to him as if his body was my lifeline.
There are two cups of coffee that the service brought at some point, landing on the table between us. Waking up with him next to me doesn’t make things weird, this is the worst of all because it seems that I forget why I shouldn’t be with him, I forget that Toto is married and I had sex with him. My phone screen lights up several times and I leave the coffee aside to see the news: “breaking: mercedes will return to supply engines for mclaren in 2016” I look at the news and smile at the phone.
“It’s official” I say and turn the phone for him to see
“You and your stubbornness got it.” He answers and makes me laugh.
“I didn’t do that” I point between the two of us “because of that” I point at my phone again, wanting to make it clear that my intentions never mixed, that I wouldn’t sell myself for an engine even if it was the best.
He laughs and then answers me “I know... but we shouldn’t repeat this”
We both pretend to believe those words but they are as real as terraplanism.
The races become a game practically, the two try to avoid each other but then the proximity unites us somehow, so we are locked again in hotel rooms, muffled whispers in the middle of the paddock, kisses stolen in dark corners. I never asked about his wife, she was busy with her work in motorsport too and I didn’t want to know why she didn’t show up at the races or why he was throwing his marriage in the trash with me.
I felt guilty most of the time for being with him until I started to feel guilty for forgetting that he was married. It was easy to forget this big and huge white elephant, easy when we spent so many nights together, with sex or just lying in bed watching a movie, we went through a moment that was not only carnal we had already created a bond, deep conversations and companionship.
The trips were easier, when we went from one country to another, a stop in some small and quiet enough city to just be able to go out, without hiding and that was the worst part, a glimpse of what I would never really have.
At the same time that it was so easy to forget this situation.
Spain 2016
I wake up, the bedroom curtain lets out what would be an already scorching sun in Spain. A big and heavy arm holds me against his chest, my head is still resting there, smelling toto and the way he breathes in his sleep. I move, wanting to get up, wanting to wake him up with me. He notices and holds me more against him, trying in vain to lull me to sleep again, I turn my head to his neck and call his name, a simple whisper that he answers with a murmur only.
“Wake up” I ask him, as if during the time we were sleeping I was already missing him.
He takes his time, scratches his eyes and then looks at me, beautiful, still sleepy and crumpled hair “good morning” the thick sleepy voice answers me.
“Good morning” I answer him, leaving kisses on his face, toto closes his eyes and sighs happily, his hands pull me closer to him and pull me to his lap, my legs on each side of his hip.
“It’s good to wake up with you” he smiles at me, absorbing every moment. He kisses me, a hand on my ass pulling me closer to him, I respond to the kiss, with affection and slowly. One of his hands snakes the end of my T-shirt and touches the skin underneath, I smile against his mouth.
There are more kisses, more and more hungry for each other, I melt against his body, giving myself more and more with the simplest caress of his hands against my skin, I messy the thick strands of his black hair and when we need to breath toto distributes kisses around my neck, leaving no sensitive point behind.
I rub myself against him, looking for a little friction and feeling him hard under me already, I moan with the mixture of sensations, the pressure of his palm squeezing my ass against him.
The slightest touch is always too much with toto.
“Toto” I moan his name, he pulls my T-shirt out and his hands caress my breasts.
“Yes, Engel?” He asks smiling, very focused playing with my breasts, pinching a nipple, caressing the sensitive skin, making me increasingly hot and desperate for him and without words in my head.
He seems to understand that my brain went into a short circuit because then he says “I know what you want, Engel. I’ll give you everything” and it makes me even crazier.
I let my head fall on his shoulder, my body still looking for friction against his while I distribute kisses on his warm skin.
Toto seems fun with the state I’m in, he leaves me there playing with him and taking my time, until he loses his patience when he feels my hand wandering the elastic of his underwear. He pulls me back to himself, one hand in my hair while devouring my mouth, the other pushing the thin and wet fabric of my panties aside. He plays for a while with the humidity that is there, then he starts slow and precise movements on my clitoris making me babble something confused that seems to feed him even more, I hear him moan and then he all kisses in me and dirty talk in my ear.
“You’re so sensitive to me” he murmurs, hoarse voice in my ear as he penetrates two fingers into me, a pool of heat accumulating in my belly.
I cling to him more, I call his name more desperately, he plays with me when he sees the urgency in my eyes “do you want me to continue?” And I can just shake my head desperately to him, “please continue” I ask him, almost getting there, he smiles and kisses me.
“Was that what you needed?” He asks, seeing me fallen and boneless, breathing without rhythm and head resting on his shoulder.
“Yes, Torger” I provoke him still out of breath, I find a way to take off my panties even if it’s not charming at all and then I’m on top of him again, anxious hands pulling his underwear out “but now I need you, on me” I murmur to him.
“All yours, y/n... all yours” he sighs, and I take my time, feeling every part of him filling me and leaving me in ecstasy. I sigh in fullness when he is finally in me, toto moans looking at me with an absurd self-control while letting me do things at my own pace without rushing me.
“You’re so perfect,” he murmurs through his teeth, his voice broken by desire. My hips move with a slow but intense pace, each dive deeper than the last one.
“Y/n” He sighs my name as a prayer, his head now tilted forward as his lips meet my neck, marking the skin with soft bites and wet kisses.
It’s intense, full of caresses and moans, the bodies together almost wanting to merge with each other, the heat spreading around the room. The moviments begin to get more desperate, the rhythm stutters and when finally the orgasm comes to us there are our names echoing through the room with exhausted and sweaty bodies against each other.
“Fuck” he murmurs after a while, smiling still in ecstasy.
“Yes” I laugh with his speech but understanding the feeling.It seemed that it got better every time.
Silverstone 2016
There are two cups of coffee landing on the table between us.
“What is this?” I ask even after having read the papers that Toto had unpretentiously placed in front of me on Monday after the British GP.
“A proposal” he says smiling, as if it had been a brilliant idea, not knowing the whirlwind it was causing in me.
“Yes, I know... but why?” I ask still not understanding why he wanted this, because he was offering me this.
“Y/n? Because you are amazing, you are an excellent driver, you have just made a magnificent race in silverstone and your season is being great... you are ahead of the championship, it is natural that Mercedes wants someone like you on the team” he answers me as if everything were very normal and logical.
“You already have Lewis and Nico” I say still in shock.
“Yes, but Nico is thinking about leaving, and I can have you and Lewis as a duo, you have always been unbeatable at McLaren”
I stay quiet, looking silently at the horrible papers in front of me, mocking me, he seems happy probably thinking I’m in shock of happiness, poor guy.
“Why are you doing this?” I finally ask and he doesn’t understand where I want to go.
“You know I can’t accept it, toto” I explain.
“Well, if it’s about your contract termination with McLaren you don’t need to worry, Mercedes will cover the fine” he explains sweetly making me even more angry.
“You’re not understanding” I score and leave the chair to try to think better. “I can’t accept that, toto” I point my finger between us.
“I wouldn’t offer you this position if I didn’t think you were talented, it has nothing to do with both of us” he defends himself.
“Is it?” I reply, all the emotions that were locked up for practically a year overflowing on me, “do you think it’s fair? Me being in your garage, running with you from one side to the other in all countries and you being married? Pretending I don’t care, greeting your wife and looking her in the eyes knowing that I was having sex with you an hour ago?” I say, all possible feelings leaving, angry with myself for having put myself in this situation.
“Engel... it doesn’t have to be like that, think” he starts talking, getting up and trying to get closer to me but I interrupt him.
“I can’t... I can’t, toto” I say not wanting to listen to his arguments, I wish I could be stupid enough to accept his proposal, but amazingly I had my moments of lucidity and today was one of them.
“Okay, okay... forget this contract you don’t have to accept going to Mercedes” he says raising his hands in a gesture of peace.
“Promise” I ask “promise that you will never repeat this proposal again.”
He freezes and looks me in the eyes, almost begging me not to do this to him, a man of almost two meters destroyed in front of me. “Please, toto, promise” I beg.
“I promise” he finally says, defeated, shoulders drooping.
“I can’t do it anymore” I say after a moment of silence, a lapse of courage in my veins, we had to end this, I couldn’t be his lover all my life, we couldn’t keep playing house and pretending that we didn’t have our own lives out there.
“What do you mean?” He asks confused as if he were still in a strange dream and try to approaches me.
“We can’t continue with this anymore” I say this time more firmly and face him in the eyes, “it’s over, toto” I say, a mask of decision in my face.
My mind is filled with thoughts, was that really what I wanted? I loved toto, why not continue with this? So many whys…
“Y/n” he calls my name almost begging and I deny with my head begging him not to continue.
“Please” I ask, out of breath because at some point there is a tide of tears that I’m holding back. “Just go and we can pretend this never happened”
The words I say mock me, i think with myself please don’t go, I know I won’t be able to pretend that nothing ever happened, come on toto just laugh in my face and pretend I never said those words.
But as always he respects me, the usual gentleman he is, just nods his head still not understanding how everything turned upside down, he stops and watches me as if it were the last time he could do this freely, and it was.
“I’ll miss you,” he finally says before going.
And then it all ended, in a more wrong way than it started.
the little mess you made pt. 2 | Toto Wolff x reader
part 1
Pairing: Toto Wolff x driver!reader, married!Toto Wolff x lover!Reader
Warnings: changes in the timeline for the story to make sense, cheating, conflict of interest, age gap, angst, grammar errors, Photos used merely illustrative
My plan was to do only part two but maybe I’ll go back to a part 3, so leave your opinions and if you really want a continuation 🫶🏻
2025
Things took a long time to return to normal in 2016. On the track, it was as if nothing had really happened. I would get into the car and do what I had always known how to do, what roared in my blood, what I could do with my eyes closed. But when I got out of the car, I had to deal with reality, and that was the problem most of the time.
I no longer spoke to Toto, and more often than not I found myself avoiding him just to keep from running straight into his arms.
Life went on. The months passed, summer faded, and winter arrived carrying memories I should have buried deep inside myself.
Sometimes his words echoed in my head, and I wondered if he missed me the same way I missed him.
I won the championship that year. In 2016, I became a two-time champion. It was the first time we truly spoke after Silverstone. Toto came up to me, almost two meters of hesitation, as if he didn’t know what to do. But simplicity had always been our strength, despite everything.
He congratulated me, a smile on his face as if he truly meant it, pride written clearly in his eyes. I thanked him, happy he had come to congratulate me, happy to have that moment, happy for my victory.
That day, my conscience was finally clear enough to put a definitive end to that story.
Time passed for both of us, each following our own lives.
He stayed with his wife, they had a son, and he began a dynasty of victories at Mercedes. After a year or two, he allowed himself to stop and talk to me whenever we crossed paths, nothing special, just normal conversations, as if we could rebuild some level of friendship despite everything.
I stayed at McLaren a while longer before deciding to leave and take a risk. I changed teams, moved to another city, left London behind. I spent a vacation living on a houseboat, as if I were living inside a movie.
I kept living and being reborn. I wrote a diary, learned a new language, picked up new hobbies. Incredibly, it felt as if I could forget everything that had happened back then, how terrible my choices were, how deeply I let passion take control.
Of course, there were hard days. Rainy days when I forgot my umbrella and there was no one to place a jacket over my head. Or moments when I walked into a place and a song we used to listen to started playing or more specifically, when “We Said Goodbye” came on during a team dinner and I spent the rest of the night completely dazed.
I dated once or twice and spent the rest of the time single. It felt like the only person I had ever been ready to share my life with was Toto, and that was in the past.
Later, I saw in the news that he had divorced, but I never looked further into it. I never went after him, and he never came looking for me either.
Life went on. Time healed. I signed a contract returning to McLaren and went back to spending my days in London. I could talk to him easily now, not with the rehearsed calm I used before. Sometimes his son came to the paddock, a sweet, cheerful little boy with short legs far too fast for a child, always chasing Lewis. We would spend time together, Lewis talking to me about racing and life while I handed popsicles to Toto’s son and played with him.
So why, after all this time, had it become public?
I stared at the photos flooding every website, photos Toto had bought years ago to keep from being leaked. Photos from when we were so madly in love that we became careless.
I watched the compilation: different days, exposed to the entire world. Photos on Toto’s boat, hotel balconies, kisses inside the car, meetings on the street. The headlines grew more malicious by the hour, and I didn’t dare read the comments.
I sighed, exhausted. Judging by how things were unfolding on a Monday morning, I could already imagine the rest of the week wouldn’t be easy. I didn’t want to deal with this now. No official statements, no media, so I turned off my phone, collapsed on the couch, drowned myself in coffee, and watched How I Met Your Mother for the thousandth time, pretending the world wasn’t collapsing outside my apartment.
My peace was broken when Lewis, using that doorbell rhythm only he knew, showed up at my door. I groaned, got up, and opened it. He smiled awkwardly, trying not to show the shock he’d felt that morning, and handed me a bag from my favorite bakery. I took it from his hands and let him in.
We sat on the couch, each holding a mug of coffee, Barney and Ted on the TV. I ate a croissant while I could practically feel Lewis’s brain overheating as he tried to figure out what to say.
“Just say it,” I murmured to my best friend.
“You never talked about…” he began, unsure how to finish.
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you ever—”
“No one was supposed to know,” I interrupted, eyes still on the TV.
“I was already at merc—”
“Yes,” I continued this strange guessing game.
“And when did—”
“During the engine contract talks,” I finally explained.
“That makes sense,” he sighed, as if he had finally finished a thousand-piece puzzle.
“Has he…?” I started.
“No. At least not yet,” Lewis replied, telling me Toto hadn’t made a statement either.
“The race is going to be hell,” I said at last, throwing my head back against the couch. We were flying to the United States next week, and the media already obsessed because of my championship comeback would be completely unhinged now.
“You could always play arrogant,” Lewis suggested. “Go in and out without talking to anyone. Pay the fines.”
“I thought I already was arrogant,” I laughed.
That night, Lewis went back to his place after making sure I had eaten all the pasta he cooked. Apparently, his time at Ferrari had done wonders for his culinary skills.
When I finally turned my phone back on, there were countless notifications and missed calls from several people. But what caught my attention were Toto’s missed calls. I took a deep breath before calling him back.
“Are you okay?” was the first thing he asked when he answered.
“Yes… I just needed some time to cool my head,” I replied. “Good night,” I added, breaking the tension.
“Yes… good night,” he answered as well, and then a long silence stretched between us. “How are you?” he finally asked.
“I think I’m okay… I haven’t been outside yet, so I don’t really know how bad it is,” I said. But I knew that was just another way of protecting myself, so I sighed and answered honestly. “I’m scared.”
“What do you need me to do?” he asked instantly. He had always been protective of those he cared about, even after all this time.
“I… you don’t need to do anything, Toto,” I told him. “I don’t want to do anything either,” I sighed.
“Y/n… I’m the one most at fault in this story, so please let me do something for you. Let me at least make your life a little easier,” he pleaded.
“We’re not assigning blame right now, Toto,” I replied, understanding his desire to help but refusing it. “I just… don’t want to talk about this. No statements. No press releases.”
“We can wait. Maybe—unlikely, but maybe—by next week at the race things will calm down,” he paused, thinking. “But know that I’m one phone call away if you need me. I know how this kind of news can affect your professional life, even after so much time. Let me help.”
“Thank you, Toto,” I said, knowing he was right. It was the classic double standard, I was a woman, and the only female driver in Formula 1. Toto, beyond the great fortune of being born a man, was a team principal and co-owner of Mercedes. The media would likely pat him on the back and congratulate him.
“I’m one phone call away too, if you need me.”
The days dragged on. McLaren’s PR team and my own did everything they could to push me into making a statement, and I kept refusing while the media frenzy only grew. I didn’t want to share any part of that story. I didn’t want to pretend regret, nor reopen wounds I had carried for a long time, fueled by guilt.
Leaving the house became impossible. And when I arrived in Texas for the Circuit of the Americas, things only got worse. As soon as I stepped into the paddock, cameras surrounded me like a tide, questions fired from every direction, Toto’s name echoing in every single one. I made a mental note to request security escort for the next day.
Media day was exhausting. Ninety percent of the questions were about what it was like to be the Mercedes boss’s mistress, all of which I answered with a simple, polite smile and:
“I have nothing to say about that.”
To salvage the day, the remaining ten percent focused on the race and my championship prospects.
On Friday night, someone knocked on my hotel door. I left the data I was analyzing on my computer and went to answer.
Toto stood on the other side.
The sight of him unlocked memories eerily similar to this moment.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I said finally, stepping aside to let him in.
“We needed to talk,” he shrugged, then added, “No one saw me.”
I raised an eyebrow skeptically, every camera in the world seemed to be pointed at us. I gestured toward the couch for him to sit.
“How bad is it for you?” I asked, still standing. I slid my hands into the back pockets of my jeans, letting the cold floor cool my bare feet.
“Not as bad as it is for you,” he said, running a hand through his hair the same way he always did when stressed. “Y/n…” he started, using that tone that meant he was about to say something I didn’t want to hear. And I couldn’t help smiling at how familiar everything still felt, even after all these years.
“No,” I interrupted. I didn’t want to hear how much he wanted to help or how he planned to fix it.
“They’re circling you like vultures, Y/n. For God’s sake, let me do something.”
I sat down beside him on the couch, sighing, exhausted by the topic. All week, my entire life had revolved around headlines calling me a homewrecker.
“I just don’t want to talk about it right now… maybe ever,” I leaned my head back against the couch. “Did she know?”
“Not that it was you,” he replied, turning his face toward me.
“And your son?” I asked anxiously.
“He doesn’t know yet. I want to talk to him properly.”
I should call her someday, I thought. I should apologize to all the lives my mistake had turned upside down. The list of things I needed to do grew longer with every passing minute.
“How are the others treating you?” he asked, concerned.
“Normal,” I shrugged. “Every other driver has caused their fair share of trouble. It’s just another day for all of us.”
He laughed, and I joined him for a moment, allowing myself to relax.
“Zak is pressuring me to say something,” I confessed at last. Apparently, I still couldn’t hide anything from him.
“Then let me do something,” he insisted.
“Well, what do you want to do, Toto?” I teased, laughing. “Say you took advantage of my youth? That you seduced me?”
“If that lets you walk outside without security, then yes—I’ll say it,” he replied seriously, clearly not amused.
“Let me handle this my way.”
“You don’t have to do everything alone, Y/n… I’m in every photo with you. Let me take care of this,” he pleaded, agitated, trying to reason with me.
I pretended not to notice the hesitation in his voice, how it sounded like he almost said another word, how his mouth nearly formed you.
“Give me some time to think about it, okay?” I asked.
He nodded, even though he clearly didn’t like it.
I watched him for a moment, memories flooding my mind, memories that shouldn’t matter this much anymore. Days of pure companionship, not just carnal passion, but love. I sighed and lowered my gaze, breaking eye contact with those brown eyes that seemed capable of pulling the truth out of anyone.
“Just so you know,” he said after a long pause, “I never regretted you. Not a single part of it.”
Those words disarmed me. Because I had never regretted him either, only how it began, the timing of it all. But I would always carry those memories with me, even if in secrecy, even now that the world knew.
“Neither did I,” I said quietly.
He stood and walked toward the door.
“Tell me when I can do something,” he said before leaving.
I didn’t really need to ask Toto for help. The emotions after a great race on Sunday—and the victory that earned me first place—left me euphoric enough to answer the first reporter who chose to waste their question by prying into my history with the Mercedes team principal.
“I know I was disrespectful to Toto’s family back then, and it’s completely unfair for me to ask for respect now,” I said, my eyes shining with pure honesty, my sweat-damp hair clinging to my neck. “But I sincerely ask that you respect not only me, but the privacy of everyone else involved. I’m here to work, and there are many other things you could ask me about that don’t involve something that happened ten years ago. So I can stay and answer every question about the race and the car—or I’ll be leaving, and we’ll see each other in Mexico.”
The burst of raw sincerity worked. It seemed to calm things down, at least for a moment, even though whispers and speculation still lingered everywhere. Nicknames shifted constantly, once I had been tempestuous, on good days I was McLaren’s princess, sometimes the creator of chaos, merciless. Those labels hadn’t died, but new ones emerged: homewrecker, Mercedes’ second lady, femme fatale.
In Mexico, things didn’t improve completely, but there were small victories. I no longer needed security glued to my side, and I could travel from the airport to the hotel without paparazzi chasing my car.
It was Tuesday night, and the drivers had no real obligations until Thursday’s media day, so Lewis and I decided on pizza and an all-night marathon of 80s comedies.
“You’re not Lewis,” I said as I opened my hotel room door and found a two-meter-tall figure standing there, three pizza boxes in his hands.
“He still owes me one for ditching me for Ferrari,” Toto shrugged with a smile. “May I come in?”
“Come on, I’m starving,” I said, letting him in and taking the boxes from his hands, placing them on the coffee table in front of the TV.
“I don’t think you came here just to watch old movies with me,” I said as I grabbed two beers from the minibar.
“Can’t I want to spend some time with you?” he asked, still awkward, as if unsure how to behave.
“It’s been ten years since the last time we did this,” I replied, handing him a beer.
He watched me sit on the floor in front of the pizzas, then sat on the couch behind me, slightly to the side so he remained in my line of sight.
“I missed this,” he said after a moment of silence, while I scrolled through the options until landing on Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.
I looked at him, startled. The words he had said the last time we were together echoed in my mind.
I’ll miss you.
I would never dare ask him that. It would be disrespectful to the life he built after me, an even greater disrespect than the one I had already committed against his marriage.
“It feels like old times,” I said at last.
“Yes—except you seem to have gotten over your addiction to a place called Notting Hill,” he pointed at the TV, making me laugh. “You seem better too.”
I smiled at him, stiff and forced, because he didn’t have that right. It had taken years to purge him from my system, countless days repeating that he was never mine, so many relationships thrown away because I was searching for a version of Toto in everyone else.
“What are we doing, Toto?” I finally asked, liquid courage sliding down my throat as I opened the beer.
He stepped down from the couch and sat beside me on the floor, unwilling to keep any distance between us.
“We never really talked about us,” he explained, then took my silence as permission to continue. “The first time I saw you—the first time I really saw you—standing in that meeting room, heels on, posture like you could conquer half the world, I remember thinking: this woman is going to give me insomnia.”
“That’s a lot of sleepless nights,” I smiled, trying and failing not to melt right there.
His expression grew serious. “Yes. Many years.” He took a deep breath, never breaking eye contact.
“I never wanted things to end the way they did. Not the way it ended.”
There was honesty in his voice, a weight in his words that I understood all too well.
“I regret how it started,” I confessed. His words opened a flood of unspoken feelings. “I don’t regret what we had, but when we had it… and I feel guilty most days because sometimes, when I’m alone, I wonder what it would’ve been like if it had happened at another time.”
Toto closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if those memories carried a bitter taste that still haunted him too.
“I should have waited. I never forgave myself for putting you in that position… for making you feel like a second choice.”
He had never said that before. Never shown those feelings. Because he was always so strong, always taking care of me, I never imagined he had been carrying this for so long.
“And that day at Silverstone… when you turned down the position,” he continued, “I understood. It was the first time I saw pure courage. I didn’t want to admit it back then, but it was the right thing to do.”
“I felt cruel asking you to promise that,” I admitted.
“I know… I was selfish for wanting you to accept the offer.”
“I caught myself wondering more than once what would’ve happened if I had been stupid enough to say yes,” I confessed.
“I think you were always the smarter one between us,” he smiled proudly, making me laugh.
“That’s probably why it took me so long to come to you… or why I had to wait for all of this to come out before truly talking to you. I was foolish and I hurt you—both of us—and made things unhappy for a long time.”
I looked at him, absorbing his confession. Physically, we were still at a safe distance, but that thread, the one that had tied us together years ago felt dangerously close again, leaving our souls exposed to one another.
It felt like the first time. No, it was the first time that I, and maybe even he, were being truly honest with someone.
“I’ve never really met anyone like you, Y/n,” he continued, his dark eyes consuming mine, pulling me closer with every word. “And I don’t think I ever will.”
“Why are you saying this now?” I asked, genuinely curious.
“Because you were… and still are the woman who made me feel the most real. And the only one I was never brave enough to love the right way.”
“I don’t think I ever stopped thinking about you,” I admitted after a long silence. “Or looking for you, in some way. It’s like… everything comes back in moments like this. With you here.”
“Then let me do something right this time. The right moment, the right timing, for both of us,” he smiled, animated, as if something was finally stepping out of his dreams and into reality. “Let me take you on dates. Go out with you. Let you get to know…” He stopped, then smiled at a simple realization. “Get to know my apartment… my life.”
I held back a smile, like a child refusing to reveal her excitement before Christmas, as if I couldn’t let my guard down so easily around Toto.
As if all those years trying to erase him from my mind hadn’t been in vain.
They had been.
“This doesn’t count as a date,” I said at last, laughing.
“No, definitely not,” he smiled back, then leaned closer, as if we were about to share a secret. “So… how does your movie night work?”
warnings: Grammar mistakes, mentions of violence, Carlos is an idiot, mentions of cheating, sexual content, angst, mentions of Charles and reader.
Charles didn't know exactly at what point Carlos had fallen in love with you, but he knew that the first time he saw you in that gallery while they were talking to one of the suppliers of the sainz family that, he charles leclerc was lost. Apparently it wasn't the first time Carlos had seen you, because he soon runs away calling your name and then Charles stays there alone in the middle of so many works of art, which he would never know how to admire. Being able to see only you, the way your smile was stunning and your hair fell perfectly framing your face, you were the only work of art he could admire in that place.
That day he was introduced to you as a friend of Carlos, he felt like a small and shy child when greeting your soft hand and receiving a charming smile coming from you.
But you were Carlos's, it didn't take long for him to make the relationship official and making it clear to anyone around him that you were his girlfriend, and well Charles couldn't resent himself, Carlos was his best friend and boss and knew that the man would bring the moon to y/n's feet if she asked.
Although all the history of violence and darkness that Carlos brought with him didn't seem to match the innocent way you had, with the soft and welcoming way you treated everyone around you, and that's why Charles could never have the regret of thinking that maybe he was a better companion for y/n. Because their hands were as dirty as Carlos's, if not more.
So he was content to just admire you from afar, as if he were just a visitor in the louvre admiring Mona Lisa from afar.
You were ending his life, no woman could even be compared to you and when maybe he could think about having a relationship with someone it wouldn't seem right for the person not to have him completely, when charles could only think of you. And hell he couldn't even avoid her, not when you dated his boss, not when he saw you almost daily.
When he finally thought he could have gotten rid of the anguish of seeing you, when he thought you had left after discovering everything about the work of the Sainz family, about everything that means to be part of that family and leave Carlos, he saw her, after a few months when Carlos was lamenting the house and almost becoming a dictator. You were sitting at one of the tables on the street of a poor bar in Madrid, two friends with you, drinking beer and listening to an already drunk singer singing Alejandro Sanz melodies. The decadent appearance of the place was a strong contrast to your appearance, the sophisticated dress you wore and the heels on the tiled floor, and yet you looked charming and sad. He didn't greet you, he didn't even think about trying to make a move to you, because deep down he was happy that you had gotten rid of the legacy that would come with the Sainz family, that you could simply find a normal man who would give you a house with a garden for 3 children to run.
When you married Carlos it was as if he had been punched in the stomach, but nothing compared to the pain he felt when you were kidnapped, he felt he could have a heart attack. Deep down he knew when you got married that Carlos would move the world to make you happy, that Carlos loved her with all his soul and that he would never let anything happen to you, he knew that the now Mrs. y/ln- Sainz would be the most cared for and loved person in this world, and could be content with that.
Then the accident occurred and everything changed, he knew you were still afraid, even when he taught her to shoot and defend herself, he knew that you cried hidden in all the rooms and Charles couldn't even count how many times he controlled himself not to hit Carlos or how many times he called Carlos Sr hoping he would do something about the situation.
Charles can never deny that you were a strong person, he can never deny the indomitable strength he had in you, but he saw inside, deep in your eyes, in the depths of the armor or smile that you threw at him the same scene and melancholy he saw that night many years ago in that bar. The expensive and lined dresses, the heels and accessories just ways to get Carlos' attention again, a way to stay strong, and it broke charles to know that he could never be the one to help you, that it was not his attention and care that you longed for.
You were like a goddess to him, and if Charles could say you had more respect and loyalty in that house than Carlos. No one could help but fall for your charms, the kind way you had and the appreciation for the whole team you showed.
Y/n sainz was simply the sun on earth, and Carlos' donkey was just letting her escape through his fingers, throwing away the best thing that could happen in anyone's life with some poor thing. Charles hated to see you sad, he hated the way you tolerated everything Carlos was doing, he hated not being able to do anything about the situation and he hated even more the way that last name sounded next to her name.
So he couldn't understand until now why you went to him, too unreal for his head that you were knocking on the door of his apartment or how you took the trouble to find out where he lived.
Too unreal to know that he could have you that night when he saw so many other times you sneaking up to Carlos, when he thought how unfair it was the fact that Carlos dismissed you so easily when he, Charles Leclerc, would be at your feet adoring you the moment you allowed.
He could never have thought or dreamed in his most intimate dreams that he could have you, naked in his hands, begging and calling for him.
In some moments he found himself wondering if everything that happened was really real, if it had not been a hallucination of his or a strangely real dream. At other times he just found himself remembering how your lips felt on his, how soft your skin was and your smell incredible, he would like to be able to keep this memory forever in his memory.
And then you left again, and this time leaving a memory so lived in his mind, a farewell that for Charles would be the best thing that happened in his entire life.
Buying an illegal painting did not represent 10% of what he would like to be able to do for you after your return, seeing you in that house, commanding the business, the smile on your face again, without a wedding ring on your fingers. You belonged to that place, you belonged to that house, that family, no one knew that you just needed Carlos to be arrested for everyone to understand it, you were natural.
He can't help but watch you, sometimes he finds you in front of the Monet you loved so much, sometimes he digress with your presence while analyzing documents, just enjoying your company in the now her office, the traces of Carlos in that house being quickly removed by her orders.
Sometimes he lets his mind be a little more dreamy, Charles wonders if you would give him another chance, or what it would be like to be able to hug and caress you, be able to carry you in his arms and just dance to one of the slow songs you like.
Charles just wanted to be allowed to love you.
———————————————————————————
After a long time I came back with something that was still working in the universe of my tears ricochet, I hope you like it!
warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader, fluff, smut. unedited, all mistakes are mine.
There was a pot on the stove that kept boiling over. Just slightly. Not loud. Just that soft hiss of starch against metal, the kind of domestic sound that didn’t register until it had already left a mark.
She didn’t hear it at first.
She was folding laundry with her knee pressed against the side of the couch, a towel slung over her shoulder like it had something to say. The loft was quiet in that way it always was midafternoon—humming the floorboards, the occasional rustle of the lemon tree Harry insisted they drag inside for the winter, and the thrum of traffic seven stories down.
The water hissed again. Frances yowled in protest from her perch on the windowsill, tail flicking like a metronome for the restless. She blinked. Stood. Moved the pot. And then just…stood there. Hands on the lip of the stove, steam brushing her face like something personal.
It had been a year. Almost to the week. The wedding had taken place on a day that smelled like sea salt and rot. The kind of day that came with folded napkins and teeth behind every smile.
Lucy had walked down an aisle she didn’t own in a dress that tried too hard, and Harry—Harry had stood beside her like an act of defiance. Unshaken. Solid. Watching with his hand on her thigh, his mouth at her ear.
A year later, and she still remembered the champagne glasses sweating in her hand, the way Francesca had said, “You look like a movie star who burned down the studio,” and the way John—her John, in that unreal, tragic, strange little way—had looked at her like she was a ghost he couldn’t place.
She stirred the pasta absentmindedly. It had gone soft. Mushy, really. Harry would pretend to like it. He always did. The front door creaked open. Not loudly. Just that familiar, specific sound of the lock catching on the wood, followed by the low thud of his shoes on the threshold.
“Baby?” he called.
“In the kitchen,” she said, already scooping the noodles into a bowl.
Harry’s tie was loose. His hair wind-blown in a way that meant he’d walked home despite the driver’s offer. His coat was slung over one arm like it had betrayed him. He kissed her cheek. Barely a breath.
Then stared at the bowl. “This is a crime.”
She smiled. “It’s mushy.”
“It’s illegal.”
“You’ll eat it.”
“I’ll love it.”
And he did. Of course he did.
Ate the whole thing with the quiet stubbornness of a man who would go to war for a dish he hated, if only because she’d made it. She sat across from him, legs tucked under her, chin in hand. Watched him eat like she didn’t already know the way his mouth turned down when something was too salty, or the way he hummed slightly when something reminded him of a childhood he didn’t talk about.
He looked up at one point, eyes narrowing. “You’re staring.”
“You’re handsome.”
“I'm old.”
“You’re both.”
Harry Castillo, in his mid-fifties and no longer quite the young thing of Wall Street he'd once been called, leaned back in his chair and said, “You’re ridiculous.”
“Say that again when I’m in your bed later.”
He did not reply. But he finished the pasta. And kissed her wrist when she took the bowl away. The thing about Harry was that he didn’t lie. Not to her. Not even when it would’ve been easier. He told the truth like it cost something, but he paid anyway. Which is why the silence—lately—felt off. Not a big silence. Not a dangerous one. But a different one. Something about the way he left the office a little earlier. The way he turned off his phone at dinner.
The way he started locking the drawer of the old walnut desk they kept in the corner of the loft, the one that used to hold little more than spare charger cords and two unread novels. She didn’t think he was cheating. God, no. But doubt was like that. Slippery. Ugly. It didn’t arrive with sirens, just whispers. Just a look. A turn of his head. A glance that didn’t land.
She sat on the edge of their bed that night and stared at her reflection in the old freestanding mirror he'd bought her for no reason at all.
“You’re spiraling,” she said softly.
Frances, watching from the dresser, blinked once like agreement.
“Shut up,” she added.
Harry had started taking more meetings lately. More calls. And yet the numbers weren’t climbing. There were no new acquisitions. No press releases. Just long stretches of time he wouldn’t account for and a new, hushed kind of warmth when he came home.
It was beginning to rattle her.
Worse—she hated that it did. She was not someone who unraveled. Not someone who paced or spiraled or stared at their partner’s phone like it owed them something. She had survived a father who defrauded an entire generation of investors, who buried her under the weight of his name, who taught her that silence was safer than truth.
She did not fall apart. And yet. Harry left his watch on the bathroom sink the next morning. It wasn’t like him. The man wore it like armor. She stared at it while brushing her teeth, foam in her mouth, wondering what it meant.
By the time she padded barefoot into the kitchen, he had already made coffee. Two mugs. Hers a little lighter, with cream. His bitter as sin. She accepted the cup in silence. He kissed her temple.
Then added, “You wanna come in with me today?”
She blinked. “To the office?”
Harry shrugged. “You’re bored.”
“I am not.”
“You’re going to alphabetize the pantry again. That’s the last station before madness.”
She snorted. “You hate when I come in.”
“No, I hate when the interns flirt with you behind my back.”
“And then you stare them down. Making them run off, scared.”
“Exactly.”
He set the mug down. Looked at her. Earnest. Crooked. “Come with me.”
So she did. She changed into black pants and one of Harry's long sleeve button ups. Left her hair down. Wore the earrings her fiancé had bought her in Rome, even though they pinched.
The car ride was quiet. She stared out the window. Harry’s hand was on her thigh. Thumb brushing slow.
At the office, people paused when they entered. Everyone at his office knew Harry was with her. How could they not? The Carrie Roth article hit every part of the world. And once her problematic family was posted about online too, everyone knew her.
And here she was. She sat in his office on the couch, curled with a book she didn’t read, watching him work. He didn’t speak much. Just glanced at her sometimes like she was gravity. Like she was the reason the pen moved. It should’ve settled her.
But it didn’t. The weirdness grew. Little things. He changed the password on his laptop. He started carrying something in his pocket—tucked, hidden, checked on when he thought she wasn’t looking.
He left earlier one day and came back smelling like pine. Not cologne. Not sweat. Just...forest.
“You okay?” Maya asked over coffee the next week.
She nodded.
“Harry weird?”
“No more than usual.”
Maya blinked. “But something’s off.”
She stirred her coffee. Stared at the spoon.
“I don’t think he’s cheating,” she said quietly.
“Jesus.”
“I don’t. I just—he’s hiding something.”
Maya’s face softened. “Maybe it’s good.”
She scoffed. “Nothing ever is.”
But Maya said nothing. Just squeezed her hand.
That night, Harry came home with a new plant. For the rooftop.
“Why a rosemary bush?” she asked, watching him try to wedge it between their second lemon tree and the aloe.
“Because it’s hardy.”
“That’s a weird word.”
Harry wiped his forehead. “You’re a weird word.”
She kissed his shoulder. Later, she found him standing on the rooftop long after dark, hands in his pockets, staring up at the string lights like they were a message he didn’t understand.
She stepped behind him. Wrapped her arms around his waist.
“Tell me what’s going on,” she whispered.
Harry turned. Looked at her.
And said, “Soon.”
Which made her want to scream. The next day was uneventful. Which made it worse. She alphabetized the pantry again. Found herself staring at the junk drawer. Pulled it open. And saw it.
A small, velvet box. Dark blue. Tucked beneath a stack of contracts. She didn’t touch it. Didn’t breathe. Just closed the drawer. Backed away. Stood in the middle of the kitchen and let her heart thud against her ribs like a warning.
By the time Harry came home, she was on the couch, blanket up to her chin, a book in her lap and nothing in her head. He paused.
“Hey.”
She looked up. Smiled.
“Hey.”
He crossed the room. Sat beside her. Touched her knee.
“You okay?”
She nodded.
Then said, quietly, “I found it.”
Harry blinked. Then laughed. Not loudly. Just…relieved.
“I was going to do it tomorrow,” he said.
She stared at him. At the man who had buried empires with a line of his mouth and now looked like he was afraid she might shatter. He reached into his coat pocket. Pulled out the box. Opened it. The ring was old. Gold. Worn. His mother’s.
“Say something,” he said softly.
She didn’t. Not right away. Just…looked at it. Then looked at him. “You asshole,” she whispered.
Harry’s mouth twitched. “I know.”
“You’ve been making me crazy.”
“I was nervous.”
“You? Nervous?”
He shrugged. “You matter.”
She touched the ring. Touched his hand.
Then said, “Yes.”
Harry exhaled. Like a man coming home. He slipped the ring on. Then kissed her like salvation. Frances yowled in protest. They didn’t care.
Outside, the lights on the rooftop flickered. Inside, time folded quietly. And for the first time in her life— She believed in beginnings. She wrote it in her journal that night—beginnings—underlined once, then again, as if repetition might root it into something permanent.
She wrote it after Harry had fallen asleep beside her, one hand still curved around her waist, the other resting lightly against her thigh like a promise.
He slept like a man who had survived war and still dreamt of it. She watched the way his brow twitched, the way his mouth softened in the dark.
He’d said I don’t snore earlier. He absolutely snored.
It was two in the morning when she turned off the lamp. The ring on her finger felt too big and too right all at once. His mother’s. Worn and beautiful and chosen.
They didn’t tell anyone right away. Not even Maya. For two full days, it was just theirs.
They woke up the morning after he proposed and didn’t go anywhere. Stayed in bed too long, drank coffee under the covers, ordered lunch from the Thai place with the curt delivery guy Harry tipped like he was royalty. She wore one of his shirts. He didn’t even button his. They read. Fell asleep again. Read some more. She forgot what time was. Forgot the way doubt had once lived in her like rot.
She didn’t feel like a woman who had been abandoned by a mother who faked a passport and fled to Mallorca. She didn’t feel like a woman who had a father in prison for crimes she could recite backwards. She didn’t feel like a woman who had a brother buried in a suit he never wanted. She felt—quiet. And loved. And new.
On the third morning, Harry poured her coffee and said, “When do you want to tell people?”
She raised an eyebrow. “People?”
“Maya.”
“Ah. The entire world.”
He handed her the mug. Kissed the top of her head. “Start there.”
She didn’t plan it out. Maya came over for wine and beloved snacks—rosemary crackers, three cheeses, one sliced peach—and as they sat on the floor of the loft, toes under the coffee table and Frances curled into a resentful ball beside the ottoman, she casually held up her left hand.
Maya blinked. Then blinked again. Then launched herself across the floor, nearly knocking over the Manchego.
She nodded. Smiled. Bit her lip. Maya stared at the ring. Then at her. Then at the ring again.
“It’s perfect,” she whispered. “You’re perfect. He’s—I mean, he’s old, but he’s perfect.”
She laughed. Maya tackled her into a hug. Frances made an undignified noise and slunk away.
“When did he ask?”
“Two days ago.”
Maya gasped. “You held it in for two days?! You sociopath.”
“I wanted it to be ours for a minute.”
Maya nodded. “Okay. That’s allowed.”
Then—softer—“You deserve this.”
She swallowed. Maya brushed her hair back from her face.
“Hey. Look at me.” She did. “I’ve known you through some shit,” Maya said. “Some bad men. Some worse men. Some god-awful years. But this? You and him? This is the realest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Her throat tightened. She reached for her wine glass. Maya stopped her. “Wait.”
“What?”
“Let me ask before I explode.”
She smiled. “Ask what?”
“Can I be your maid of honor?”
She burst out laughing. “You’re not even gonna wait for me to ask?”
“No. I’m taking initiative.”
“Yes. You’re my maid of honor.”
Maya grinned so wide her face went pink. “Yes!” Then paused. “What are we doing? When’s the wedding? Are we eloping? Are we doing City Hall with a dress that makes him cry? Are we renting a house in the Alps? Do I have to wear heels?”
She smiled again. “We’re doing a vineyard. Harry owns one. In Europe. He bought it ages ago. Says it’s quiet and private.”
Maya blinked. “You’re gonna be Mrs. Castillo on a vineyard in Europe?”
“Apparently.”
“I love you. I’m going to cry.”
“And I'm going to cry with you.”
“Also I need to start working on my speech.”
“You have a year.”
“Oh, honey,” Maya said, pulling out her phone. “That’s barely enough time.”
Harry did not like the idea of a wedding planner.
“I don’t want a stranger touching our day,” he said.
“Our day,” she smiled, like she couldn't believe it.
“Yes. Our day.” Harry leaned down and kissed her cheek.
He was annoyingly good at logistics, which meant he somehow became the one who coordinated flights, worked with the vineyard’s staff, hired a local florist, and made a spreadsheet that was both terrifying and perfect. She took over the invitations. They wrote them by hand. On real paper. With real pens. At the kitchen table, elbow to elbow.
“Do people even open mail anymore?” he asked, flipping through the stack of thick cream envelopes she’d bought in Brooklyn.
“They will if it’s from us.”
“Arrogant.”
“Confident.”
He smirked. “God, I love you.”
“Write that in your invitation.”
He started with his star's invitation. To his sister.
Isidora, the card said, in his uneven, blunt handwriting. You once said I was born angry. You weren’t wrong. But I’m less angry now. Maybe because I’ve found someone who makes me feel like I don’t have to defend myself just to exist. I’d like you to come. I’d like your husband to come. The girls too. She wants them there. I do too.
She watched him sign it. Watched him hold the pen like a weapon until he relaxed. They addressed the rest together. Francesca and Luca, obviously. Danny of course. Sadie would try to pretend it was just a business trip, but she’d bring three backup dresses and a portable steamer.
James and his wife, who had quietly become their favorite people. She remembered James hugging her at Harry’s birthday and saying, “I’ve driven that man for fifteen years. I’ve never seen him happy until you.” That was it. Ten people. No cousins. No plus-ones. No press.
Well—almost no press. Because someone at Forbes caught wind of it. Some intern probably noticed a shift in the property record, a flight manifest, and Harry’s purchase of three dozen linen napkins from a French wholesaler.
Sadie called in a cold sweat. “I can’t spin this,” Sadie said. “I can’t even contain it.”
“You don’t need to,” Harry replied. “We’re not hiding.”
“But—”
“No but.” His voice dropped. “They can write whatever they want. But this is ours.”
Later that night, as she folded guest favors into cream tissue paper—little jars of local honey and sprigs of dried rosemary—Harry wrapped his arms around her from behind.
“You doing okay?”
She nodded. “It’s a lot.”
“I can make it less.”
“Don’t you dare.”
He kissed the side of her neck.
“I want it to be beautiful,” she murmured.
“It already is.”
She turned in his arms. “I want it to feel like the start of something. Not the end.”
Harry brushed her hair back. “You are the beginning.”
They sat on the couch with the list between them.
Location: check.
Guests: check.
Music: no playlist yet.
Food: Mediterranean, with her aunt’s lemon pasta on the menu even though the aunt had been dead for ten years.
Vows: unwritten.
Dress: unknown.
That's when she decided to start going dress shoping. Harry insisted, “You deserve the best. Go take the credit card and break something.”
In Paris, she found a dress that didn’t sparkle but whispered. That slipped like water. That felt like herself, if herself was allowed to be worshipped for one entire evening. She texted Harry a single photo of the fabric—a blur of ivory silk in a windowpane of morning light. He texted back: I’m not ready.
When she returned, he waited at the arrivals gate with a bouquet of peonies and a driver who knew not to speak.
Back in New York, the loft felt like it had expanded. Like the rooms were waiting. She started sleeping in one of his shirts again. The oldest one. The one with frayed cuffs and a faded logo from a failed tech company Harry had once invested in, then dismantled for parts. He caught her in it one night. Didn’t speak. Just crossed the room and kissed her like she was fire and forgiveness. The next morning, they made pancakes. She burned the first two. He flipped the rest.
“Do we have to write vows?” she asked, watching syrup pool at the edge of her plate.
Harry nodded. “I do. You can freestyle.”
“I’m going to write them.”
He grinned. “Make them dirty.”
“I’m going to make them holy.”
“You’re already holy.”
She threw a piece of pancake at him. He caught it. A week later, her vows still only had the words, You make me want to stay. That felt like enough. But she kept writing. On napkins. On receipts. On the back of old journals. The vineyard sent updated photos—golden light, neat rows of vines, white stone buildings that looked carved into the land. Harry studied the photos in bed.
Then murmured, “You’ll look good against this.”
She rolled over. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m obsessed with you.”
“I know.” She kissed his chest. Listened to his heartbeat. Slept like someone waiting for something soft.
They mailed the invitations in person. Walked to the postbox together in the rain, Harry holding the umbrella too high, her scolding him the whole way. They mailed ten envelopes. No more. No less. Each one sealed with a quiet kind of faith. They stopped for pastries after. Harry bought two. She stole half of his. He didn’t complain. He never did. Not when it came to her.
By the time spring stretched its way toward the city again, the lemon tree on the rooftop had bloomed. Small white blossoms. Sharp scent. Hope. They stood beside it one night, glasses of wine in hand, watching the sun slip behind the buildings.
Harry said, “Do you ever think about the ceremony?”
She nodded. “Every day.”
“What do you see?”
“You. Waiting.”
He kissed her temple. “And you?”
She looked up. “What do you see?”
He touched her face. “The only thing I’ve ever wanted.”
The wind stirred. The city below buzzed like a secret. And for a long, long moment—There was nothing else. Just them. Just light. Just beginning.
Her wedding dress hung at the far end of the closet. A white garment bag, thick and expensive-feeling, with a gold zipper and a hand-lettered card pinned to the hanger. Her name, in soft cursive. A florist’s ribbon threaded through the loop. Harry walked past it every morning.
And every morning, he paused. He never touched it. Never peeked. Not once. He had a quiet, almost reverent fear of it. Like it might vanish if he looked too closely. But he saw the curve of the hem tucked near the floor. The tiny bow of the ribbon. The card with her name. And it did something to him.
Made his heart slow. Then stutter. Made the coffee in his hand feel warmer. The morning light feel softer. It was a silent, constant reminder—he was marrying her. Her. The woman who burned toast and kept rearranging their fridge magnets to spell out the most random words she could think of. The woman who let Frances sleep on his side of the bed, then teased him for sleeping like a corpse. The woman who made him believe in love again. His future. Right there. In the corner of their shared closet.
Sometimes, when she was still asleep and he was getting dressed, he’d glance at it, just once, and mutter under his breath, “Jesus Christ.”
Not out of nerves. Just out of disbelief. He was really marrying the love of his life. Because this—this quiet life, this rooftop lemon tree, this woman asleep in his bed in one of his t-shirts—was everything he’d stopped believing he could have.
She still visited him at work. Despite herself. She hadn’t wanted to work at the office. Had resisted. Loudly. She didn’t want to be “the girl who sits at a desk outside her fiancé’s door and color-codes paperclips.”
But then boredom crept in. So did curiosity. And the understanding that if she wanted a certain kind of cheese served at their wedding, she had to email six Italian vendors, not two. So she showed up one Tuesday with her laptop and a sharp opinion on chair rentals. And never really left. She didn’t have a title. Didn’t want one. But she took meetings when she felt like it, made suggestions Harry actually listened to, and once rewrote an entire pitch deck because “I couldn’t sleep and you were doing it wrong.”
She’d deliver lunch, too. Sometimes in brown paper bags. Sometimes in Tupperware. Once in a pastry box labeled FOR THE ASSHOLE IN SUITE A. She dropped it on his desk and left without a word. Harry opened it. Smiled. And ate every bite.
His staff watched her like a myth. Not because she was intimidating. But because she was the only person Harry Castillo had ever let into his orbit without pretense. He didn’t bark at her. Didn’t interrupt her. Didn’t ignore her when she curled up on his office couch to read or asked if he’d printed the seating chart. He listened. He smiled.
He sometimes shut his laptop mid-email just because she asked, “Want to go get coffee with me?” And when she did stay home? She wrote her vows. Or tried to. It was harder than expected. Not because she didn’t know what to say. But because every time she tried to pin it down, her words felt too small.
How do you explain I love you so much it makes my hands shake in a way that doesn’t sound like you stole it from a Hallmark aisle? She sat on their couch one afternoon, curled under an old throw blanket in one of Harry’s sweatshirts—gray, frayed, warm from the dryer. Pen in her mouth. Blank page in her lap. Frances on the windowsill, twitching her tail every time a pigeon got too bold.
The sweatshirt was her favorite. It still smelled like his cologne. Or maybe just his skin. She wore it when she missed him, even if he was only five floors away. She chewed the end of the pen, then sighed. Crossed out the sentence she’d just written. Tried again.
You make me feel like I belong somewhere. Not in a house. Not in a city. In a person. In you. Too vague. Too soft. Too—
She groaned and let the pen drop. She needed air. Tea. A distraction. She padded barefoot into their bedroom. Reached for the socks in the laundry basket and noticed it—something crumpled, sticking out from beneath the drawer where Harry kept his extra notebooks. Half-tucked, like it had slipped and never been picked up. She bent down. Pulled it free.
A single piece of thick white stationery, creased in half, faint coffee stain at the top. His handwriting. Slanted. Rushed. She didn’t mean to read it. But she did.
Vows — Draft One (throw this away)
I don’t believe in a lot of things. Not God. Not fate. Not soulmates. But I believe in you.
I believe in the way you look at me when I’m tired and unkind and still trying. I believe in the way you steal my socks and burn my toast and make me laugh when I’m too far inside my own head to find the door out. I believe in how you love me—loudly, recklessly, like I’m not a man who’s ruined everything he’s touched.
You make me believe in things I didn’t ask for. And I want to wake up next to you until my back goes out. I want to read beside you until my eyes give up. I want to argue about dish soap and sing badly in the car and die knowing you knew every version of me and didn’t flinch.
I love you. I’ll love you when we’re old. When we’re boring. When no one knows our names anymore. I’ll love you when I forget to say it.
I’ll love you always. Even after.
–H
Her chest stuttered. She sat down on the edge of the bed. Read it again. Read it a third time. By the end, her hands were shaking. She didn’t cry. Not really. Just pressed the page to her chest and whispered, “Of course I’ll marry you.”
Later, she tucked the draft between the pages of her journal. Didn’t tell him. Not yet. She liked the idea of hearing whatever version he landed on without knowing. But she also liked knowing that he’d written that. That he’d meant it. That even the vow he’d thrown away felt like a liturgy. That night, he came home late. Jacket slung over his shoulder. Eyes tired. Shoulders tight. She met him at the door. Wrapped her arms around him. Didn’t let go.
He let out a breath against her hair. Kissed the crown of her head. “What’s all this?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
“I just missed you.”
Harry smiled. “That’s a crime, you know.”
“What is?”
“Being this in love with me.”
She laughed into his chest. “You’re such a menace.”
“And you’re stuck with me.”
She didn’t answer. Just kissed his jaw.
He groaned. “God, you’re gonna wreck me in that dress.”
“You haven’t even seen it.”
“I don’t need to.”
He walked past her into the closet, started unbuttoning his shirt. Paused. Glanced at the dress bag.
His voice went quiet. “I saw your name on the tag today.” She stepped up behind him. Slid her arms around his waist. “I see it every morning,” he added. “Makes my heart do that annoying thing.”
She smiled. “Thump?”
“More like oh fuck, I’m going to cry.”
She kissed his back. Felt him relax. He held her hands over his ribs. They stood like that for a while. Breathing together.
Spring turned to summer. Summer turned to countdown. The vineyard sent updates. Rows of vines stretching green under the sun. White tablecloths delivered. The chef confirmed. The cake finalized—lemon, of course. She picked her shoes. He picked the wine. Maya picked her dress and cried in the group chat. Francesca wrote a toast that involved both the stock market and Harry’s record achievements. Luca offered cigars. Danny offered to keep the peace along with Sadie.
The final week arrived like a wave. And through all of it—through the stress, the softness, the boxes that kept arriving and the seating chart that kept changing—Harry stayed constant. Steady. Warm. The kind of man who took her hand during a chaotic phone call and squeezed it once. Who let her steal the sheets every night and still tucked her in. Who whispered, “I can’t wait to see you walk toward me,” when she was brushing her teeth.
He wasn’t like other men. He never had been. Because when he looked at her, it wasn’t with hunger. It was with reverence. And when she looked back—
It was home.
The rain started like a joke. A single droplet. Then a few. Then the kind of summer downpour that felt sudden even when it wasn’t. New York in June didn’t apologize. The city had no warning systems for softness. Just clouds and concrete and a kind of cinematic surrender.
She loved it. Always had. That thick, humming kind of rain, heat bleeding through it, streets glistening like film stills.
They were already running late. The car had hit traffic, some construction detour with a single blinking light and a cop who didn’t care who Harry Castillo was. He hadn’t said a word about it. Just let his hand rest on her knee while they idled, watching people dart between puddles, laughing and shrieking and slipping on corners that hadn’t been dry in hours.
He looked good that night. Really good. White dress shirt, sleeves pushed up just enough, dark pants that sat perfectly on his hips, the soft graying scruff. His hair was damp at the temples. He smelled like salt and cedar and that cologne she’d asked him never to stop wearing.
She wore a black slip dress that clung a little, in the way silk does when it rains, and a pair of earrings Maya had talked her into. Her umbrella had snapped in the wind earlier that week—cheap bodega plastic—and she hadn’t replaced it. Harry had his own. Big. Dark blue. Old enough to have been repaired at least twice.
When James, Harry's driver, finally pulled up to the curb, Harry slid out first. The rain was heavier now. He didn’t hesitate. He opened the umbrella with one hand, turned toward her with the other, and held it at that particular slanted angle that kept every drop off her—even if it meant soaking the entire right side of his own jacket.
“Harry,” she said quietly, glancing at the growing damp patch on his arm.
He didn’t blink. “Walk.”
So she did. He kept his stride slow. Steady. Let her take his arm like they were on some old movie set. When a gust of wind caught the edge of her dress, he shifted closer, shielding her with the bulk of his body. They looked like money and history and something romantic you didn’t quite believe until it was in front of you.
The restaurant sat tucked beneath the overhang of a building that had been there forever. Brick. Low lighting. The kind of place that didn’t advertise, didn’t seat walk-ins, didn’t trust Yelp. They’d come here a hundred times. Probably more. The host knew her drink order. The chef sent them things “off menu.” One of the waiters always asked about Frances.
They hadn’t been back since the proposal. She’d wanted one last dinner here before they flew out. One last night before vows and vineyards and their honeymoon in Lisbon and waking up with a different last name.
Harry reached for the door first. Shook off the umbrella. Opened it for her, like always. And that was when she saw them.
Lucy. And fucking John. At the host stand. Talking. Laughing. And, for just a moment, not noticing them. Lucy looked exactly the same. That too-long fringe. That half-smile that never quite matched her eyes. She was wearing something tan and soft and undoubtedly expensive. She turned slightly—laughing at something John said—and that’s when she saw them.
Lucy's eyes landed on the ring. His mother’s ring. The one Harry kept in a drawer she’d once been told not to open. Lucy stared. The smile faltered. Then—quietly, calculatingly—she turned fully to face them.
“Harry,” Lucy said, voice slicing through the room like the clink of cold silverware. “Wow. This is a surprise.”
Harry didn’t flinch. Just placed a gentle hand at the small of his fiancé's back and said, without looking at Lucy, “We’re late.”
John, smiling awkwardly, stepped forward. “We’re just visiting. Up for a friend’s reunion. Saw this place on a list and figured—”
“You could afford it?” Harry said, voice dry as dust.
John flushed. “Hey, now. I got a job.”
Lucy smiled tightly. “My father brought him on at the company. Construction management. We just bought a house in Chatham.”
“Good for you,” Harry said, voice so flat it might as well have been printed.
She said nothing. Just watched Lucy. Lucy watched her back. Their eyes met. And Lucy’s gaze dropped—to her dress, to her shoulders, to her ring on her left hand. It lingered.
“That’s...quite a ring,” she said finally. “I recognize it.”
Harry’s jaw shifted.
Lucy continued, lightly, like she wasn’t sharpening a knife. “Didn’t you say nobody was ever going to wear it again? That it wasn’t for public?”
Harry’s voice was quiet. Cold. “I said it wasn’t for you.”
The silence was swift. Even the host blinked.
John cleared his throat. “Guess we didn’t get an invite to the wedding, huh?”
Harry turned to him then. Smiled. Just slightly.
“You didn’t get one because you weren’t wanted.”
John’s mouth opened. Then closed. Lucy’s eyes narrowed. And that was when the maître d’ appeared. Harold. Mid-sixties. Glasses pushed up his nose.
“Mr. Castillo. Miss. Your table is ready.” He didn’t even glance at Lucy. “Apologies for the delay. We’ve kept it waiting. Wouldn’t dare seat anyone else.”
Harry nodded. “Of course.”
He touched the small of her back again, guiding her forward. They didn’t say goodbye. She didn’t need to. He didn’t need to. Their silence said enough.
The booth was tucked in the back. Candlelit. Quiet. Familiar. Harry didn’t speak for the first full minute. Just reached for the wine list, handed it to her without asking, and then drummed his fingers once against the white linen tablecloth. She stared at him. He stared back. And then—slowly—he smiled.
“That was terrible,” she said, laughing before she could stop herself.
Harry nodded, smiling, trying not to laugh with her. “It was terrible.”
“She saw the ring.”
“She’s always wanted something that wasn’t hers.”
“She looked like she wanted to bite it off my hand.”
“She can try,” he said, “but I’m faster.”
She laughed again. He didn’t. He just looked at her. Really looked. And then leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, fingers brushing hers.
“I like you in the rain,” he said.
She tilted her head. “Why?”
“Because you love it. And it puts you in a good mood.”
She blinked.
He shrugged. “And because I get to get wet shielding you.”
She laughed. “You're an idiot.”
“Your idiot.”
They ordered the usual. The wine they always liked. The burrata with the peaches. The pasta with saffron. The steak, rare, because Harry swore medium was for quitters.
The waitress—Jess—winked at them as she dropped off the plates. “I’ve already told the chef. He’s sending dessert. Congratulations on your engagement, again.”
“Thank you,” she said, cheeks flushed.
Harry nodded once. His hand was still on hers.
“I want to be out of here before they eat their first course,” he said, very seriously.
She smiled. “You’re so dramatic.”
“Only in defense.”
“Of?”
“You.”
She went quiet and smiled. He let that sit. By the time dessert came—some fig tart thing she didn’t even order—she had forgotten all about the host stand. Because Harry had leaned in again.
And told her, in that gruff, quiet voice that always hit her somewhere low in the chest, “Seeing that ring on your hand might actually kill me.”
She smiled. Soft. Lethal.
“Then it’s doing its job.”
They walked out an hour later. The rain had stopped. The streetlights cast everything in gold. Harry opened the umbrella anyway. Held it above her head, just in case.
“Old habit,” he muttered.
She slipped her arm through his. They walked to the car like the world hadn’t tried to dig up old ghosts. Like love was the only thing that had survived. Because it was. And it always would be.
Lucy didn’t finish her drink. The stem of her wine glass had been pressed between her fingers for too long—skin warming the Sauvignon, knuckles pale from the grip. She wasn’t listening to John anymore. He’d been talking about something—renovations, tile samples, maybe the way her father had offered him more work. She couldn’t recall.
Her gaze had drifted, caught somewhere near the front of the restaurant, where the door still lingered open just enough to let the evening draft roll in. Where Harry and the woman he's going to marry, walked out of the restaurant. The air smelled like wet concrete and wood polish. It reminded her of something old. Something half-remembered. Her nails tapped softly against the glass. She kept seeing it. The ring. That ring. Harry’s mother’s ring.
The one he used to keep locked in a drawer with a tarnished clasp, buried under tax returns and a folded menu from a restaurant that didn’t exist anymore. Lucy had found it once. Early on. When they were still new and reckless and playing house in his penthouse like they didn’t know it was going to burn.
She’d slipped it onto her finger, the way anyone would, the way a girl tries on an outfit she doesn’t think she’s earned. She remembered standing in the mirror. Turning her hand this way and that. Admiring it in the soft hallway light.
He’d seen it. He hadn’t smiled. Hadn’t even looked at her with anything resembling fondness. Just a slow, flat, “Put that back.” And she had. Because it hadn’t belonged to her. It was too heavy. Too real. It had memory in its shape, in the way it sat on her hand like judgment. Now, years later, she'd seen it again.
But this time—
On her. The girl. His girl. The girl who Lucy called a child. In her words 'You brought a child to my wedding.'
Lucy had felt it like a crack along her spine. The sick sort of click when reality shifts a little to the left and you realize you've been left behind without anyone needing to say it. She tried not to watch them walk out. Really, she tried.
John was saying something again—probably trying to fill the space, bridge the chasm that had opened the second Harry’s voice slid across the room like ice. Something about how they must be excited to be heading to Europe soon. Something about Harry’s “usual table” being available when they come back.
But Lucy didn’t care. Her eyes were on him. On Harry. Through the glass, she could see them in profile—him holding the umbrella just slightly off-center, his right shoulder soaked. Always the shoulder. Always the goddamn coat. The same one she used to tease him about, said he looked like a detective in a French movie.
And her. She looked older now. Not aged, just... solid. Like she'd grown into her own skin. Same soft jawline. Same thoughtful mouth. The kind of beauty that didn’t need permission. Her dress clung to her in the rainlight. Her hand slipped naturally into the crook of Harry’s arm.
And the ring—That ring—caught in the glow of the streetlamp like a quiet fuck you. Lucy exhaled slowly. Her chest felt tight.
“Do you think it’s real?” she asked suddenly, cutting into John’s monologue.
He blinked. “What?”
“Them,” she said, voice softer now, like she was trying to convince herself she didn’t already know. “Their relationship. Their wedding. Do you think they are actually going to go through with it?”
John paused. Sipped his wine. Then, slowly, said, “It looks like it.”
Lucy nodded once. Didn’t look at him. She watched the umbrella close as Harry opened the car door for her. Watched her slip inside, glancing back just once with a grin. Not at the building. Not at the window. Just toward him. Her future husband.
Like she knew he was watching.
“You okay?” John asked, voice cautious now.
Lucy didn’t answer right away. She ran a finger along the condensation of her glass, drawing a small circle, then another. Finally, she said, “Do you remember the night of our wedding reception?”
He blinked again. “Which part?”
“When she showed up. With him.”
John sighed. “Yeah. Hard to forget.”
Lucy looked at him now. “Do you remember what I said to her?”
“You were upset.”
“No,” she said, sharper. “Do you remember what I said?”
John hesitated. Then nodded. “You called her a child.”
Lucy looked away. Back toward the window.
“They’re going to France,” she murmured. “That vineyard. The one he bought before the market crash.”
“How do you kno—?”
“Because I asked once,” she said. “Back then. When I thought maybe I could make a life with him. Asked if we’d ever get married somewhere quiet, somewhere real.”
“And he said?”
Lucy smiled tightly. “He said he didn’t believe in weddings.”
John didn’t speak. Because he knew. He knew it now too. That Harry Castillo had simply been waiting for the right person. Not a woman who understood appearances. Not a girl who grew up in a house that held grudges like trophies. Not someone like Lucy.
She watched as the car disappeared down the avenue, taillights slipping into the current of the city. The server came by with their entrees. She didn’t eat. Just sat there, napkin folded in her lap, staring at the ring on someone else’s finger burned into the backs of her eyes. Because she knew what that ring meant. And she knew that when Harry had looked at her, he had never been capable of the softness she saw when he looked at her.
That wasn’t regret. It wasn’t bitterness. It was something colder. Something closer to envy. Because Lucy, for all her knowing, all her proximity to wealth and power and privilege—
Had never been loved like that. And now she never would.
While Lucy, back at the restaurant was reeling at her table, the couple she was thinking about had just arrived at their loft
The rain had slowed to a whisper against the windows, the kind of hush that made the rest of the world feel like it had stepped back to give them space.
She toed off her shoes by the door, barely speaking. Harry didn’t, either. But the air had changed. Something tight lived in the silence now—something hungry. It shimmered between them, thickening every breath.
He locked the door behind them without looking away.Then—slowly, deliberately—he stepped toward her. One hand still damp from the umbrella, the other hanging loose at his side. His shirt was rumpled, clinging to him in places where the rain had soaked through. The cuff of his right sleeve was pushed up, exposing his forearm and the hairs at his wrist.
She watched him. Harry watched her back. Like a man who had held back for too long. He touched her first. Just a hand to the side of her neck, fingers curling under her jaw like he was steadying her. His thumb brushed the soft hollow beneath her ear, and she let out a breath like it had been trapped in her chest all evening.
Then he leaned in. Kissed her—not gently. Harry's mouth landed on hers like possession. Tongue parting her lips, thumb tilting her chin up to give him more. He kissed her like a man with patience but no more restraint. Like someone who had memorized the taste of her and still couldn’t get enough.
When he finally pulled back, their breath mingling in the space between them, he murmured, “You have no fucking idea what you do to me.”
She smiled, lips kiss-swollen. “Show me.”
His eyes darkened. He stepped forward—pressing her back until her spine hit the wall. Then he kissed her again. And again. And again. His hands moved now—everywhere. Cupping her face, then sliding down to her waist, then gripping her ass hard enough to pull her hips flush with his. She gasped when she felt him—hard against her stomach, straining through his slacks.
“Been like this all night,” he muttered into her neck. “Watching you walk around in that dress. Smile like that. Touch me like it’s nothing.”
“Harry—”
He grunted. Bit down softly on the edge of her shoulder. She whimpered.
“You think I don’t know what you’re doing to me?” he growled. “You think I don’t know you’re wearing that fucking ring and looking at me like you want me to lose control?”
Her breath hitched. He pulled back just enough to see her face.
“You like it,” he said darkly.
She nodded. “Yes.”
He exhaled like that answer hurt. “You’re gonna kill me, baby.”
“Then die,” she whispered, “on top of me.”
That was it. He dropped to his knees. Right there. In the middle of the loft. No ceremony. No warning. Just his large, calloused hands curling around her thighs as he shoved her dress up past her hips.
“Fucking hell,” he hissed when he saw what was underneath. “No panties?”
“Didn’t want lines.”
“I fucking love you.”
He leaned in. Bit the inside of her thigh. She gasped.
“Hold onto the wall,” he said, voice guttural.
She did. Hands braced behind her. Eyes wide. Then—His mouth. His mouth. It met her with such greedy precision that she nearly collapsed. Tongue flat against her clit, then curling. Then flicking. Then sucking.
And he moaned into her. Like this was the meal he’d been starving for. His grip on her thighs was bruising in the best way—anchoring her to him as he feasted. And feasted. No mercy. No slowing. Just Harry—on his knees, devouring her like she was the only thing on this earth that could save him.
“Harry,” she whimpered, knees buckling.
He groaned. “Say my name again.”
“Harry—oh—fuck—”
He sucked harder. She came apart. Loud. Clutching his hair. Whole body trembling like she’d been struck by something divine.
He kept going until her thighs twitched. Until her breathing stuttered. Until she whimpered, “I can’t— please—”
Then he kissed the inside of her thigh, his lips slick, facial hair damp. He looked up. Eyes blown.
“You taste like heaven,” he rasped. “Like mine.”
She didn’t remember how they got to the bedroom. She remembered him carrying her. Holding her like she weighed nothing. Like she was something precious and burning and fragile all at once.
He set her on the bed. Didn’t follow immediately. Just stood there for a moment. Looking down at her.
Then he stripped her first. Slid her dress off over her head. Then he stripped himself. Button by button. She watched every piece fall. Watched the shirt drop from his shoulders—broad and solid, with arms that still made her ache. Watched the undershirt come off. Watched his stomach—soft, comforting, familiar—bared to her like a confession. He caught her looking. Paused. She sat up on her elbows. Reached out. Touched his stomach.
“I love this part of you,” she whispered.
He swallowed. “You’re gonna ruin me,” he said again.
Then pushed his pants off. His cock sprang free—thick, heavy, already leaking. She sat up fully now. Reached for him.
But he shook his head. “No. Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because I need to be inside you. Now”
He knelt on the bed. Spread her legs gently. Like an offering. And then—
He slid in. Slow. Careful. But deep. She gasped. He grunted, jaw clenched, trying not to lose it.
“God, you feel good,” he breathed. “Every time. Every fucking time.”
She moaned. He began to move. Not fast. But with purpose. Like every thrust had a message. Like he was trying to say I love you with every inch of his body. He kissed her neck. Her jaw. Her shoulder. Her breast. Every part of her he could reach.
“You’re mine,” he growled into her skin. “You’re going to be my wife.”
“Yes,” she gasped.
“You belong to me.”
“Yes.”
“And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving you made the right choice.”
He fucked her harder then. Rougher. But still careful. Still worshipful. His hand came between them, rubbing soft circles against her clit. His mouth never stopped moving. Kisses. Praise. Obscene promises.
“Gonna make you come again,” he whispered. “Gonna feel you squeeze my cock and lose your mind.”
She did. Hard. Arching up. Crying out. Clutching his back with nails that left marks. And he came with her. With a shout. A groan. A final thrust so deep it made her see stars. He collapsed on top of her.
Sweaty. Spent. Still inside. They didn’t move. Just stayed like that. His body heavy over hers. Her fingers combing through his hair.
She whispered, “I love you.”
And he—still breathless—murmured against her shoulder, “I’d burn the world down for you.”
She smiled. Pulled the sheet over them. Held him tighter. He didn’t fall asleep immediately. Just stayed inside her, even as his cock softened, holding her like she was the only thing tethering him to earth. Because maybe she was.
They should’ve been asleep. The sheets were tangled. The air warm with sex and sweat and something sacred. He was still inside her. Slowing. Softening. Breathing hard against her shoulder. The weight of him grounding her. Wrapping her in heat.
But Harry Castillo wasn’t done. Not even close. Because when she shifted—just slightly—he growled. Low. Animal.
“Again,” he rasped. “Need you again.”
She blinked up at him. Eyes still hazy, lips parted. “Harry—”
His hand slid down her thigh, lifting it over his hip. The movement pressed his cock deeper again—still there, still thick, still very much a presence. He kissed her jaw. Her mouth. Bit her bottom lip.
“Don’t care how tired you are,” he whispered, voice like smoke and sin. “You’re not getting up until I make you cry again.”
She whimpered.
He smirked. “Yeah. There she is.”
Then he pulled out—just enough to make her gasp—before slamming back in with a force that stole her breath.
“Oh my God—”
“Not God, baby,” he growled. “Just me.”
Her nails dug into his shoulders. He welcomed the sting.
“Harry—fuck—”
“You feel that?” he grunted, hips snapping into hers. “Feel how wet you still are for me? How your pussy won’t let me go?”
She nodded, moaning. “Y-yes—”
“Fuckin’ knew you were made for me.”
He leaned down. Kissed her throat. Her collarbone. Bit the edge of her breast until she arched into him.
“Your body’s so perfect,” he murmured. “So soft. So fuckin’ mine.”
Then rougher, “Look at you. Dripping on my cock like you want me to fuck a baby into you.”
Her eyes flew open but she moaned. Loud. “Harry—”
“Yeah,” he growled. “Bet you’d take it. Bet you’d let me fill you up and beg for more.”
She whimpered—louder now. And he lost it. He flipped her onto her stomach in one motion, like it was nothing. Grabbed her hips. Pulled her back. She barely had time to gasp before he was inside again—deeper now.
From behind. One hand on her lower back, the other in her hair. Her cheek pressed to the sheets. Her mouth fell open. And Harry fucked her. Harder. Rougher. Still in control. But wild. Every thrust was a statement. This is mine. You’re mine.
“Look at you,” he growled, panting. “Back arched. Ass bouncing. Taking this cock like you were fucking built for it.”
“Please—Harry—I’m gonna—”
“Do it. Fucking do it. Let me feel you fall apart on me again.”
She shattered. Came around him like she’d never come before. Screamed into the mattress. He grunted—loud—and slammed in once more, spilling inside her with a groan that sounded like something ancient, like something only she had earned. He stayed there. Deep. Still. Then he moved again. Slow. Shallow. Because he wasn’t done.
“You can come one more time,” he said low, filthy and sweet. “Gimme one more, baby. Just one more.”
She shook her head, crying now—not sad, just overwhelmed. And Harry kissed the back of her shoulder.
“Don’t worry,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”
Then—again. His fingers slid between her legs.
“Shh,” he cooed. “One more for me. Be a good girl.”
And she did. God help her, she did. She came again—wrecked, sobbing into the pillow, body trembling, legs useless. He kissed her spine as she collapsed fully, lowering both of them to the bed without ever leaving her. He curled around her from behind, one arm tight around her middle, his cock still buried in her.
“You’re so fucking good to me,” he whispered.
She couldn’t answer. She just breathed. He kissed her shoulder. Her temple.
“You still with me?”
She nodded. Barely.
“Good,” he whispered. “Because I’m not letting go.”
Then—softer still—
“I’ve been waiting my whole life for someone to let me love them like this.”
And she melted in his arms. Because Harry Castillo wasn’t just wild in bed. He was devoted. Feral. Tender. Vulgar. Romantic. Hers. Forever.
The room smelled like sex and sweat and skin. The sheets were soaked. The pillows half-off the bed. The lamp still glowed low, casting soft golden light across their tangled limbs. She laid boneless, breath shallow, eyes closed. Floating.
Harry didn’t move for a while. Just held her. One arm wrapped around her ribs, the other under her head, fingers stroking her hair like he was still grounding himself. He kissed the back of her neck. Then her shoulder. Then just breathed her in.
“You alive?” he asked softly, voice rough with exhaustion and something quieter.
She hummed. That was all she could manage. He smiled into her skin.
Then shifted, slowly, carefully, slipping out of her with a groan that felt more reverent than lustful. He sat up, rubbed his hands over his face, and let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh.
“You destroyed me.”
She snorted, eyes still closed. “You did all the work.”
“I stand by what I said.”
He leaned down. Brushed her hair off her cheek. Kissed the corner of her mouth.
“Stay there,” he murmured. “Don’t move.”
She didn’t. Didn’t want to. But she heard him pad barefoot across the room. Heard the soft creak of the bathroom door. The rush of water. The gentle thud of the cabinet opening. When he came back, he was holding one of their thick white towels—her towel. The one she always stole from the linen shelf. The softest one.
He crouched by the bed. Wiped between her thighs first. Gentle. Slow. Not clinical. Loving. She flinched, still sensitive. “Sorry,” he said softly. “I know. I know, baby.”
His fingers were careful. Thorough. Once he was done, he tossed the towel into the hamper by the door and scooped her up like she weighed nothing. She made a sleepy sound of protest.
“You need a shower,” he whispered. “Just a quick one. Then you can collapse on me again.”
She let her head fall onto his shoulder. Nuzzled in.
“I’ll carry you the whole way if I have to.”
“You already are,” she mumbled.
He kissed her temple. “Spoiled brat.”
But he carried her into the bathroom anyway. The steam had already filled the space. The shower was on—warm, not too hot. The kind of perfect he knew she liked without asking. Always had. He stepped in with her still in his arms, only setting her down when the spray hit their skin. She gasped slightly. The water soaked her hair, slid down her back.
Harry reached for the shampoo first. He did this slowly. Like a ritual. Poured it into his palm, worked it through her hair with strong fingers, careful not to tug. He massaged her scalp. Tipped her head back under the water. Watched the suds slide away. Then the conditioner. Then the body wash. All without saying much. He just washed her. Took care of her. Worshipped her in the most mundane way possible.
“Arms up,” he said quietly.
She obeyed. He washed her underarms, her stomach, her thighs. When he knelt to do her legs, she touched his hair. Twisted a damp strand between her fingers.
“You don’t have to do all this,” she whispered.
“Yes I do,” he said simply.
Then kissed her knee. When she finally blinked, she realized he’d already washed himself, too. That he’d done it fast—efficient—because all his focus was on her.
They stepped out together. He wrapped her in a towel. Rubbed her dry. She giggled when he got to her hair.
“Sorry,” he murmured. “This part never goes well.”
“You’re better at it now.”
He smirked. “Practice.”
Once she was dry, he walked her into the bedroom again. The sheets were already changed—he must’ve done it in the two minutes she wasn’t looking.
“I was very efficient,” he said when she blinked at the bed.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You’re welcome.”
He helped her into pajamas—his shirt, of course. The one she loved. The old one with the faded lettering and a frayed collar. Then kissed the top of her head.
“Go sit,” he said. “I’m making tea.”
She padded barefoot into the kitchen. Curled onto the couch with a throw blanket. Frances blinked at her from the windowsill, unimpressed, then curled back into a ball. Harry moved around the kitchen like a man on autopilot. Filled the kettle. Pulled out her favorite mug. Tossed in a tea bag. Herbal. Soothing. He added honey. Carried it over without spilling. Then—because he always did—he sat beside her and waited for her to sip first before resting a hand on her thigh.
“Good?” he asked.
She nodded. “Perfect.”
He leaned back. Let out a slow breath. His body ached. She could tell. He shifted like a man twice his age but smiled like a teenager in love.
“You okay?” she asked softly.
He nodded. “My back hurts. My thighs are killing me. I might never walk right again.”
She snorted.
“But I’m so fucking happy.”
She looked at him. And believed it. The soft light from the kitchen made the gray in his beard shimmer. His eyes were softer now. Barefoot. In sweats. Damp curls pushed back. The kind of man no one saw like this except her. She curled into his side. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her into his chest. They didn’t talk for a while. They just breathed.
Until she said, “You didn’t have to change the sheets.”
“I couldn’t let you crawl into a crime scene.”
She laughed against his shoulder.
He kissed her forehead.
After a while, he stood again. Scooped her back into his arms with a groan. “One more trip.”
“To the bed?”
“To heaven.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re so dramatic.”
“And you’re in love with it.”
He set her down on the clean sheets. Climbed in beside her. Pulled the blanket up. Wrapped himself around her like armor.
When the light clicked off, she whispered, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For all of it.”
He pressed a kiss to the back of her neck. And whispered, “I’d do it a thousand times.”
Then, “Sleep, baby. I’ve got you.”
And she did. Always.
Two days passed the way all sweet, strange days do when something big is waiting on the other side of them—quiet, deceptively slow, marked by the kind of soft rituals that feel like a pause before a life shifts.
She had spent most of the time barefoot in their loft. Doing what, she couldn’t exactly say. Folding things that didn’t need folding. Opening drawers. Staring at her wedding dress bag and then walking away. Sometimes she just stood still in the middle of the kitchen like a clock trying to remember what its hands were supposed to do.
Harry had been...Harry. Brooding, purposeful, half-distracted but not with her. Never with her. If anything, he moved around her more like a shadow that kept checking in—running a hand down her back when he passed, kissing her temple without a word, standing behind her when she stared into the fridge like she’d find answers in the shelves.
The day before their flight, she caught him repacking one of the carry-on trunks. A serious crease between his brows. Like the positioning of the charger cables might determine the entire outcome of the wedding.
“You know it’s all going in the same jet,” she said, wrapping her arms around his middle from behind.
“Incorrect,” he murmured. “This is the jet with you in it. That means it has to be perfect.”
She pressed her cheek against his back. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You knew that when you said yes.”
She smiled into his shirt. “I did.”
He turned then. Tipped her chin up. “Everything’s going to be perfect.”
“I don’t care if it’s not.”
He kissed her, slow and soft. The morning they left New York was gray in the way June sometimes is—low clouds that made the air feel suspended. The kind of overcast that made the world seem quieted, as if someone had turned down the volume knob.
Frances was already gone.That part had been surprisingly hard. Harry had insisted on delivering her himself to Danny’s sister on the Upper West Side. He’d said he didn’t trust anyone with their girl, not even the concierge they knew by name. Only Danny’s sister got the greenlight.
And even then, he’d grilled her on feeding times, her window perch, what she liked and didn’t like when it came to brushing. Frances hadn’t even looked back when they left.
“She didn’t even care,” he said in the car afterward, arms crossed, sulking like a man twice her size had just been personally rejected by a cat.
“She knows we’re coming back,” she had said. “She’s not mad.”
Harry didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “You always do that.”
“What?”
“Make me feel less stupid about caring.”
“You’re not stupid. You’re in love.”
He glanced at her then, eyes warm beneath the sharp set of his brow. “Yeah. I am.”
They arrived at the airfield just past noon. The sun had finally come out—split the clouds like something divine and golden had changed its mind about withholding.
Her dress was carried aboard by Harry himself, the garment bag over one arm, his other hand steady at the small of her back like he could shield her from gravity.
She hadn’t seen him sleep the night before. She had, once or twice—through the blur of her own nerves and the quiet hush of early morning—but he always seemed to be awake. Reading something. Checking his watch. Watching her like she was the steady thing keeping him from unraveling.
The jet smelled like leather and cedar. Her dress was hung with reverence in the back cabin. A hook installed just for it.
“You packed everything?” she asked, curling into one of the leather chairs while the staff moved quietly behind them, prepping for takeoff.
“Everything,” he said. “Three times.”
“I still feel like we forgot something.”
Harry sat across from her, eyes steady. “We didn’t.”
“You sure?”
“I’ve waited my whole life for you. You think I’d let packing be the thing that ruins it?”
She felt her throat tighten. “You’re being sweet.”
“Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation.”
“You might get an ulcer.”
He smirked. “I'd get anything for you.”
They buckled in as the engines kicked up, a low hum that turned quickly into a roar. Harry didn’t look away from her. Not once. She watched out the window as New York disappeared beneath the clouds. Slowly. Then all at once.
The flight to Avignon was smooth. Long, but quiet. She slept part of the way, curled under a soft gray blanket with her legs folded up beside her and her head on Harry’s thigh. He didn’t move. Just kept a hand on her arm, thumb stroking the skin absentmindedly. She could feel the heat of him even in her dreams.
When she woke up, he was reading. His glasses were low on his nose—only for the plane, only for her. The frames were dark, delicate, and completely at odds with the man who wore them. She reached up, gently pushed them up the bridge of his nose.
“Hi,” she murmured.
His hand found her hair. “You slept.”
“So did you.”
“Nope.”
She sat up slowly. “Harry—”
“I don’t sleep on flights.”
“You’ve been on flights your whole life.”
“Still don’t sleep.”
She frowned. He leaned in. Kissed her forehead. “I’ll sleep when you’re my wife.”
They arrived in the afternoon. The vineyard shimmered like something half-plucked from a dream. Olive trees lining the drive. Grape vines in perfect rows. A light breeze that caught the lavender just right and made the entire hillside smell like peace.
The house was old. Stone. Weathered in the way that made it beautiful. Her name had already been added to the door plaque beside his in the study. Harry had done it the week before. Quietly. Without asking. Just...made it true.
Their guests would arrive in staggered groups over the next two days. For now, it was just them. And the quiet. And the land.
And the kind of light that made time feel like it had slowed to the pace of breath.
She kicked her shoes off by the front door, again. Looked out at the land from their bedroom window. Harry stood behind her. Didn’t say a word. Just wrapped his arms around her middle and let the sun warm both their faces.
“I love you,” she whispered.
“I love you too,” he said back.
Later that night, they walked the grounds barefoot. She carried a wine glass. He carried a lantern.
The staff had lit candles in mason jars along the gravel path toward the altar. The view overlooked the valley—mountains in the distance, the sun setting like something spilling gold across the whole world.
He didn’t let go of her hand the whole walk. Not once. They stood where they’d say their vows. The chairs were empty. The flowers not yet placed. But it already felt full. Like something had bloomed there already, invisible but pulsing.
“You nervous?” he asked softly.
She shook her head.
“You?”
“No.”
She looked at him. He was staring at the valley. Then down at her.
“I’ve never been more sure.”
She touched his face. “Good.”
He leaned in. Kissed her once. Twice.
Then said, low, in that way that only she ever heard, “You’re it for me.”
She smiled. So did he. Then they walked back. Slowly. Past the grapes, past the lanterns, past the soft hum of France settling in for the night. And in the main house, as she curled into him under an old quilt, the world stilled again. It was happening. Finally. And it felt like everything had been building to this. To them.
The next morning began with the sound of crates being unloaded.
It was early—not so early that the sky was still dark, but early enough that the hills around the vineyard were cloaked in that quiet, silvery mist that always seemed like it should come with piano music.
She woke before Harry, not by much, and not for long. He followed shortly after, groaning at the stretch of his back as he stepped out of bed barefoot, in nothing but his boxers and the scowl of a man who slept five hours and drank half a bottle of wine the night before.
“Is there a reason someone’s banging around outside like it’s a construction site?” he muttered, raking a hand through his graying curls.
She was brushing her teeth already, barefoot in the bathroom, one of his T-shirts hanging off one shoulder. “Cake,” she said through a mouthful of mint foam.
“Cake?”
She spat, grinned. “Wedding cake.”
His expression didn’t shift, but she could see something soften in the set of his mouth. Something like amusement. He leaned on the doorway, arms crossed, watching her like a man who still couldn’t believe she existed.
“We’re really doing this,” he said quietly.
She wiped her mouth on a towel, turned, and walked to him. “You say that like I’m going to back out.”
He kissed her forehead. “I’d still chase you.”
“I know.”
They made their way downstairs slowly, the kind of slow that came with time. Their rhythm had fallen into something domestic, something patient and known—she pulled the French press from the counter while he opened the windows, muttering something about how the air smelled different here, like crushed rosemary and old rain.
Outside, a delivery van had parked near the side garden. The pastry chef and two assistants were unloading a multi-tiered, half-finished cake into the house kitchen, careful and focused. Another vehicle was idling further up the dirt road—full of crates, ingredients, imported oils, things she’d never remember the names of but that Harry had probably signed off on himself.
From the porch, she watched as a young chef—barely twenty-five—stepped out of the second van, wiping his hands on his apron like he’d just completed something sacred. He looked nervous. The kind of nervous that said he’d heard of Harry before.
Harry leaned against the doorway beside her, sipping his coffee. “That kid looks like he’s about to shit himself.”
“Be nice,” she said, bumping her hip into his. “Not everyone’s immune to your face.”
“My face is fine.”
“It’s the eyebrows.”
He snorted. “Here I was thinking you liked them.”
“I tolerate them. The nose makes up for it.”
He glanced at her sideways, smile just barely there. “That so?”
She kissed his jaw. “That’s so.”
By noon, the place was alive.
The vineyard staff moved around them like the quiet hum of honeybees—setting up wooden trellises, moving chairs and lanterns, arranging tables under the olive trees with casual expertise. The arch where they would stand had been wrapped with early greenery and a few starter blossoms, soft ivory and pale green. By the end of the day, the rest of the flowers would come in—wild roses, sweet peas, clematis, jasmine. It felt like something slowly unfurling.
Harry stayed close all morning, rarely more than a few feet away. Sometimes he gave orders in that clipped tone of his that made people obey without asking questions. Other times, he said nothing—just stood behind her with a hand in his pocket, watching her talk to the florist or adjust the seating chart again for the fifth time.
“You know it’s the same people no matter where you put them,” he said, glancing over her shoulder while she squinted at the paper.
“But the energy matters.”
He made a noncommittal sound. “Maya doesn’t care if she’s on the left or the right.”
“She might.”
“She won’t.”
She looked up at him. “Are you going to complain about me being meticulous now?”
He bent low. Kissed her cheek. “I’d rather you plan it than me.”
“That’s what I thought.”
He lingered behind her, arms slipping around her waist, face pressed to her shoulder. “You smell like coffee and lavender. I love it.”
“You smell like me.”
“You’re welcome.”
By the time five p.m. rolled around, she had already changed into a soft linen dress and pinned her hair up. She’d been in the sun all day, laughing with the staff, fussing with the tables, stealing sips of Harry’s wine when she thought he wasn’t looking.
Harry had swapped his shirt twice. He was in a dark linen button-down now, sleeves rolled to his elbows, sunglasses perched on top of his head, and a look on his face that said don’t talk to me unless you’re her.
But when the car that held Isidora and her family pulled up, something in him broke open.
It was subtle. No fanfare. Just a shift—like someone had reached into his chest and unknotted something that had been tangled too long. His back straightened, but not with tension—with something closer to hope.
She touched his arm gently. “She’s here.”
He nodded once.
Isidora stepped out of the car with her husband first—Luis, tall, clean-shaven, polite in a gentle, almost invisible way. Then the girls spilled out.
Yvette was the older one, maybe ten. Dark curls, sharp eyes, already unimpressed by the gravel drive and her baby sister’s endless chatter. Shiv was younger—seven, maybe eight. All limbs and laughter, skipping ahead like she’d already claimed the vineyard as her playground.
Harry stood still. She watched his face closely. He didn’t blink.
Isidora was the last one out. She wore a cream linen set and the kind of sunglasses only elegant younger sisters could pull off. She looked more Paris than Spain these days. But when she took them off and smiled at Harry, the years fell away.
“Hello, brother,” she said.
Harry cleared his throat. Looked down. Then stepped forward. It wasn’t dramatic. Just real. They hugged.
And it was awkward at first—like they’d both forgotten how—but then it changed. She saw it in the way his shoulders dropped. The way his hand pressed against his sister’s back. The way her eyes got glassy but she didn’t say anything.
Luis nodded politely to her. “You must be the woman who made this possible.”
“I guess I am,” she said, smiling.
Shiv ran straight up to Harry and tugged on his hand. “Are you the grumpy uncle?”
Harry blinked. Looked down. Then slowly crouched to her level.
“Who told you I was grumpy?”
“Mama said you never smile.”
He tilted his head. “You think that’s true?”
Shiv considered it. Then grinned. “You’re smiling now.”
He chuckled. Soft. Rare. Yvette stood at a distance, arms crossed. He looked at her. “You too cool to say hello?”
Yvette shrugged. “Maybe.”
He stood. Walked to her. Ruffled her hair with one large hand.
“You’ll warm up,” he said. “Everyone does.”
That night, the house felt full. She made tea. Harry lit the fire outside, even though the air didn’t really call for it. The girls sat on the stone steps eating little plates of cheese and olives. Luis helped one of the vineyard staff bring in a crate of wine. Isidora wandered the garden with her, talking about how strange it was to see her brother laugh.
“I forgot he could,” Isidora said, sipping her wine.
She glanced over at Harry. He was pouring juice for Shiv, sitting on the low stone wall like he’d always been someone’s tío.
“He’s different with you.”
“He’s still himself,” she said.
Isidora smiled. “That’s what I mean.”
When everyone had gone to their rooms, she found Harry alone in the study. Shirt unbuttoned at the throat, a glass of wine in his hand, one leg hooked lazily over the arm of a chair.
“You did good today,” she said.
He looked at her. “You brought them here.”
“You brought the wine.”
He set the glass down. Pulled her into his lap. She fit perfectly there. Always had. He pressed his face to her collarbone. Breathed deep.
“They’re good kids,” he murmured.
“They love you already.”
He didn’t respond. Just held her tighter.
After a while, he whispered, “Thank you for not letting me die alone.”
She blinked. Then pressed her lips to his forehead.
“You were never alone,” she said softly.
He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Because his arms never loosened. And the house smelled like rosemary and wood smoke. And she was home.
Morning came on a soft breeze. She woke alone—Harry had gone out early, something about making sure the florist didn’t leave the arch lopsided—and the sheets were still warm where he’d been. His side smelled like him, a mix of cedar and old soap and something sharp that always lingered on his collars. She reached for it, just for a second, fingers curled into the pillow. Just holding the shape of him.
Outside, it was quieter than usual. The kind of quiet that wasn’t emptiness, but expectation.
She stood slowly, still wearing one of his T-shirts, and padded barefoot toward the window. The air outside had turned golden, honeyed and soft, the morning light spilling across the gravel drive and down the sloping rows of vines. She could already hear movement near the west lawn—footsteps, soft laughter, a crate being set down.
More flowers had arrived. Delphinium, roses, foxglove, narcissus. Creams, blushes, blood-wine purples. The staff carried them like offerings, careful hands delivering stem after stem to tables and corners and vases lining the stone walls.
She opened the window, breathing it in. Then heard a knock. When she turned, Harry was standing in the doorway, hair wet, fresh from the shower, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, that familiar grumpy furrow to his brow that usually meant something had gone not quite to his liking. But his eyes softened when he saw her.
"You didn't eat," he said, stepping inside. A small white plate in his hand—toast, sliced fruit, a folded napkin tucked beside it like he’d rehearsed the delivery.
“I was going to come down.”
“You didn’t.”
She smiled, taking it from him. “Thank you.”
He grunted, kissed her temple. “Eat all of it.”
“I will.”
“You say that, and then I find toast crusts hidden in your napkin.”
She grinned, dragging him down for a proper kiss. “I’ll eat all of it. I swear.”
He gave a satisfied nod but lingered at the edge of the bed, watching her eat like it was the most fascinating thing he’d seen all morning. “They should be landing soon. I told James to send a text once they’re on the road from the airstrip.”
She nodded, mouth full of melon.
He paced a little, adjusting the cuffs on his shirt.
Then, awkwardly, “I, uh…I talked to the jeweler.”
She looked up.
He cleared his throat. “For you. Since… y’know. I proposed with my mother’s. You deserve another ring for our ceremony.”
She set the plate down. “Harry—”
“I picked something simple. I thought about doing something bigger but…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You’re not a chandelier kind of girl.”
“No,” she said quietly, “I’m not.”
“So it’s just… plain. Platinum. Thin. But it’ll sit under hers like it’s been waiting.”
Her eyes stung.
“You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to,” he said, with that steel certainty he always saved just for her. “You’re not marrying a man who half-asses the details.”
She smiled, stood, pressed her face to his chest. “I got you a ring, too.”
“You did?”
She nodded. “It’s hidden in my vitamin bag.”
He snorted. “Of course it is.”
The guests began to arrive one after the other, small groups of them stepping out of the long black cars Harry had arranged—private, simple, efficient. James and his wife first, polite and beaming. Then Sadie from PR, surprisingly flushed and holding the hand of a short-haired woman with wide eyes and perfect posture. Francesca and Luca followed, both look older now—Luca had grown into the kind of lanky that made the bride smile. Francesca had new bangs. They hugged her like family.
And then, finally, Danny and Maya. Still pretending they weren’t together, which was more transparent than ever now that Maya was wearing Danny’s sweatshirt tied around her waist and Danny kept touching her back in that absent, protective way men do when they’ve already decided she is mine.
Harry didn’t comment on it, of course.
Just shook Danny’s hand and gave Maya a rare smile that was almost fond. “You both made it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Maya said, hugging her tightly.
Everyone scattered to their respective rooms—Harry had insisted everyone stay on the vineyard itself, a cluster of small stone guesthouses scattered like pearls across the slope. No one argued. It was impossible to want to be anywhere else.
She and Harry wandered through the grounds as more chairs were delivered, more linens unpacked, more glassware unwrapped.
At one point, she caught him adjusting a table setting himself, muttering under his breath about forks being off-center.
“You’re not allowed to be this controlling on your own wedding weekend,” she teased.
He glanced up. “This isn’t controlling. This is precision.”
She stepped closer. “You’re a menace.”
He let her loop her arms around his middle, despite the eyes of the staff nearby. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, let his hand linger on the back of her neck.
“You’re marrying this menace.”
“I know,” she said softly. “Gladly.”
The day passed in golden slowness. There were wine tastings with James’s wife, who had a secret palate and guessed each vintage without looking. There was a plate of thinly sliced jamón and marinated olives that she ate with Maya in the shade of a cypress. Harry disappeared once or twice to check on the chef’s preparations—“I don’t trust anyone with garlic but myself”—but always returned, like his body couldn’t go too long without orbiting hers.
By late afternoon, the long outdoor table had been set for the pre-wedding dinner. A single taper candle at each seat. Vines coiled along the center. Plates so clean they caught the light like mirrors. It looked like something from an old painting—simple and reverent.
She turned back toward the house to change when she felt it. That familiar shift in the air. The way it always felt when he was behind her, without a sound. She didn’t turn around. He touched her wrist lightly.
“Come upstairs with me.”
She blinked. “Why?”
“I need to show you something.”
“Harry—”
He leaned in, his mouth close to her ear, voice quiet. “It’s not a trick. I promise.”
She followed. They climbed the stairs together slowly.
The sun had begun to dip. Shadows stretched long across the hall. One of the windows was open—grapes growing just outside, still ripening. The hallway smelled like warm linen and something sweeter, something herbal, probably from the candles she’d unpacked the day before.
His room was at the end of the corridor. One of the guest rooms no one had touched. She stepped inside first. Then stopped.
The bed was made—neatly, precisely. Her pillow was on one side. His on the other. Their usual comforter. A candle lit on the nightstand. The soft cotton robe she always wore folded at the end of the bed. On the dresser, a photo of her and Frances, taped to the mirror, slightly crooked. And there, next to the sink in the adjoining bath—her toothbrush, set beside his. Her skincare already on the counter.
She looked at him.
“I can’t sleep without you,” he said quietly.
Her chest ached.
“But we’re not supposed to see each other the night before.”
“I know.” He stepped in, gentle. “We won’t.”
She gave him a look.
“I mean it,” he said. “Lights off. You on your side. Me on mine.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“I won’t even breathe too loud.”
“You’ll snore.”
“I’ll apologize in the morning.”
She stepped into his arms. He held her like the world was ending.
Like tomorrow was already here.
“You ready?” she whispered.
“I’ve been ready since the second I saw you on those steps.”
“You hated me that day.”
“I didn't hate you. I wanted you that day.”
She smiled into his chest. “Shut up.”
“Sue me.” He kissed her hair, breathing in. Then whispered into the top of her head, “We’ll turn off the lights. I just need to know you’re there.”
“Okay,” she said.
And it was.
The evening light slipped through the window like gold silk. The guests laughed faintly down below. The vineyard held its breath. And upstairs, in a room built just for one night—just for them—he kissed her one more time.
Then let her go. Just for now. Because tomorrow was the wedding. And she would be his. Forever.
The sun began to slope low across the vineyard, bathing everything in that kind of old gold light that made skin glow and stone blush. The tables had been set hours ago—linen napkins folded into soft half-moons, polished silverware gleaming under the trees. Vines wrapped the legs of the chairs. A single taper candle burned at every seat, the flame flickering against the soft hush of the countryside.
She stood barefoot at the edge of it all, a glass of white wine in one hand and a curl of her hair caught behind her ear. She hadn’t put on anything dramatic. Just a soft blue dress that hit mid-calf and clung gently to her back every time the breeze rolled in. The neckline scooped low, square and delicate. She’d let Maya braid the crown of her hair an hour ago, with two wildflowers stuck haphazardly in, as if plucked by accident.
Harry had watched the whole process in silence from the porch. Now, he was behind her.
“You look like a goddamn Botticelli painting,” he murmured, his hand coming to rest on the small of her back.
She turned her head slightly, just enough for her smile to find him."Big words for someone who claims they can't spell Baroque."
"I can spell it. I just can't stand it."
"You’ve got drama with Baroque now?"
He just shrugs. She laughed quietly, letting her fingers brush the back of his hand. He wasn’t dressed up either—linen trousers, a white shirt open at the neck, sleeves cuffed up his forearms, the smallest hint of the bullseye tattoo on his hand visible when he reached for his wine. His hair was still damp from the shower, pushed back messily, with a single unruly curl falling toward his brow. The kind of disheveled that made her feel something between her legs.
His nose was sharp. His jaw shadowed with gray scruff. His mouth looked perpetually like it was thinking of something sharp to say, even when he wasn’t. She wanted to kiss him every time she looked at him.
“You keep staring,” he said under his breath, not looking at her.
She sipped her wine. “So do you.”
He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “That’s because you’re mine.”
She didn’t say anything back. Didn’t have to.
Instead, she slid her fingers into his—warm, calloused, familiar—and walked with him to the table, where their people were already gathering like a soft orbit.
Maya had kicked off her sandals within five minutes of sitting down. She was nursing her second glass of rosé and kept adjusting the tiny wildflower tucked behind her ear like it personally offended her every time it drooped.
Danny, sitting beside her, had rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and had the kind of farmer’s tan that came from refusing to wear sunscreen. He was slicing bread with the laser focus of someone trying not to say something emotional.
Across from them, Francesca and Luca were already bickering softly over whose turn it was to pass the olive oil. Francesca had braided her hair into a tight coil at the base of her neck and was wearing a silk slip dress that made her look like she belonged on an old Italian postcard.
Sadie was seated near the end, arm draped casually around her girlfriend’s shoulders, the both of them in loose linen and dark nail polish. Sadie kept making quiet commentary about the table setting—“I’m going to steal these napkin rings”—and her girlfriend just hummed agreeably while popping cherry tomatoes into her mouth like popcorn.
James and his wife had taken the seats closest to the head of the table, both of them glowing with the kind of married contentment that came from years of knowing which wine went with which kind of cheese. His wife had brought a notebook with floral sketches in it. James had brought a bottle of port older than their hostess.
Isidora was seated at the other end, flanked by her two daughters—Yvette, who was asking the waiter whether there would be dessert, and Shiv, who was wearing one of Harry’s old baseball caps, was trying to convince everyone she was drinking champagne when it was apple juice.
Harry, predictably, didn’t sit until everyone else had. He made two rounds first—checking the wine, adjusting a seat cushion, muttering something to the waiter about the temperature of the plates. She didn’t interrupt him. Just watched. Quietly. The same way she always did when he slipped into that mode—that obsessive, precision-focused place where care and control bled into each other until he’d exhausted both.
When he finally dropped into the seat beside her, he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath all day. She reached for his hand under the table. He squeezed once. Then twice. Then didn’t let go.
The first course was something light—melon and prosciutto with a drizzle of local honey and a crumble of something sharp. Harry picked at it with a faint frown, eyes narrowing every time he hit a bite that didn’t feel cold enough.
“You’re judging the food,” she whispered.
He didn’t deny it. “It’s pretense until the lamb arrives.”
She snorted.
“I’m serious.”
“You’re a menace.”
“You picked me.”
He turned his head and kissed her temple. Soft. Familiar. Like it was already habit.
Maya gave a toast somewhere between the bread course and the grilled vegetables. She hadn’t warned anyone. Just stood with her glass and cleared her throat dramatically.
Harry leaned over to her and muttered, “She’s going to make me cry.”
“You won’t cry.”
“I absolutely will.”
Maya raised her glass. “I wasn’t going to say anything tonight. I was going to save my speech for tomorrow. But then I realized I’d already cry too hard at the ceremony and possibly forget how to speak, so—here we are.”
Danny passed her a napkin without a word. She took it.
“I’ve known her since she was sixteen. She was angry and sharp and stubborn and half-feral, and I adored her immediately. I knew she was going to grow into something terrifyingly good.”
She shifted, glass trembling slightly.
“I didn’t know she’d find someone who deserved her.”
Harry blinked once. Stared hard at the table.
“But you do,” Maya said, voice softening. “You see her. And you let her be seen.”
She looked at her then. “You love him like it’s a fact of nature. Like gravity. Like breath.”
Then at Harry. “And you…you are still a terrifying man. But you’re kind to her. Gentle. Devoted. And I’ve never once doubted you would protect her.”
Harry raised his glass. Didn’t speak. Just nodded once. Just smiled. That was enough.
Everyone drank. Dinner stretched into the soft dark. The sun sank lower, and the candles began to glow brighter. The temperature dropped slightly. Luca ran inside to grab sweaters. Francesca wrapped herself in a shawl and pretended she wasn’t crying during Sadie’s accidental heartfelt comment about love being a quiet thing. Harry barely ate his potatoes. She stole them. He noticed. Didn’t comment. Just pushed the rest of his plate toward her.
“You’ll be too full for dessert,” he said.
“Not possible.”
“Bold statement.”
She smirked. “I’m marrying you. I have to be bold.”
That earned her a faint smile, crooked and warm.
He leaned in. “You’re gonna kill me in that dress tomorrow.”
“You haven’t seen it.”
“I don’t have to.”
She nudged his foot under the table. He nudged back. Gentle. Comfortable. By the time dessert arrived—tiny pear tarts with sugared herbs—Harry’s hand had wandered to her thigh under the table, casual, unmoving. His thumb drew slow circles just above her knee.
She turned to him at one point, whispered, “You good?”
His answer was quiet. “Best I’ve ever been.”
They lingered longer than they meant to. The wine bottles emptied. Shiv fell asleep in Isidora’s lap. Yvette asked if she could braid her aunt’s hair. Danny and James smoked cigars near the fountain while Francesca and Sadie argued about floral arrangements. Maya retold the story of the proposal twice—once for Luca, once for Sadie’s girlfriend, both times with more dramatic flair than was strictly necessary.
Harry stayed beside her through all of it. Never far. Always within reach. At one point, she leaned into his side, tucked her head under his jaw, and he exhaled into her hair like it had been his plan all along.
“You tired?” he murmured.
“A little.”
“Want to sneak away?”
“Not yet.”
“Okay.”
He didn’t press. Just kissed the top of her head. Eventually, the guests began to peel away—slowly, reluctantly, like children being called inside after playing too long in summer light. Francesca said goodnight with a low bow and a wink. Maya tackled her into a hug. Danny just looked at Harry and said, “She’s the best thing you’ve ever done.”
Harry nodded. “I know.”
And when they were finally alone—just the two of them, the candles low, the air thick with the scent of warm sugar and cut rosemary—Harry didn’t say anything at first. He just pulled her into his chest. Held her there. She let herself be held.
The sky was dark now. The stars blinked low over the hills. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called once. Then again. Harry’s heartbeat thudded slow and steady beneath her ear. She didn’t want to let go. She didn’t have to. They walked back to the house in silence. His hand never left her back. And when they climbed the stairs together, passed the still-open window and the soft curl of incense from the hallway table, she stopped outside the room where she wasn’t supposed to sleep.
Harry opened the door first. Then turned. Held it for her.
“Lights off,” he said, voice low. “No funny business.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You think I’m the one who starts it?”
He smirked. “You are.”
“Bold.”
“True.”
She stepped inside. He followed. And that was it. The night before the wedding. Their last as fiancés. And it had been simple. Beautiful. Mundane. Just them. And their people. And the kind of love that didn’t need proving. It had already been lived. And tomorrow—It would be named.
And then the sun rose. It came in slow, spilling across the vineyard like honey over warm bread—thick, golden, unhurried. The kind of light that filled rooms before sound did. The kind that didn’t wake you with urgency, but with the quiet certainty that something mattered.
She felt it first against her cheek. The warmth of it. Then the weight behind her—the long, anchored line of Harry’s body still curled into hers, solid and warm, one arm draped heavily around her waist, the other tucked beneath her pillow like he’d buried part of himself under her just to be sure she wouldn’t vanish. His breathing was slow. Deep. The kind that only came with rare sleep.
She shifted slightly. The bed creaked. Harry made a low, half-conscious sound, somewhere between a hum and a growl, and pulled her closer. His nose brushed the back of her neck. He always did that. Always found the softest part of her and stayed there. She closed her eyes again.
Just for a second. Let her fingers slide over his forearm, the veins and hair and warmth of it. He smelled like skin and sun-dried cotton and the faintest hint of the cedar soap he insisted on traveling with because “other soaps makes me itch like a bastard.” She loved him and his sensitive skin. God, she could stay here forever. But she wouldn’t get the chance.
Because that was when the door slammed open. “Motherfucker!”
She jolted. Harry didn’t. He just grunted. Then, lazily, “Close the door, Maya. You’re letting the bees in.”
“No,” Maya snapped, stomping across the room. “You’re letting tradition die in its sleep.”
“Maya,” she tried, barely able to speak through a sleepy laugh, “what the hell are you doing—”
“Dragging your romantic, traitorous ass out of this bed like a proper maid of honor, because you’re getting married in four hours and you slept with the groom.”
“She didn’t sleep with me,” Harry said, not opening his eyes. “She just slept.”
“Same bed,” Maya hissed. “That’s sacrilege.”
“Calm down, we didn’t elope.”
“She’s wearing your shirt.”
“It’s her shirt now.”
“I’m going to scream.”
Harry finally cracked one eye open. His voice was a husky murmur. “Do it outside.”
Maya pointed at him like he was a cat that had brought in a mouse. “You. Don’t move. Don’t even think about sneaking a kiss. If I see you near her before the ceremony, I’m cutting off your coffee supply for a year.”
Harry’s mouth curved. Not quite a smile. Just the slow, crooked pull of amusement he saved for the few times someone entertained him. “You’re lucky I like you.”
“You don’t.”
He stretched. Long. Deliberate. The sheets fell low on his hips.
His bride was laughing now. Fully upright, one hand in her hair, the other gripping the edge of the blanket like it might shield her from Maya’s wrath. Harry hadn’t moved to cover himself. He never did. But his fingers brushed hers beneath the sheet, one last anchor before the day really began.
“I’ll see you later,” he murmured, low enough that only she could hear it.
“You better.”
Then Maya was yanking her out of bed like she was still nineteen and late for something she didn’t remember signing up for. She kissed Harry’s forehead quickly, then let Maya drag her down the hall barefoot, groggy, her legs still loose with sleep and the aftertaste of closeness. The room Maya brought her to was enormous. The biggest sun room she's ever seen. Old stone walls. Exposed beams. Soft French light. And everywhere—everywhere—was care.
The dress was hanging from a brass hook in the corner, the ivory fabric spilling like cream onto the fainting couch beneath it. Her shoes were lined up in a row on a woven mat, with backups beside them. Skincare was arranged by order of application. Her makeup bag—packed by Maya—was open and blooming with options. A mirror stood tall in the corner, flanked by two vases of fresh lavender. A tray sat near the chaise with three linen napkins, two pitchers of water, and an untouched espresso.
Maya crossed her arms, smug. “You’re welcome.”
She blinked. Swallowed. “You did all of this for me.”
“Of course I did.”
She turned slowly in the room, taking it all in. The candle Maya must’ve lit an hour ago. The playlist humming softly in the corner, instrumental, slow. The card on the nightstand that said you’ve already won in Maya’s handwriting.
“I love you,” she said.
“You better. You’ve turned me into a monster. I ordered a clothing steamer. A steamer. Do you even know how ugly those things are?”
“You’re my maid of honor.”
“Damn right I am.”
The next hour passed like water through fingers. She sat in a chair while Maya curled her hair and told her stories about a wedding she once attended when she was a child in California where the bride caught fire (not dramatically, just enough to lose her veil). They laughed through mascara. Drank espresso. Argued over lip liner colors.
Every now and then, she touched the sleeve of Harry’s shirt she was still wearing and smiled. She hadn’t taken it off yet. Couldn’t quite make herself do it. She kept looking at the dress. It didn’t feel like the dress. It felt like a door. And she wasn’t sure what would be on the other side once she stepped through it. A knock at the door breaks her thoughts. Harry’s voice, muffled.
“Can I come in?”
Maya froze.
“No! No!”
“I have her breakfast.”
“You can pass it through the door like you’re in some tower.”
“Christ.”
There was a pause. Then a tray appeared, gently nudged through the barely cracked door.
Maya snatched it like it might explode. “Thank you, goodbye, she’s mine now.”
“I could bench press you,” Harry muttered.
“I could poison the appetizers.”
Then she slammed the door again and turned to find her grinning.
“He’s ridiculous.”
“So are you,” Maya said, setting the tray down. “Eat. Or I’m feeding you like a baby goat.”
She lifted the lid. Toast. Eggs. Two slices of roasted tomato. A cup of tea with cream. And—folded neatly under the napkin—a note. She saw it immediately.
Maya raised a brow. “He’s nothing if not dramatic.”
“Give it.”
Maya handed it over to the bride. She unfolded it slowly, thumb brushing the edge of his handwriting—blunt, sharp, all angles and pressure. It wasn’t long. Just this:
You slept with your leg over mine all night.
You drooled on my chest.
You still looked like peace.
In a few hours, you’re going to walk toward me and I’ll stop breathing.
You are the only thing I’ve ever truly wanted.
Don’t be nervous.
You’re already mine.
—H.
Her throat closed. She folded it back. Pressed it to her chest.
Maya didn’t ask what it said. Just leaned over and kissed the top of her head.
“You okay?”
She nodded. But her hands shook. Not with fear. With knowing. This was really happening. She was marrying a man who would spend the rest of his life making her feel like a choice, not a default. A man who still watched her like she was something he didn’t think he deserved. Who whispered I’ve got you in the dark and meant it.
A man who never once flinched at the truth of her—That her father had ruined lives and called it ambition. That her brother had folded under the weight of it and never gotten back up. That her mother had boarded a plane in the middle of the night and never sent a letter. That her name came with apologies. That her survival came with guilt. Harry had never asked her to apologize for any of it.
Only said, once, in a whisper, “You didn’t cause the storm. But you’re the one who walked out of it.”
She breathed in. Looked at herself in the mirror. And slowly began to unbutton the shirt. The dress slid over her body like a promise. Ivory. Heavy. Beautiful. It didn’t sparkle. It didn’t shout. It whispered. Like the life she was stepping into. She turned slowly in the mirror, fingers brushing the soft silk. Her hair was curled down her back. The earrings glinted. Her hands were steady. Her heart wasn’t. Because it was full. And when Maya came to stand behind her, brushing imaginary lint off her shoulder, she saw it too.
“You look like the beginning of something.”
She met Maya’s eyes. Smiled.
“I feel like it.”
The ceremony would begin soon. But for a few more minutes— She stood still. Let herself feel the quiet. Let herself hold that note to her chest, eyes closed, one hand on her heart. And in the distance—
Down the slope of grapevines and chairs and string lights—
Harry Castillo was waiting. And he was trying not to fidget. Which, now at fifty-six, with a reputation for stoicism that terrified executives and made junior associates piss themselves, was saying something.
He was already dressed. It wasn’t complicated. A dark suit—deep charcoal with a faint texture you could only see up close. No tie. Crisp collar. One button closed. Clean shave. Polished shoes. A watch on his wrist she’d gifted him on his birthday, the inscription hidden on the back: This is the only time I want you to keep track of. His hair was still damp from the shower. His sleeves were rolled to the wrist, not an inch higher. He’d redone the buttons twice. They were perfectly aligned now, of course, but he kept glancing down at them like something had shifted when he wasn’t looking.
James stood nearby, sipping a small glass of white wine that Harry hadn’t offered.
“You’re pacing,” James said mildly.
“I’m not pacing.”
“You’ve walked that length of stone floor seven times.”
“I counted eight.”
Danny leaned against the arched doorframe of the study. His tie was loose—he hadn’t bothered to fasten it yet—and he was chewing on the end of a toothpick like he’d been born in a Western.
“You nervous?” Danny asked.
“No.”
“You look nervous.”
Harry shot him a look. Danny shrugged, easy. “It’s good. Means you give a shit.”
Harry didn’t reply. Just exhaled through his nose and checked the small paper in his breast pocket—again. The final version of his vows, folded once, worn at the crease.
James wandered to the window. “The chairs are all set. Florist’s finishing the arch. I think Sadie yelled at the pastry chef.”
Harry blinked. “What about the garland for the chairs?”
“Done.”
“The wine labels?”
“Lined up.”
He turned. “The music cues?”
Sadie appeared then, slipping through the side door with the quiet assurance of someone who managed entire legacies in heels and silk blazers. “Handled. We even tested the speakers. Twice.”
Harry opened his mouth. Sadie held up a hand.
“Whatever it is—don’t. It’s done. All of it. If you so much as try to adjust a candle, I will drug you.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You can’t speak to me that way.”
“I’m your publicist. I have to speak to you that way.”
Danny snorted. “She’s right.”
Harry looked at them all—Sadie, James, Danny—and for a moment, the weight of it hit him. This wasn’t a press event. This wasn’t a deal closing. This was his wedding. His.
And she was upstairs. In a room he wasn’t allowed to enter, surrounded by women who knew more about serum and chiffon than he ever would. She was probably scowling at a mascara wand. Or reading something to calm her nerves. Or laughing too loud. Or looking at herself in the mirror like she didn’t quite believe this was real. Like she didn’t know how much it cost him to ask her to believe it. He swallowed. Checked his watch. Then turned toward the door that led outside.
“Where you going?” James asked.
Harry grabbed a small folded envelope from the side table. “I’ll be back in five.”
The vineyard stretched wide. The vines were in full bloom, green and humming, the earth warm and soft underfoot. He walked slowly. Deliberately. The breeze tugged at the open collar of his shirt. The sun was warm but not oppressive. He took the long path. The one that curved behind the main rows, past the slope where the kitchen herbs were grown, toward a quieter, less manicured corner. The dirt was dry here, the stones old. The kind of place you didn’t landscape. You left it wild. Let it remember.
He stopped at the fence post that was painted blue last summer, for no reason other than she liked the way it looked. Then crouched beside the vines. And pulled out the letter. It wasn’t long. But it was his:
To my mother,
You didn’t get to meet her. You would’ve liked her. You would’ve seen it. The way she looks at me. The way I look back. You once said I wasn’t made for quiet things. Turns out I just hadn’t earned one yet.
I’m getting married today. She’s younger than me. She’s smarter than me. She drives me insane and makes me calm in the same breath. And she found that ring in a drawer I swore I’d never open again. I’m giving it to her. Because no one else ever should’ve worn it.
You said I was born angry. But today, I’m not. Today, I’m grateful. You got me here. Even if you didn’t mean to. I hope you can rest now. I’m going to try.
—Harry
He folded it again. Tucked it between the roots. Brushed his fingers over the soil like a benediction. Then paused. Because something else was already there. A scrap of paper, half tucked beneath the next row over. Smaller than his, paler. Folded once. He reached out slowly. The name stopped him.
Teddy.
He didn’t touch it. Not at first. Just stared at it. Let the wind move around him. Then, carefully, he opened it. Her handwriting. He knew it. Every curve. Every sharp edge. It wasn’t dated but you could tell it was written recently. Just this:
Hi. I don’t know if I believe in these kinds of things. But today, I needed you to know. I’m okay.
I’m marrying a man who doesn’t flinch when I tell the truth. I’m marrying someone who knows where I come from and stays anyway. I wish you could’ve met him. You’d like him.
You’d pretend not to. But you’d watch the way he makes coffee. The way he touches me like he’s afraid I’ll leave. The way he folds my laundry when he thinks I’m not looking.
He’s stubborn. And smart. And he sleeps on the left side even though he hates it.
I miss you every day. I wish you’d stayed. But I’m staying. For both of us.
—Your sister
Harry sat down. Right there in the dirt. Bent over, elbows on his knees, jaw tight, shoulders still. He didn’t cry. But his throat ached. He folded the note again. Put it back. Where she had. Two notes, side by side. His and hers. For ghosts.
He stayed there a long time. Not saying anything. Just breathing. Letting the wind move. Letting the silence settle. Letting the weight of it all—grief, love, history—press into the earth where it belonged. Then, finally—He stood. Straightened his jacket. Checked the time. And walked back. When he reached the edge of the main house, James was waiting.
“You good?”
Harry didn’t answer right away. Just nodded once. James held out a boutonniere. Small. White. A little crooked. Clearly done by his bride.
“She’ll kill you if you forget it.”
Harry pinned it to his lapel without comment. Then glanced toward the path that led to the arch. He exhaled. Rubbed his hand over his mouth. “Let’s go.”
The chairs were full now. The guests were seated. The sun was beginning to shift behind the cypress trees, the light going soft and golden, the kind of light photographers prayed for and poets wrote about. The musicians began to play.
And Harry Castillo—Formerly the most unshakable man in New York, the one with the steel mouth and the colder eyes, the one who had once said love is for idiots—
Stood at the altar. And waited for the woman who changed everything. The sky held its breath. The vineyard had quieted, hushed under the weight of what was about to begin. The chairs were filled, but no one was speaking. The wind moved slow. The leaves barely rustled. Even the sun seemed gentler, like it was trying not to interrupt.
Harry stood still. At the top of the aisle, near the arch they’d built together with quiet hands and too many revisions, he stood in his dark suit, one hand curled loosely in front of him, the other brushing the edge of his watch. His brow was tense in that familiar way—creases drawn deep between his eyes, like he was already enduring something. But his mouth was soft. No scowl. Softer than anyone had seen it in years.
The first to walk were his nieces. Yvette and Shiv. Small flower crowns, bare feet in the grass, baskets held too tight in their small hands. Yvette looked unimpressed, carefully sprinkling petals like they were tax documents. Shiv took the whole thing more seriously than anyone—biting her lip with concentration as she scattered pink and white blossoms across the aisle like breadcrumbs in a storybook.
Harry blinked hard.
Then harder when Shiv grinned at him as she passed and whispered, “You look nervous.”
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
Maya followed. Chin up, eyes bright, holding a small bouquet like it owed her rent. She looked proud. Not of herself. Of the moment. Of her best friend. Of the history she’d lived through to get here. She nodded once at Harry as she passed, as if to say don’t fuck this up. Then Isidora. She moved like a woman who knew her brother had spent his whole life angry and finally wasn’t. She gave him a look that meant nothing and everything, then took her place beside Maya near the front isle..
And then. Then—Her.
The dress wasn’t extravagant. Not like the ones you see on Bridezillas. It didn’t glitter. Didn’t pull the eye with beading or boning or a train meant to make a statement.
It was silk. Ivory. Slipped like water across her skin. Sleeves to the wrist. A subtle, impossible plunge at the front that made his chest seize. The back was low. Low enough to see the line of her spine. The dip of her waist. She walked with her ballet heels, hair pinned but loose at the edges, skin glowing like the moment belonged to her.
Which, of course, it did.
He exhaled once—too sharp. Tried to catch it. Failed. Then blinked. Then blinked again. His throat went tight. His jaw twitched. He hadn’t cried in thirty years. Not when his mother died. Not when his father left. Not when he’d made his first million or his first hundred. Not when he burned the business down and rebuilt it again from ash. But this? Watching her walk toward him—He broke. Quietly. Without fanfare. Just a single tear that slid down the sharp cut of his cheek. She saw it. Of course she did.
Because when she walked, she didn’t look around. Didn’t wave. Didn’t scan the chairs. She walked like she had a target. Like he was gravity. Like she didn’t believe in aisles or arches or ceremony but still—somehow—believed in him. And he watched her the way men watched miracles. She stopped just in front of him, bouquet clutched in both hands like it was anchoring her.
“Hi,” she whispered.
“Hi,” he rasped, voice broken glass and breath.
They didn’t touch. Not yet. But it was like their bodies leaned, instinctively, as if the air between them wasn’t enough anymore. The officiant cleared her throat—gently, politely, like she’d seen a thousand of these and still understood how sacred the beginning was.
“If you’re both ready,” she said, smiling.
They nodded. The ceremony wasn’t long. They’d agreed on that. Just what needed saying.
The officiant began with something simple. A few words about love, about timing, about the way people come into each other’s lives not to fix them but to hold them steady while they fix themselves. About how choosing someone every day is a decision made quietly and relentlessly.
Then it was vows. She’d insisted Harry go first. And he had. He pulled the paper from his pocket. Smoothed it once. Cleared his throat. Then looked at her. Not at the crowd. Not at the trees. Just at her.
“I wrote this so many times I forgot what the first version said. You remember. You found it.”
Laughter stirred behind them. She smiled, eyes glinting.
“But this one—I meant this one. Every word. Every pause. I don’t believe in soulmates. But I believe in choice. And I choose you. Every morning. Every minute. I choose the way you look at me like I’m not broken." Harry sniffles softly.
Another tear comes down his eye. She wipes his softly with the back of her hand.
"I choose the way you burn toast and then claim it’s on purpose. I choose the way you let me be quiet. I choose the way you don’t let me stay there too long. I choose the night you found the ring. I choose the look on your face when you said yes. I choose the version of myself that only exists when you’re near."
She gets choked up with tears. If she hadn't decided to work that party at the Met, she wouldn't have met him. Her husband.
"I choose you. I will always choose you. Even when I forget how to say it.”
He folded the paper. Hand shaking slightly. And stepped back. She was still staring at him like she was memorizing something. Then she reached into her bouquet. Pulled a small folded card from between the stems. And began.
“I wrote this in a journal. Then on a napkin. Then on the back of an old receipt. I didn’t think I’d ever get it right. But maybe that’s the point. There’s no right way to say, you saved me. You didn’t fix me. You didn’t try. You just made space."
Harry smiled tearfully.
"You made it okay to be someone who lost things. A father. A mother. A brother. You never asked me to stop carrying them. You just offered to carry some of the weight with me. You did it by refilling my coffee without asking. By letting me yell about spreadsheets. By tucking the blanket around my ankles without waking me. By brushing my hair back when I pretend to be asleep."
So many nights where she would fall asleep on the couch and wake up in bed. Wrapped in his arms.
"You did it by loving me like I’m something worth staying for. And I will stay. I will choose this. You. The morning breath. The quiet. The stubbornness. The loyalty. The attitude. I will take all of it. I will hold it in my palms and call it home."
Sniffles were heard throughout their limited guests.
"Because that’s what you are. You are home.”
When she looked up—Harry had stopped blinking again. But he was still breathing. Barely. The officiant smiled. Wiped at her own cheek.
“By the power vested in me—”
Harry stepped forward. Hands at her face. Mouth against hers. They kissed. Not hard. Not hungry. But full. Anchored. Like something settled. Like a promise made without needing words. The crowd laughed. Soft. Startled.
The officiant raised a brow. “I wasn’t done.”
Harry pulled back just enough to murmur, “I was.”
She laughed. Shaky.
The officiant sighed, half-smiling. “Then let it be known—before I could say it—that you are husband and wife.”
Maya cheered. Francesca whooped. James clapped once, solemn and proud. Isidora didn’t cry, but her jaw trembled. Harry didn’t look at any of them. He looked at her. And only her. She pressed her forehead to his, fingers sliding up to his jaw.
“You cried,” she whispered.
“Shut up,” he murmured.
“I’m keeping that forever.”
“Put it in your vows next time.”
She kissed him again. Gentle. Final. Everyone stood. Chairs scraped softly. Champagne popped somewhere off to the side. The sun dipped behind the hill just slightly, brushing everything in a layer of light that looked painted.
And Harry Castillo—once the coldest man in any room—wrapped his arm around the woman he loved and walked down the aisle like the only thing that had ever made sense was her hand in his.
Summary: All you wanted was to get to Austin, but instead of your brother, it’s Frankie —Santi’s best friend, the one you can barely stand— who shows up in Dallas. He’s just doing your brother a favor, but the trip takes an unexpected turn when a stop puts you face to face with your ex — the guy who broke your heart three months ago and is now about to get married.
Out of pride, you blurt out a lie: Frankie is your boyfriend. Surprised but willing to play along, he agrees, with one condition — you must accompany him to his mother’s birthday. His plan? Dodge his family’s meddling and their endless matchmaking schemes.
Rating: EXPLICIT (+18) MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!
Paiting: Frankie Morales x F!reader
WC: 61.7k
✦ fic content ✦
PART ONE: "The one with the proposal"
PART TWO: "The one with the purring traitor"
PART THREE: "The one with the birthday party"
PART FOUR: "The one with bruises and blue excuses"
Versos de Placer (Colonel Carrillo x f!reader) - Fourteen
Summary: A letter for you.
Word count: 5.3k
Warnings: Bad words, slight violence, more daddy issues, fluff, mention of sickness, some angst and... did I say fluffl?
Author’s Note: Oof, I really thought about how would I say goodbye to this story. There's so much I want to say, but for now I hope the words I wrote here makes some difference in what we build as a small community of mutual interest in writing and appreciating what we had of Carrillo.
Quite a journey to get here, right? And I should thank everyone for each conversation, each comment and appreciation towards this. As a non-English speaker, bring all of this here had been a challenge, but one I accepted with love.
As always, I hope I could give a good end for this love story. See ya!
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!
Join my taglist! Don’t forget to reblog, comment and like! As always, I would love to know what you’re all thinking! ❤
******
I wish I had done it differently, yes, but I don't think you should forgive me anyway. You don't know me and, by extension, you have every right to doubt my nature. Honestly, I recognize that that letter changed my life, as it reaffirmed that even though I’m in front of bullets or knives or big violent men every day, I’m still my father's daughter, which makes me a coward.
The Sun was burning your scalp a little, so you scratched the top of your head now and again because the heat was bothering you. From afar, you saw the small commotion in front of the building: people going out and about, fuzzing over each other. He didn’t exactly tell you where he was staying (you didn’t ask either), but the badge could do some convincing, such as your name. At least you hoped so.
You looked at both sides of the street before crossing and, when you did, you ended up bumping into a girl – you apologized, even if a little bewildered, and she said everything was fine with a smile that you hadn't seen in those surroundings for a long time. That caught you a little by surprise, so you watched her go with a dumb expression in the middle of the sidewalk.
“Permiso,” Excuse me, You said, approaching the doorman who was sitting in the empty lobby with his arms crossed.
He was cooperative and friendly, but said he wasn't sure if there would be anyone with that name there because the Americans were already leaving. Still, he called the hamal in apartment 15 (you saw him do it over his shoulder) and, shortly after, said that you were lucky and could come up.
Your father was already at the door when the elevator arrived and, for a moment, the two of you stood there for almost a minute just staring at each other without saying anything, as if you were meeting for the first time. He knew there was something you wanted to say that was unconventional, at least by the way he looked you up and down suspiciously, but he didn't give in to asking the question. With a gesture of his head, your father suggested (not offered, suggested) for you to come closer and you did so, just like when you were a child and had to ask permission to sit at the dinner table to eat.
The apartment itself was already empty, except for a few pieces of furniture that were still scattered around and would probably be collected later. The floor creaked a little because it was made of parquet and the walls were obviously old – weird for someone with so much 'caliber', but you understood that maybe it was just a disguise for the neighbors.
“I still have a bottle of whiskey around here somewhere,” He said, even if not moving a muscle to reach for the said thing.
“I’m good,” You shook your head, in time to see him agreeing silently.
An awkward silence followed the decline. With that, you gave yourself another chance to look around and find something to comment on before going straight to the point.
“When is your flight?”
“In about three hours,” He shrugged. “I believe that the Embassy didn’t ask you to give me a ride like the first time.”
“You would know if they did,” You smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. He saw that and responded the same way, even pulling a chair out of the small table in the living room to make himself comfortable for a confrontation.
“What is it then? Did I forget to file some paperwork or something? Because if that's the case, I have to let you know that I-”
“Were you the one who killed Juan Marcos?”
The question caught him off guard, but not in a harsh way – he probably felt more outrage for the fact that you interrupted him, something he never took quite well. For a moment, then, your father just stared back at you, then scoffed as if you were stupid.
“Thinking about leaving flowers on his grave before you leave?”
“I don't think your moral compass is adjusted enough for you to remember which ditch you used to dispose of his body,” You crossed your arms over your chest, not failing for a moment to spit out your thoughts.
“Don't be moralistic.”
“Don’t worry about it. We’ve just been in this hell for so long, right? Catching criminals, doing the dirty work… that’s enough for you to give me some answers.”
Again, a bit of quietness, but a contemplative one. He had that easy expression on his face, as if you two were discussing the weather, one that always put you on the edge of pure rage. You waited patiently, tho.
“... I did.”
“How.”
“You saw him, you know how.”
“Is this the kind of thing you would do for a daughter?”
“It is, because I did,” He said calmly. “Is this some kind of intervention? This is what you want? Resolve all the frustrations you have with me now, hours before I, what’s that you said? Disappear from your life?”
You looked at him with pursed lips, feet tapping on that stupid floor to prevent any more unwanted feelings. It felt like the Sun was burning your scalp again, so you unconsciously scratched that area again before rolling your shoulders and staring at him with a stone cold expression – one you certainly got from his side of the family. The question was there, burning in your lungs and throat, ready to leave your mouth and make him lose that sarcastic smile on his face.
“... Would you do that for a son?”
The decline in his comfort was gradual, progressive, millimetric. The corners of his mouth lowered into a straight line, his jaw tightened, and his eyes darkened intensely. You flexed your fingers discreetly, trying to hide your defensive posture with the possibility of another aggressive approach on his part, but all he did was access you cautiously while looking for the justification for your question in the way you stood there, in front of him.
“What did you do?” He frowned, probably not sure of the end of that topic.
“Me? Nothing,” You shrugged, head shaking. “Your son did.”
Your father rose from his seat with a harsh scrape of the chair but you kept still, glaring back at him. He could come closer, could do what he did in the office; it wouldn’t happen, though. You both knew, somehow, that someone was his weak point, the thing that couldn’t make him have good nights of sleeping for a reason you’ll never understand.
That made you scoff a laugh before averting your gaze.
“Now you know how it is.”
“Oh, so that’s what it is? Revenge?” His voice was so harsh, so taken by reticence and rage, that it made him static in a certain type of fury.
“I think my best revenge was knowing that you got what you wanted most and he was nothing like what you expected,” You took one step closer, then another, and you two stood there, eye to eye. “Can you imagine? Being your son and having decency?”
“You better-”
“I better what? What, dad? Shut my mouth? Stop talking about Jorge? Or should I wait until you give me the first blow?”
Nothing. He stood there like a bull, fuming and grinding his teeth – no hand raised, no closed fists.
“You asked what I want with all this, with this drama… I never expected anything I discovered about your life to be ethical or clean. You do whatever you want,” You shrugged again, this time going full exaggerated with a fake coy expression. “What I want is for you to take that plane, go back to the States and spend the rest of your days thinking of how your beloved son couldn’t be any more different than you in anything, better than you in anything and a man you’ll never be even closer to be. All that while being raised by a whore.”
The slap was a familiar feeling, like that specific side of your face had a shape to fit his open hand like a glove. Even the movement of your head, the mixing of your insides, it had a natural way to flow, to go this way or another. Still, you’d been caught by surprise, so next thing you knew, your gum was bleeding – you could taste blood on the tip of your tongue, see it on the tip of your fingers when you assessed the small damage. It had the sting, the sharp pain, but that didn’t get a rise out of you.
“That’s what you told him? That I’m your bad father who didn't beat you enough to give you good manners?”
“... Why would I need good manners? I’m a whore, right? Good manners wouldn’t make me fuck Carrillo like I wanted to and you couldn’t do shit to stop it,” That came out with such a force. “In all my life, nothing made me more happy than to trespass your limits as much as I could, to make you show your true colors and still put that scary expression on your face.”
With this, you took a few steps back, adjusting your clothes and smiling, the inside of your mouth and your teeth probably red from the blood.
“Take that plane, go back home. I know that you’ll lie in your bed tonight knowing that you’ll have the same future as that damned Juan Marcos, alone in a grave that no one’ll visit.”
It was as if thousands of years and hurt had finally created the courage to leave your shoulders, as if all the suffering he put your mother through had transformed into a controlled and punctual fury in your heart. A return. An end. And you left there knowing that, with that, you closed a cycle that gave you a happiness more sincere than Escobar's dead body on that roof.
******
Two days before…
You weren’t with your work clothes, so the heat was more bearable with the tank top. The worn out jeans were still there, just as the old boots, and just as the gun and badge. Habits. Carrillo looked at you beside him in the car, arms crossed with the stance of that old self, full Colonel mood of his.
“Are you sure the info is relatable? Safe?”
“I am. Do you want me to bring all of the Colombian Army to this when you all should be celebrating something out there?” You turned to him with a teasing smile, seeing the frown on his face getting even more deeper. “Horacio-”
“Some of them are still out there. You should at least let Trujillo do a-”
“You’re already here with me, Horacio, and this is already too much. There’s people who need you right now.”
Instead of answering, he let you hold his toned arms, then both sides of his neck to melt some of his stubbornness in avert your gaze. Not getting a reaction, you tilted your head to get a better look of his face, jaw tightening in insistence, which made you sigh and let him go.
“You don’t know him,” He said.
“I’m aware.”
“And we’ve been through enough to be suspicious.”
“I’m aware,” You insisted, brows raised. “To be honest, I don’t know if I wanna do this but… If it’s him, if… I need to be sure.”
“Why?”
For a moment you just stared at his confused expression, not knowing the right answer to that – not sure if you had one. Then you pursed your lips, shook your head and averted his eyes to look through the window, where you could see the small house from afar.
“... When my father left, my mother kind of disappeared. Mentally. It was as if the lights were on but no one was home,” Your tone was recoiled, way too low for someone so confident about their decisions. “He said some things to her, said this country was hell but even some cheap pussy could give him what he wanted. I honestly didn’t even know why he needed so much to have a son.”
You could feel Carrillo watching you carefully while you used that false calmness to explain what you wanted to say clearly.
“This made me spend time with my paternal grandparents because she couldn't bear to see me. I was a very complicated, restless child, so when my grandfather started using the old methods he used with my father and uncles when I messed up, I understood why he wanted a boy.”
You felt a weight on your chest, one that almost made you cry.
“At least I think I understand. He wanted to take out the frustrations of what he went through on someone and I was a girl, so naturally I couldn't handle punishment or fits of rage. I would have marks like my mother had and that would make things more complicated for his conscience. A boy could be molded to be strong, resilient. I was always too emotional for him.”
Like the perpetuation of the species to whom he could transfer descendants or something like that. Bullshit.
“I understand. Well, at least I think I would be that kind of person if things weren't different.”
“I don't think it's the same thing,” You shook your head. “You're here, that's more than he's ever done.”
“Because I love you.”
“And if you had children, you would love them too.”
Carrillo didn’t say anything. The idea of children only crossed his mind when he was younger, as soon as he married Juliana, and it seemed so distant that he forgot what it would be like to imagine a life with children. You didn't want that, that's for sure; Given the life you two had, it would even be selfish to bring a child into the world. And even if the car was so quiet, so… calm, Carrilo always had the feeling that someone was lurking, and he felt bad for thinking that, in another time, he would be the same type of father as your father was.
You could feel, little by little, how his hand sneaked closer to yours, the tip of his fingers carefully passing through your knuckles before going up to your wrist. It was so soft, the way he touched you to test the water, to not invade your space, that when his hand reached for your forearm, pulling you just enough to make you turn to him, nothing could stop you from hugging him as if your life depended on it, pressing against his body fiercely.
He didn't say anything because he didn't know how to say anything, because it wasn't like hearing the news that your father was coming to Colombia. Horacio was never good with soothing words. He knew how to act, that's for sure; in that case, if it were possible, if that sliver of humanity were to come away from him once and for all, your father would become a ghost like everyone else.
Well, but you already knew that – he had told you that when he recovered you from another low blow from your father. Selfishly, Horacio would always do his best to create miles of distance between the things he truly loved and those who risked any trace of peace he had achieved. And maybe you didn't know this, but he had made this promise to himself.
I'm not going to lose anymore, Horacio pressed you tighter against him, staring at the wall with the coldness of his decision. I don’t accept that.
“Let’s do this.”
******
I imagine to this day that you would never like Horacio. You always seemed too ‘communist’, progressive enough, but you would laugh until your stomach hurt at how stubborn he was. Still, I don't want to convince you to like him; I just want to tell you that it wasn't him who told me to leave before I could see you that day. You were fine, you were beautiful (I still know you are) and you were holding a baby in your lap, which I later realized was that of one of the patients you saved during an emergency birth. I was only there for 30 minutes and I heard people say more good things about you than they could ever say about me in my entire life. That's when I knew I had to leave you alone.
I cried in his arms later; I would cry a lot more in the years that followed, but I reserved every minute of my future life, the life I never planned for myself, to gather all the memories of what I could tell you one day. No, I'm not dying, at least not from my health, because you know that everyone dies one day, but I've been writing to you because I want you to know that you don't deserve the family you have because you're too good for us.
I want to tell you about Horacio. I want to tell you what we did and how I miss some things in life. I want to tell you this because I know he could be a solid bridge between the two of us, the person who would interpret you for me and interpret me for you. My mother would never be able to do it because of resentment, our father because of disregard and we because of ignorance.
Horacio, however, was my surprise during the time I spent in Medellín. If I want you to know me, I want to be able to reveal my best side, what I truly achieved when I decided I would love him.
******
It was strange not having plans, but you got on the plane alone. Horacio couldn't go with you, not at that moment; there was love between you, yes, but there was also responsibility, and he would never leave his own country behind. You understood. During the time you spent in Bogotá (not in Medellín), the two of you did things together: went out to dinner, visited places, had sex… Things that couples did. When you got on the plane, it was with the uncertainty that things would one day be okay, and that you would be able to reconcile life in Los Angeles with what had happened to the two of you in Colombia.
This was our father's fault and I'm completely sure of that. I was disallowed from having any further contact with the case, which I understood as private revenge for what I did, as if he wanted to take away more of the happiness you could have had if you were to work with Peña and Horacio later. I always resented him for that, I still do. Maybe it wasn't the worst thing he had done and today I know it wasn't, but it was as if every minute of my life, he took away a little of my happiness.
The letters you exchanged were always long, which went quite against his personality. It was as if, finally, he said in words everything he thought, did and gave his opinion. On your part, there were important descriptions, such as how much your mother was fond of him and the cases you worked on at the DEA. He, on the other hand, mentioned the well-known day to day life with Peña, what they worked on and how he missed you, above all, which hurt your heart.
“God, you have to put an end to this. I want to see you happy again, my daughter, and I want to meet him.”
In one of them, which was a call, he told you something that he kept so deeply within himself that he was certain that, one day, he would come back to you for good and that there would be no turning back.
“I want to marry you. I see no other choice and I have no other way out. I need to assure myself that I’ll no longer have to tolerate this ordeal without knowing that I’ll come home and find you.”
“Don't be so dramatic... I know people who would find our obstacles small compared to what they go through. I’ll wait for you, no matter how long it takes.”
“So wait. The next time we see each other, I'll have a ring to put on your finger.”
You know, I always thought he was a brute, but Horacio never failed to keep his promises. In fact, he came back with a ring, and we actually got married, which was a simple thing that meant enough to both of us. We moved to El Paso. It was close to Peña, in fact, and sometimes we spent holidays together, which I never thought would happen. Maybe, thinking about it now, it's those moments that I miss most.
“Is that white hair?”
“Fuck off, we both know we’re getting old,” You elbowed Javier in the guts, puffing smoke in the Texan hot air. “By the way, you’re getting a belly down there. Don’t come at me.”
“What I gained, you lost. Have you been eating?”
No was the proper answer. He knew it was, and that was why he asked. Still, you shrugged, taking another drag.
“... Yes.”
“Hey-”
“I am, Javi, I promise. It's just been different.”
“I hope so. One of you needs to remain standing.”
It was around the time our father passed away. Well, I can't say for sure if it was too close or too far, especially since he fulfilled his own mission of dying alone. I didn't have the opportunity to talk after he got sick; I didn't even know if he had someone. Today I'm almost the same age as he was when I was in Medellín and I can't see him in myself, while I don't know if I would live my life differently if he asked me for forgiveness. Below I leave exactly where he is buried and, if you want, you can visit him. If you're the praying type, decide if it makes sense to give him the privilege of prayer; God knows I'd like that too.
******
At that point of things, you made fun of Horacio for not actually marrying you like the tradition said, just giving you the ring he promised he would, but you understood that the world didn't survive on big events like that.
When he found out what the diagnosis was, you went straight to the computer and did your research. It wasn't that you didn't believe the doctors, but the first step to acceptance was denial, and you knew how to do that very well. At the time, you had just been promoted to an important position in Mexico. You found a good doctor there who could treat him, and the offer didn't get as much back-up as you thought it would – it was like he thought he was going to die.
It was a very different change than it had been when you went to Colombia years before. There was no urgency, no hustle, just the tranquility of a bureaucratic job with a good house, space for a yard and a good salary.
“It's in the early stages, so it's a relatively simple treatment. The change in routine and habits will be more severe, so I would be more attentive to that.”
You decided to stop smoking along with him because of this and, deep down, Horacio was a little upset at having to stop this habit.
“I don't know, I just feel embarrassed,” He said one night, you two sitting on the porch because he wanted to take a look at the street. “I didn't imagine that my life would end without emotion.”
“You won't die like this, stop being an idiot.”
“How can you know?”
“Well, because I just know.”
Not every day was easy and, honestly, coming to Mexico was the acid test for many things in my life. Interestingly, I never thought about giving up Horacio, and if I was honest with myself, I also thought that one day I would die from a gunshot or something that would make newspaper headlines. He would never admit it, and neither would I, because it seemed inconceivable, but having that life made us feel grateful and, most of all, lucky.
It was also at this time that I decided to get back in touch with you. He made a promise that if he was cured of cancer, he would include forgiveness for his own past, so we started slowly. I met Juliana (and the three children she had), and I started visiting our father almost religiously every year. We went back to Texas to see Javi, and sometimes we went to Miami to visit Steve. Horacio had reservations about my country, but he could appreciate some things that I think you might like too.
Jorge, I know that our life could have been different and I, as an older sister, feel responsible for being able to give you some glimpses of life with a family up here that loves you, because I would like that too. Along with these letters, I also send tickets to the capital, for you and your husband, if you want to visit us. Horacio is a great tour guide and I, interestingly enough, learned to be a great hostess.
I apologize for having done all this so late. Well, apologies are never enough, but I feel that this phase of my life, the phase of gray hair and wrinkles on my face, terribly nicknamed 'better years', is the right time for the two of us to reconcile for someone who left us behind.
I miss what we didn't have. Even if you don't want to, which I understand, know that my life is only complete because I know that a part of me is also in you.
******
“Appealing to nostalgia?”
Horacio barely raised his head from where he was staring at a box full of old trinkets. Through the mess of the office, he went straight to the memories of Medellín, rooting around and reliving the years in the dust, and he seemed focused enough to barely pay attention to you.
You could say that the guests were already arriving, that he should take a shower soon to welcome them, but the scene seemed so peaceful that you were afraid to interrupt and decided to participate.
“You have that perfume again,” He murmured right when you touched a framed picture of him and Trujillo alongside other stuff.
“Does that bother you?” You eyed him over your eyeglass lenses, to which he tsked and shook his head.
“You’re also appealing to nostalgia.”
“Huh, I remember that was the first thing you noticed about me when we met.”
Horacio then looked back at you and, seeing your mischievous smile, smiled back, leaning back on the chair to give you full attention.
“You drove me crazy, that's what.”
“I didn't know that was the effect it had on you. In fact, I was sure you hated me.”
“Because I couldn't want you and I wanted you.”
You left the frame in the box and walked over to him, walking around the table to sit on his lap, which he gladly accepted. For a few moments, you stood there, motionless, staring at his face, not knowing exactly what to say, just… admiring him, the grays on his hair and the lazy grin splattered there.
“What are you thinking?” He asked then, always eager to get inside your head.
“I always imagine that we wouldn't be here if we didn't live what we lived there,” You pondered, a hand massaging the side of his neck. “And it's weird because people have lost so much. Do you think we deserve it?”
“Is this part of your reconciliation process?”
“Yeah, I guess. I've been thinking about some things... I'm writing you a letter, even.”
“But I'm not going anywhere.”
“I know,” You pecked his lips softly. “Who knows, maybe I can express it with words instead of hiding it on paper.”
Horacio stared at you for a bit, his brow furrowed and the mechanisms moving in his head. You thought it was strange.
“What?”
“I want to read you something.”
You got up so he could look for what he was finding, and when he did, he took a notebook out of a box, accompanied by yellowed sheets of paper.
“I wrote these things while we were in Colombia.”
“And what exactly is it?”
“In the beginning, it was a diary of missions and operations that we carried out. The day you arrived, I ended up writing 'perfume' instead of 'precision', which made me realize that the feeling wouldn't leave my head. I didn't stop thinking about you after that, so I started… I don't know, writing down things about you, what you did, what irritated me and what I liked.”
There was no way to react, more out of shock than offense at him having kept it in for so long. You imagined a Carrillo from the past, a thousand times more stubborn and stubborn, taking the time to write about a woman he couldn't stand. Maybe sitting alone at night in the office, cigarette in one hand and whiskey in the other, mumbling swear words while saying he liked something about you, disbelieving his own feelings.
Then he took that photo that Steve had taken, which he stole and caused temporary chaos with your colleagues. You, younger, tired but with a spark of life, an eagerness to do the right things.
You watched him as he looked at the photo and felt a warm feeling in your heart that seemed more frequent since you started having more moments together.
When he started reading what he wanted, you could barely move.
“I don't know what this woman did to me and I try hard every day not to ruin everything because I think about her so much. The perfume drives me crazy, the defiant eyes impress me and, oh my, lately I've noticed how incredibly mind-blowing those jeans make her. I have no one to express these feelings to, perhaps because I can't say in words what I imagine when I think of her.”
“Today she told me to go fuck myself. I had to suppress my satisfying smile when I saw that fire in her eyes when she spat those words in my face, because I purposely provoked her into being angry with me, thinking I wanted a reason to get her away from me. In the end, I know that that exact reaction was what I wanted, that she will never give up because she is too stubborn to do so. She goes to the end. She is true to what she believes. I'm sure I'm in love.”
“If nothing were as it were, I would ask her to dinner. I would see her eyes light up in the candlelight, I would make all the romantic moves and show a side of me that no one knows. I want to see her confused, I want to surprise her, and then I want to kiss her, make love to her, and feel every inch of that sweaty skin beneath my fingers while I see her sigh with the pleasure I'm going to offer. I want her, I want her so much, and I feel bad for every kind of thought I might have about her.”
“I call these verses, then. Versos de Placer, in my mother tongue, one that she knows how to say and that is even more beautiful when it comes out of her mouth. Verses that I will never be able to recite out loud, not to her, but I will be able to remember as the spark of a good memory of the complicated days we spent hating ourselves because the world we are in is destroying us. Always her, and never anyone who isn't her or who even looks like her.”
“Always her and her perfume and her accent and her presence. Always.”
Summary: Two nights after Horacio Carrillo is gunned down by Pablo Escobar the drug lord receives a phone call that makes him question everything he's ever known. Meanwhile, you and Steve Murphy attend the Colonel's funeral. (Part 2)
—————————————————————
It was mid-afternoon when the phone rang.
“Who is this?”
“Don’t you recognize my voice?”
Of course, Pablo did. But it couldn’t really be him. This had to be some sort of sick joke and he wasn’t interested in hearing the punchline.
“What the fuck is this? Who are you? What the hell do you want?” Pablo snapped angrily into the phone.
“Listen to me carefully Pablo. You may have thought you won but you were so wrong. You’ve made me into something worse than you could have ever imagined. I am a ghost now Pablo and I will haunt you and follow you wherever you go. You cannot escape me, not in this life and not in the next. And when we meet again in hell I promise you I will make sure you pay for every single sin you’ve ever committed, you vile disgusting monster.”
Pablo forced a laugh from deep within his chest. The sound was dark and cold, absent of the soft lilt his wife Tata could so easily draw from him. But the callousness was purposeful. Pablo wanted to scare whoever had called him tonight because whoever dared to provoke the drug king of Columbia needed to understand that he wouldn’t be frightened so easily. Pablo Escobar didn’t have nightmares anymore but he could dole them out.
“This is pathetic. Colonel Carillo is dead, and he will rot in the ground like the useless little worm he-”
“No Pablo. No, I won’t.” The voice interrupted, “But I will see you here soon where the fire is burning and your cousin is still screaming and choking on his own blood. Do you want to hear him, Pablo? Do you want to hear him cry and whimper? Should I put him on the phone?”
Pablo gripped the satellite phone tighter, turning his knuckles white with rage. Bringing up his beloved cousin Gustavo was a step too far. The prank caller had just unknowingly signed their own death warrant.
“Shut up! Shut up you motherfucker! Whoever you are I will find you and kill you. Do you hear me? You’re next. You and every single person you have ever loved. Dead! You’re all dead! I will kill you just like I killed him! You hear me!”
The voice on the phone scoffed. “You already returned my bullet, Pablo. How can you kill me twice?”
A stillness consumed Pablo, cementing his bare feet to the cool tile floor of the hacienda and quickening his pulse. How did the voice know what he had said two nights ago on that dark street? How did they know he had shown Carrillo the bullet before loading it in the chamber and firing it into his thigh?
Pablo turned his head away and looked at his shoes that were strewn by the door. They were still covered in dark maroon blotches of dried blood… Carillo’s blood.
He closed his eyes and returned to that night. He could smell the fire, the gasoline, and the burnt rubber. He could taste the gunpowder in the air and he could feel the sweat dripping from his brow. He could see so clearly the rivers of blood dripping out of Carrillo’s mouth and pooling onto the asphalt, soaking into his sneakers and turning their white fabric a deep red.
It was all so vivid. Too vivid to be a dream. It had been real. He had killed him. Colonel Horacio Carrillo was dead. He had to be. Because otherwise…
Pablo opened his eyes again and stared at his bloody shoes. He didn’t believe in ghosts and if they were real the logical part of him thought he certainly would have faced the wrath of one long ago. But deep down there was another part of him, a smaller part, that wondered if maybe he was wrong about the afterlife. Maybe he had doomed himself. Maybe he would be haunted for the rest of his living days by a vengeful spirit.
That small part of him thought it made sense…because how else could a dead man whisper “cobarde” before hanging up?
—————————————————————
Dark clouds pushed over the mountains and consumed Medellin, blocking out the sun and shrouding the valley below in a despairing and muggy gloom. It was a rather fitting setting for a funeral. One surely to be played up by the reporters who had gathered by the dozens at the miserable affair. The incorruptible and unrelenting Colonel Horacio Carrillo’s death had made for dramatic headlines and the papers printed about his murder flew off the shelves.
But that wasn’t surprising. Carrillo’s name wasn’t unknown to the people of Columbia. For years it seemed like everyone in the country had held their own opinions on the man.
Many Columbians had supported Carrillo’s efforts, believing that no matter the cost, Escobar needed to be stopped. While others had disagreed, feeling the Colonel had crossed too many lines. But today, as a soft rain started to fall on Carrillo’s casket, both sides were united in mourning. Without Colonel Horacio Carrillo on the front lines who would stop Pablo Escobar? What man would willingly step into a job where death was surely the only outcome and more importantly, who would save Colombia now?
That last question had kept you up more nights than you cared to admit when you first arrived in Columbia. As a young DEA agent the blood and destruction you had come to experience in Latin America was unparalleled to that which you had witnessed at home. But as the months passed you started to believe Carrillo was going to be the country’s savior. His drive and effort were unmatched by any man you had ever met and truthfully it inspired you.
Yet, despite your admiration, you never told him how you felt. In your mind, there was something unprofessional about sharing your feelings with the Colonel and Horacio Carrillo certainly wasn’t a man who needed praise to do his job well. So you held your tongue and kept your faith in him private. But today, watching his casket being lowered into the ground, you couldn’t help but wonder how he would have responded if you had just been honest.
“Hey,” an American-accented voice called out in your direction, snapping you out of your spiraling thoughts.
You stared down at the wet earth as your DEA partner Steve Murphy placed a warm hand on your shoulder. You kept your eyes glued to the muddy graveyard dirt as he came around to face you. You hoped he would confuse the tears on your cheeks for raindrops. Probably a fat chance, considering your eyes were bloodshot beyond belief.
“I’m meeting Peña for a drink. Come with me,” Murphy said. His voice was softer than you were used to. It drew your face upwards and he offered you a small fleeting smile. For as tough as Steve could be interrogating and chasing down narcos, you knew he also had a softer side. You had seen it when he adopted his daughter Olivia or when he talked about his beautiful wife Connie. You were thankful for his invitation but truthfully there was only one place you wanted to be and it wasn’t at a bar with him and Peña.
“No thanks. I just want to go home.” You said, voice a little shakier than you would have liked.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
Murphy gave you a nod and started to walk back to his wife.
“Hey, Murphy.” He paused looking over his shoulder, “Thanks for asking though. See you tomorrow?”
“Yeah, see you then.” Murphy walked off and you headed to your car. Neither of you noticed the small boy hiding behind a tree confirming on radio that Colonel Carrillo’s body had been placed 6 feet under the ground.
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It was just a door. A mundane bedroom door painted an ordinary white and accented by a dull black handle. There was nothing abnormal or alarming about it but that didn’t seem to matter because right now you were terrified by it. The abject fear was so consuming that small droplets of water splashed out of the glass in your hands and landed on the hallway floor by your bare feet. Shootouts with sicarios you could handle, but this… this was something entirely different. Your body continued to shake as your chest tightened.
“Come on, it’ll be alright,” you whispered to yourself in a weak attempt to conjure up some courage.
You had only been gone for an hour or so. The funeral had been a shorter ceremony than you had expected, but in that time you knew anything could have happened. Turns for the worst were never prolonged events. They happened quickly and at the worst times. You prayed that this wasn’t the worst time.
Pushing open the door, you found your room looked exactly the same as you had left it. Machines on either side of your bed hummed and beeped softly, while dozens of small wires and tubes connected them to a huddled mass lying in the center of your bed. You stepped closer and saw the sheets gently rise and fall. A small breath of air came back into your lungs.
“Carrillo?”
“Mmmm.” The huddled mass quietly hummed in response and relief washed over you. He was still alive. Breathing, conscious, and alive.
“I brought you some water,” you said softly stepping around the side of your bed before taking a better look at the man lying in your sheets.
Carrillo might have been alive but he looked entirely dissimilar from the man you had come to know. The Colonel you saw every day ruthlessly fighting for his country had beautifully tanned skin that was kissed by the Columbian sun. He had strong muscles that constrained tightly against his clothing and he wore his hair short and kept his face clean-shaven in fashion with his strict military discipline.
But this man, the one lying below you now, looked nothing like that Colonel Carrillo. This man was so pale that you could clearly see every blue and purple vein through the skin of his neck and hands. He had a thin sheen of sweat glistening on his brow that stuck his messy and thick dark hair to his forehead and his strong jaw was covered with a dark and coarse stubble that made him look messy and unkempt. If you hadn’t brought him to your bed yourself you would have never guessed this was the fearsome leader of Search Bloc.
“Garcías,” Carrillo murmured weakly after taking a sip of the water you held to his lips. You offered him a small smile in turn and grabbed a bottle of pills off the bedside table.
“For the pain,” you said showing him the bottle. For a brief moment, your thumb brushed over his chapped lips as you gently placed one of the pills in his mouth. He closed his eyes and swallowed. You felt your chest constrict again when he looked up at you with his tired chestnut eyes.
It was difficult seeing Carrillo like this. He had been a pillar of strength during your time in Columbia and even though you both knew how dangerous this game was that you played with the cartel, you never expected to see him like this. You thought he would be strong and alive or dead and gone. This middle ground was more painful than you could have ever imagined.
You tore your eyes away from Carrillo’s face and looked around the room. You were searching for something, anything, to distract yourself with while the air slowly worked its way back into your lungs. It was then you noticed that something was out of place.
You had left a satellite phone by Carrillo’s hand before heading to the funeral. You had gently explained to him that if anything happened he should call you. It might have been a stupid idea, if he needed you that badly he probably wouldn’t have even been able to dial a phone, but you had left it there just the same. Strangely now though you realized the phone had moved. It currently sat precariously on the edge of the bed.
“Did you try to call me?” You said concernedly looking back again at Carrillo.
“No,” he answered staring at you, his face inscrutable.
“Did you call someone else?”
“No importa.”
A swell of rage consumed you as you picked up the phone.
“It’s not important? Are you serious right now?!” You didn’t understand how could Carrillo think that it wasn’t important. For every person who knew he was alive his chances of survival dropped. You both knew that Pablo’s tentacles were long and deadly.
“Look at yourself! You are barely alive and you’re holed up here in my apartment just fucking patched together. If someone else knows you are alive you need to tell me right now! I need to know so I can take care of it. You can’t… I can’t… Fuck Carrillo!”
The words to express your outrage were difficult to find, especially considering it had been several days since you last slept. You had spent every single moment since the ambush trying to do two things: keep Carrillo alive and keep it a secret. Neither task had been simple.
After the attack, Trujillo had ridden in the ambulance with Carrillo. He had wanted to protect his Colonel’s body from any potential desecration. It was a sickening thought, but one that was entirely possible when anyone could be on Pablo’s payroll.
Trujillo didn’t notice the small breaths Carrillo took as his body was loaded into the ambulance. From the bloody scene on the street, no one could have thought the Colonel survived. But if Horacio was anything he was a fighter. And when the paramedics did finally realize, that despite the rivers of blood Carrillo had lost he still had a faint pulse, Trujillo directed them away from the local hospital. He knew sicarios would come to finish the job if anyone matching the Colonel’s description were to arrive. So instead, he ordered the paramedics to the home of a surgeon and close friend he trusted.
But before the doctor could dig the bullets out of Carrillo’s body, the Colonel miraculously opened his eyes. He desperately grabbed Trujillo by the collar of his shirt and whispered your name over and over and over again, repeating it like it was a prayer. Trujillo promised his friend that he would call you and while the doctor tended to Carrillo, he did so.
Over the next hour, you and Trujillo developed a plan. You both would find and execute a low-level sicario that matched Carrillo’s physique, dress him in the Colonel’s bloody uniform, and deliver the body to the morgue in his place. The paramedics would each be paid handsomely and driven to the airport the following morning with American visas in hand and when Carrillo was stable, or stable enough, you would move him to your apartment along with some equipment the surgeon would “borrow” from a hospital. It was a bold gamble, reckless with low odds of success, but the two of you were willing to roll the dice for a chance to save the Colonel. So far, maybe by the grace of a higher power, your plan had worked.
It exasperated you to hear that now Carrillo could have upended everything you and Trujillo had done for him over a single stupid phone call.
“I’ve done everything I can to make sure no one knows you are here and I’m trying my best to keep you alive. So what is it… do you have a goddamn death wish Carrillo?!” Your voice was loud, echoing off the barren walls and tall ceilings of your room as you waved the phone around erratically.
“No.”
“No.” You scoffed, “No, says the man who was shot 6 times.”
“Mírame cariño.” You were so caught up in your own indignation that you couldn’t register the term of endearment that had rolled so sweetly off his tongue. But you met his dark eyes just the same and nothing could have prepared you for the way he looked up at you.
His eyes were solemn and their beautiful hazel color had shifted to a duller shade of burnt umber. He looked emotionally drained, like maybe Columbia, the war, and Escobar had already taken too much from him. It dawned on you that maybe you were just prolonging the inevitable. Maybe this sad ending was his only way out.
“Horacio…” He blinked heavily and his eyes softened as you quietly called his name. Tears began to swell in the corners of your eyes. “Please tell me this ends another way,” you whispered faintly.
“What?” Carrillo’s eyes widened slightly in surprise as he switched to English.
“Tell me, how does this end? Because standing in front of your casket today was the worst pain and I don’t want to do it again. I won’t do it again. I can’t. I don’t know why you told Trujillo to get me the other night, but I… I…” The tears were streaming down your cheeks now and you struggled to speak. You wanted him to sit up, grab you by the shoulders, and tell you what to do. If he could just find the strength to lead one more time maybe everything could be okay. Maybe you both could get through this in one piece.
“I don’t know how this ends,” he said wearily. His brutal honesty cut into you like a hot knife, sucking the oxygen from the room and forcing you to your knees beside the bed.
“But I need you… I need you alive because… because who else can I trust? You have to understand please, Columbia needs you alive. You’re the one who’s going to stop him. I know it. So you need to get better. You have to get stronger. You need to fight okay. Promise me that you will.” Your voice wavered as you begged him desperately and reached for his hand, squeezing his calloused palm in yours. You needed him to understand just what he meant to Columbia but a prolonged silence filled the room and you started to wonder if he had already given up. Maybe he was finally done fighting.
But then after an eternity, he whispered two simple words.
“I promise.”
And it was enough to crumble you. You let go of Carrillo’s hand and sobbed, slumping forward and burying your face into the edge of your bed. You wept there, eyes drenching your sheets, for so long that your body finally succame to exhaustion and for the first time in several days you fell asleep.
Horacio had never seen you cry before. As tough and steadfast as he was, he knew you were equally so. But when he looked over at your sleeping face, red and puffy from tears, he wondered how he could have broken you like this. Perhaps, he let himself dream, there was a part of you that felt the same way he did.
He hesitantly reached his hand over to your tear-stained cheek and brushed his thumb against your soft and warm skin. He didn’t want to wake you but he couldn’t help himself. He had thought about what it would be like to touch you for so long. In truth, there were countless late nights where his mind had wandered and you had crept in.
Sometimes he dreamt about you when he was at home and he could act on his most lustful urges and groan your name in his empty and lonely bedroom. Other times, more inconveniently, he thought about you when he was in his office and he would struggle to keep his composure for the rest of the evening. But no matter where he fantasized about you he always imagined the same moment, his skin intimately touching yours for the very first time. He spent hours thinking about it. He dreamt about how soft you might feel under his fingertips and how sweet you might taste on his tongue.
And he imagined all the places he wanted to put his hands on you first. Sometimes he envisioned it would be against your neck, other times your chest. His favorite indulgence was dreaming about his hands on your plush and beautiful thighs.
He also dreamt of the different ways in which he could touch you. He sometimes thought about being rough, digging his hands into your body, and leaving his mark behind so that everyone could see what he’d done. Other times he imagined being soft and gentle, caressing the intimate places you had only ever allowed a few others to touch. Most often though, he thought about worshipping you and giving you anything and everything you wanted.
But in all his wildest fantasies, Carrillo had never imagined getting to touch you for the first time like this. Because this, wiping your tears away as he laid too broken to sit up and hold you like you so desperately deserved…this was too sad and too bleak for those sweet dreams. As warm and as soft as you were, he never wanted this. You were worthy of so much more.
pairings: retired f1 drivers x retired f1 legend!yn.
faceclaim: jessica alba.
summary: being the first-ever female f1 world champion was hard enough. writing a tell-all about it, including all the details of your beef with that former driver? let’s just say the track wasn’t the only place things got heated.
warnings: mentions of misogyny. like a lot. so if that is something that makes you uncomfortable, please don’t read!! your comfort comes first <3
author’s note: ignore timeline issues!! this was all inspired by that one anon who said something about yn writing a tell-all. this was written in like three hours. if you liked this, maybe send me an ask? :D
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liked by vogue, jimmyfallon and 2,837,018 others
yourinstagram: it was so fun talking to jimmyfallon about writing my memoir ‘lucky girl syndrome’! i talked about getting the call that i was being signed, getting name dropped in a kdot song (thank you for making me cool to my nephews!) and the legacy i want to leave behind. check it out!!!
view all 298,727 comments
user1: MOTHERRR
user2: omg i’ve already pre-ordered my copy!!
-> user3: i’ve reserved it at my local library 🫡
user4: i hope she spills all the tea. i wanna know exactly who the misogynist motherfuckers are.
user5: she’s the goat female driver idc!! first female championship winner!!
-> user9: during her time in mclaren, jenson was carrying her. but yeah let’s talk about that one rigged championship 😂
user6: she still looks so hot. my first celeb crush.
-> user7: i had pictures of her all over my wall. i think my mom still has them up 😓
user8: worst driver of all time. only there because she looked good in the race suit.
-> user11: if she wasn’t hot, no one would care about her driving.
user10: this was always going to happen when you allowed women into f1. ruined the sport. she was nothing but a distraction on the grid.
-> user12: she was incredible. she clawed her way to a championship when everyone doubted her. she proved that women can do anything. the only distraction are people like you.
user13: please please please tell me she says that her and jenson were a thing. i always used to ship them so bad. the photoshoot for british vogue was imprinted on my thirteen year old brain.
-> user14: ANOTHER JENSONYN SHIPPER!!! baitclaren was my fav mclaren era. y’all can have your twinkclaren!!
-> user15: remember when jenson shut down a misogynistic reporter who tried to imply that yn wasn’t a good driver?? that was his girl frfr!!
user16: i’m so proud of u yn. you’ve been through so much and i’m excited to support you.
*liked by yourinstagram.*
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“SHE’S NOT THAT FAST — SHE JUST GETS LUCKY SOMETIMES. THAT’S ALL IT IS. RIGHT CAR — RIGHT TIME. LUCKY GIRL SYNDROME.” — a senior mclaren engineer.
dedicated to everyone who ever rooted for me. thank you.
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EXCERPT FROM LUCKY GIRL SYNDROME.
by yn yln.
when i signed with mclaren in 2013, i thought i was living my dream.
i was the only female driver on the grid, paired with jenson button—a world champion, a household name, and, to some, a certified heartthrob. they already loved calling him “promiscuous” in the press, and suddenly there i was: the pretty young woman who happened to drive fast. to them, we weren’t drivers—we were a brand. two good-looking people in shiny cars. and that label stuck.
from the start, i wasn’t taken seriously. i’d show up to meetings and realize they’d given me the wrong time—jenson would already be there, halfway through strategising with the team. he always looked uncomfortable when i walked in late, knowing i wasn’t told the same things he was.
“you’re here now,” he’d say, smiling politely, trying to ease the tension. i liked him. he wasn’t the problem. he was respectful, and if anyone made an offhand comment about me, he’d interject with a joke to cut through the awkwardness. but even his kindness couldn’t fix what was fundamentally wrong.
my first podium was a moment i’d worked my entire life for. it was a race where i drove faster than jenson, faster than most of the grid. but the photo they posted of me on the team’s social media wasn’t of me crossing the finish line, or holding my trophy.
it was me in the garage, leaning over the car, my race suit unzipped halfway down. the caption didn’t even mention the podium. it was just… my body. i couldn’t stomach looking through the comments.
i’ll never forget calling my dad that night. he was furious. he asked me why i didn’t make a fuss. why i didn’t storm into the team’s office and demand better treatment. but what he didn’t understand was that it wasn’t that simple. you’re the only woman in a room full of men, and they’re already waiting for you to slip up. waiting for you to show too much emotion, to prove them right when they think women are too “dramatic” to handle the job.
so i kept my head down. i smiled at the cameras, laughed at the jokes, and drove my ass off every weekend. and every time i was faster than jenson, every time i outqualified him or finished ahead, they’d say, “she got lucky.” when he beat me, they’d say, “see? this is why she doesn’t belong here.” it was a game i couldn’t win.
being the first woman on the grid wasn’t just about being fast. it was about being everything they didn’t expect me to be: calm, collected, agreeable. i couldn’t afford to push back because i knew they’d use it against me. so i swallowed it all, every little slight, every dismissive comment, every missed opportunity. i thought if i just kept my head down and drove, eventually, i’d earn their respect.
but now, looking back, i realize… they were never going to respect me. not really. not as a driver. they respected what i did for their brand, for their image. they respected how well i played the part. but as a person, as an athlete? i was just another pretty face to them. nothing more. and that’s what hurt the most.
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r/books
Discussion Thread:
“Lucky Girl Syndrome” by YN YLN: Thoughts, Reactions, and the Drama It’s Stirred Up.
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u/checkeredpast: just finished lucky girl syndrome, and WOW. she did not hold back. calling out mclaren for the way they treated her, the “wrong meeting times” sabotage, and the completely inappropriate podium photo… i can’t believe this stuff actually happened.
u/fastlaneandfurious: the part where she talks about the team using her as a “walking brand strategy” instead of a driver broke my heart. like, they wanted her to be the face of the team but refused to actually treat her like a serious athlete.
u/f1fanfiction: let’s talk about the fact that she outsold literally every sports memoir in history. 2 million copies sold in the first week. yn doesn’t just break records on the track, apparently.
u/nosteeringallowed: her calling out the media for labeling her as “lucky” after she beat half the grid is ICONIC. “they didn’t call my male teammates lucky—they called them skilled.” like, yes queen, drag them.
u/ynsthegoat: what got me was the chapter about the infamous team dinner where they wouldn’t even let her speak during strategy talk. then she went out and out-qualified jenson the next day.
u/overqualifiedandundervalued: “they said i was lucky, but luck doesn’t drive faster laps or win races. luck didn’t make me the first woman to win a championship—it was skill, it was hard work, and it was me.” CHILLS. absolute chills.
u/gridgossip: is no one going to talk about the tea she spilled on that one driver? the “polite but condescending” comments she got from him while he constantly undermined her. we KNOW it’s about seb.
u/wheresthefinishline: @ u/gridgossip no no no, it’s def about fernando. she’s been shady about him for years, and the way she described the “overly competitive teammate who couldn’t handle being outpaced by a woman” fits him perfectly.
u/holygrailpodium: the inappropriate photo after her first podium makes me so mad every time. she’s standing there in tears, holding the trophy, and they choose to post a picture of her leaning over the car with her suit half-open?? disgusting.
u/gaslitandgridlocked: her dad being her biggest defender was such a beautiful part of the book, though. “why do you stay quiet when you’re the fastest in the room?” hit me right in the heart.
u/podiumqueen: not me crying over how she kept driving through all of this, knowing they didn’t want her there. like, the strength it must’ve taken to win races when her own team wasn’t even rooting for her.
u/championshipenergy: the way she calls out how different her career would’ve been if she were a man was SO POWERFUL. “they didn’t need me to be fast, they needed me to be pretty. they got both, and they still weren’t satisfied.”
u/mimosasontherace: i can’t stop thinking about the last chapter where she talks about winning her first championship and how no one in her team even hugged her when the cameras switched off. like, they couldn’t even fake happiness for her.
u/driversanddivas: this book isn’t just a memoir; it’s a reckoning. yn exposed everyone who doubted her and proved that no matter what they threw at her, she came out on top. lucky girl syndrome my ass—she EARNED that title.
u/lightsoutandread: imagine being on the grid right now, knowing you were one of the people she called out. the absolute awkwardness.
u/trophiesandtrauma: if you’re on the fence about reading this, DO IT. it’s not just about racing—it’s about breaking barriers, sexism, and resilience. honestly, it deserves all the success it’s getting.
u/checkeredpast: she’s already announced a limited series deal with a streaming platform. you KNOW it’s going to be messy when they dramatize the “wrong meeting times” scene.
u/bookishracer: “lucky girl syndrome” is officially my book of the year. yn didn’t just tell her story; she made sure no one could ever erase it again.
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liked by f1stan, ynstan and 1,837,928 others.
ham1ltonshaderoom: f1 legend and now best selling author, yn yln, took to harper’s bazaar to discuss writing and her career. however, her memoir went viral for more than its record breaking sales. yln mentioned that there was a certain driver that would be her biggest fan in public and then undermine her in public. it has been dubbed ‘x marks the spot’, with the hashtag gaining major traction on social media. what do you think ham1ltons? and who do you think the supposed driver could be?
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‘there was one driver who always seemed to go out of his way to remind me i didn’t belong. he wasn’t on my team, but his presence always lingered—sharp, dismissive, condescending. let’s call him x. in interviews, he’d say all the right things, calling me a “trailblazer” and claiming he respected what i brought to the sport. but in the paddock, it was another story. during press conferences, he’d interrupt me, throwing in some smug joke that made everyone laugh but left me feeling small. once, during a rain delay, he walked past my garage and casually remarked to my engineer, loud enough for me to hear, “well, at least she’ll look good sliding off the track.” and when i won my first race, beating him in the process, he didn’t say a word. no handshake, no congratulations—just a quick glance and he was gone. i’ll never know why he went out of his way to belittle me, but in the end, i didn’t care. that win wasn’t for him. it was for me.’
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view all 23,727 comments
user1: it’s definitely fernando. they’ve never liked each other, and he’s always been salty when anyone’s faster than him.
-> user2: nah, it can’t be fernando. he’s competitive, but he’s never outright disrespectful. i’m thinking nico.
-> user1: girl that’s the point 😭 x was never openly disrespectful.
user3: okay but what about lewis? we KNOW their relationship wasn’t always great. remember how tense they were in interviews back then?
-> user4: no way it’s lewis. he’s literally said she’s one of the most talented drivers he’s raced against.
-> user5: lewis can say nice things now, but what if he wasn’t like that back then? she didn’t say the guy stayed disrespectful. she also said x was nice in public, who knew what he was saying in private.
user6: everyone’s ignoring seb, but she’s shaded him before. what if it’s him?
-> user7: yn has ALWAYS defended seb. if anything, he was one of the few drivers who actually supported her. it’s not him.
user8: it has to be fernando. the whole paragraph is giving fernando energy, and you know it.
-> user9: nah, i still think it’s nico. remember when he threw shade at her in a press conference after she outqualified him?
user10: you’re all wrong. it’s michael. she’s talked about how intimidating he was to race against, and she never got along with him.
-> user11: yn literally called michael one of her idols. she’d never write about him like that.
user12: y’all are missing the obvious answer—kimi. he’s the only one who would say something that blunt and not care about the fallout.
-> user13: kimi didn’t even talk to her half the time lol. i can’t see him caring enough to belittle her.
user14: okay, what if it’s no one we’re expecting? maybe it’s some random mid-grid guy like grosjean or massa.
-> user15: yn wouldn’t waste a whole chapter on someone irrelevant. it has to be one of the big names. my money’s on fernando or nico.
-> user1: fernando for sure. yn’s always been lowkey bitter about him, and this just proves it.
-> user2: it’s not fernando!! why can’t you just accept that some drivers are cocky without it being him??
-> user3: okay but if it’s not fernando, who else would it be?? the smug comments SCREAM his vibe.
user5: we’re all arguing, but yn’s probably laughing at us right now. she KNEW we’d be doing this.
user16: yn ‘attention whore’ yln.
user17: at least we know it wasn’t my king jb 😻
user18: idk who tf yn is but this tea is so juicy 😭
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[setting: thanksgiving dinner, complete chaos. plates of food are half-eaten, wine glasses are full, and cousin jess is recording everything on tiktok. the family is deep into an argument about “x marks the spot,” using jess’s infamous powerpoint as reference.]
uncle bob: jess, i still don’t get why you made a whole powerpoint about this.
cousin jess: because the people need to know, uncle bob. yn’s memoir is the drama of the decade, and you’re welcome for organizing all the evidence.
aunt carol: honestly, it’s that fernando. slide four proves it. all the press conferences where he interrupted her? it’s right there.
aunt fiona: fernando wasn’t that bad. he even congratulated her in, like, 2017. i think it’s nico. slide eight, jess literally wrote “petty king energy” under his name.
uncle hamish: it’s not nico. you’re all overthinking this. i say it’s jenson. didn’t he once call her “intense” in an interview?
cousin matt: jenson literally defended her against the media every other week, hamish. you clearly didn’t listen to slide six.
grandpa: i still don’t understand why this yn person didn’t just punch the guy.
grandma: because she has class, unlike this family. pass the stuffing.
aunt bobbi: wait, what about lewis? slide ten said they were “friendly but complicated.” maybe he was fake-nice to her.
uncle craig: fake-nice? lewis was the only one who liked her, bobbi. slide nine has like five examples of him hyping her up in interviews.
cousin jess: uncle craig, you’re wrong. he was supportive, but there’s that one time he ignored her after she beat him in qualifying. it’s suspicious.
aunt carol: you think it’s suspicious? no way. lewis isn’t smug enough to be x.
uncle hamish: oh please, you’re all just picking names because they sound dramatic. if anything, it was sebastian.
aunt fiona: seb? absolutely not. slide seven shows he called her “one of the best drivers on the grid” multiple times.
uncle bob: that’s suspicious. who compliments people that much unless they’re guilty?
grandma: compliments aren’t guilt, bob. stop eating the cranberry sauce straight from the bowl and get a grip.
aunt carol: you’re all wrong. slide four, people! fernando cutting her off mid-sentence! the man’s guilty as sin.
grandpa: why does anyone care about this? it’s all rich people in fancy cars. sounds like nonsense.
cousin matt: rich people drama is the best kind of drama, grandpa.
aunt bobbi: jess, why is kimi’s slide just a picture of him smoking with “#needthat” written under it?
cousin jess: because kimi’s innocent. everyone knows he doesn’t care about anything but being my dream man.
uncle craig: so why isn’t yn on the slide about drivers who were universally liked?
cousin jess: because she wasn’t universally liked, uncle craig. she was fast, hot, and female in a male-dominated sport. they were all salty.
uncle bob: well, now they’re all posting about how much they respect her.
grandma: of course they are. it’s called covering their asses.
uncle hamish: if i were yn, i’d name names. all this mystery is just fueling conspiracy theories.
grandpa: or she could just leave it alone so we don’t have to argue about it at thanksgiving. what the hell even is f1? is that nascar?
uncle craig: formula 1, dad. jesus, keep up.
grandma (snapping): if someone doesn’t pass me the cranberry sauce right now, i’m gonna be the next x.
[jess pans the camera to her grandma glaring at the table, muttering under her breath as the family keeps arguing.]
cousin jess (whispering into her phone): y’all, my family is losing it over x marks the spot. happy thanksgiving.
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liked by landopriv, ynupdates and 4,738,918 others.
ham1ltonshaderoom: an update on the ‘x marks the spot’ speculation. it started over who exactly is x, from f1 legend yn yln’s memoir and it is causing a stir. with former/current drivers taking to social media and journalists to prove their innocence. kimi räikkönen, when asked, said ‘yn deserved every win she got. people talked too much, but she let her driving do all the talking. always respected that about her.’ mick schumacher released a statement via instagram, with a montage of photos of him and his dad with the first female championship winner: ‘my dad always believed yn was one of the most talented drivers he’d ever seen. he admired her strength, her skill, and her ability to prove everyone wrong, time and time again. he spoke so highly of her and what she brought to the sport, and i know he’d be so proud to see her telling her story.’ when sebastian vettel made a rare appearance to the grid, he confirmed that he had bought a copy and thought that he was proud to watch yn ‘make history’.
now the sudden flurry of support is making fans of the sport wonder just who is genuine and who is covering his ass? what do you think ham1ltons?
view all 2,983 comments
user1: the way literally everyone is tripping over themselves to prove it’s not them is SO funny. one of you is lying, and we will figure it out.
-> user20: exactly!! the fact that EVERYONE is suddenly posting/talking feels so suspicious lmao. someone’s definitely guilty, and they’re trying to throw us off the scent.
user2: kimi’s response is so him. short, straight, and unbothered. it’s definitely not him.
-> user22: we’re all analysing this, but kimi’s out here just vibing like always. love that man.
user3: mick’s statement is beautiful and wholesome as always, but also low-key throwing shade at the others?? like, ‘my dad always supported her’ is giving ‘can’t say the same for you lot.’
-> user21: honestly, mick’s post is the only one that feels 100% genuine. his dad was always so supportive of yn.
user4: seb really said ‘i bought the book’ and dipped. man didn’t even deny anything outright. sus??
-> user5: nah, seb’s always been a yn fanboy. remember when he called her ‘the most talented driver on the grid’? it’s not him.
user6: the lewis and nico posts are giving major ‘damage control’ energy. both of them trying WAY too hard to sound supportive.
-> user7: facts. lewis called her a ‘champion’ like we wouldn’t notice how cold things were between them back in the day.
-> user17: tbh, i don’t think it’s lewis. yn has said before that he was always encouraging her, and they’ve stayed friendly.
user8: fernando’s post feels so rehearsed. like, when has he ever gushed over yn like that before??
user9: low-key think it’s nico. man was so salty about literally everything back then, and the ‘petty king’ vibes match the memoir perfectly.
-> user10: yesss, especially the part where she said he didn’t congratulate her after her first win. sounds EXACTLY like something nico would do.
user11: not enough people are talking about jenson. just because he was her teammate doesn’t mean he’s innocent. the whole ‘answer my texts’ thing was cute, but he’s a smooth talker.
-> user12: nah, yn always spoke highly of jenson. he had her back when mclaren was treating her like a sex toy. i’m ruling him out.
user13: so we’re all just ignoring that fernando spent YEARS shading her in press conferences? india ‘13 is permanently engraved in my brain.
-> user18: can’t lie, if it’s fernando, i’ll be disappointed but not surprised. his 2013 energy was… a lot.
user14: honestly, they’re all acting sketchy. the sudden love bomb of support is too much. one of you is x and we will find out.
user15: plot twist: what if x isn’t even one of the obvious names? imagine it’s someone random like felipe massa lmao.
-> user16: watch it not even be one of the main suspects and we’ve been dragging the wrong guy this whole time 💀
user18: it’s giving ‘we need to get ahead of the narrative’ vibes, and i’m here for the chaos.
-> user19: everyone’s pr team is in OVERDRIVE rn lmfaoooo
────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────
who do you think x is?
nico
michael
lewis
fernando
jenson
sebastian
someone else
it’s not kimi so 😭 (use this as an idk)
Voting ended onDec 7, 2024
────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──────
— all works taglist: @luvsforme @yelenasloverrrrr @donttouchthegnote @chelle1306 @bloodyymaryy @km-23mr @stinkyjax @f1kenzzz @ctrlyomomma @aliciaablueprint @theblueblub @namgification @tallrock35 @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @ariellovelynn @shhhchriss @lifeless-firefly @xylinasdiary @evie-119 @itseightbeats @landososcar @yongi-lee @velentine @m1892 @blushmimi @evans-dejong @nixisracing @lethalvenus @sainzluvrr @santanasaintmendes @idontknowlmaoo @sainzluvrr @tetetoni @ssprayberrythings @heavy-vettel @tashisgf @daniskywalkersolo @c-losur3 @lestappenslover @linoscrly (see yourself tagged when you don’t wanna be? or you want to be and don’t see yourself? send me an ask!)
Summary: The one where not Carlos, nor you, have the power to fight the alchemy.
Pairing: dad!carlos sainz x mom!reader
Word Count: 7.2k
Warnings: absolute fluff (been a while), possible ovary explosion bc of dad!carlos, cursing (because i use way too many f-bombs in real life too), kids (apparently, it’s a tw for some people), i tried hating charles but it’s not happenning so a cheater redemption arc (kinda, he's trying okay??)
Author’s Note: hi, hey, hello!! first of all, thank you all so much for the love you showed for part one, i really appreciate it and i'm sorry that this part has been a little delayed, but i just wanted it to be just as drama-filled as the first part whilst still being a bit lighter so i hope i found the right balance for it. while we love dad!carlos, i felt like charles still deserved a chance to redeem himself and come to his senses so we love that redemption arc for him (well, kinda guess?). also, i know we have one more part of this little mini-series to go, a social media au (yay!), but i just wanted to let you all know, once again, that i do not have a taglist, and no i will not be making one!! however, i do appreciate all your support and comments, and please do let me know what you think about this part! thanks to @percervall once again, who had to listen me talk about this part for many many hours and who was kind enough to help me proofread!! i hope you guys enjoy! good morning, noon or night wherever you are, xoxobee
Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms.
It only happened once every few lifetimes.
You honestly did not expect to end up with one of your closest friends – especially not after you told your cheating husband that you were getting a divorce, after he chose his lover over you and your baby; and most definitely not after the said close friend told you that he would step up instead of your cheat of a husband.
But there you are, in the arms of non-other than Carlos Sainz, your boyfriend, having just woken up by the excited pitter patter of feet right outside your bedroom door. “Carlos,” you whisper, nudging him softly to wake him up, “Carlos, wake up.” You watch as he stirs, and then buries his head onto his pillow mumbling all the reasons why he doesn’t want to be awake, but you just chuckle softly as you poke him again. “Carlos, please.”
With a disgruntled grunt, you watch as his eyes open, and with a scratchy voice he whines, “What, amor, I was sleeping.”
Rolling your eyes, you point to the bedroom door, “Listen,” you tell him, and watch as his eyes widen as realisation sets in at the same time his expression turns into a smiling one. “I think someone is excited for today.”
“You think?” He retorts, snorting lightly as he pulls you closer, “That’s all he’s been able to talk about for weeks, amor.”
“Well, can you blame him?” You nudge him, ignoring the sound of scraping of your son’s step stool outside your door. “He just wants to watch his father win.” Watching the smile on your boyfriend’s face grows as the door handle is jiggling, you point to the pillows with your head, “Let’s just pretend we’re asleep, he’ll be happier that way.”
With a deep sigh, the happy kind, he pulls you closer to himself – at the right time too, as you hear the patter of footsteps getting closer. With a tug at the comforter, you hear, “Papa, wake up.” You can hear Carlos, badly, muffling a chuckle by burying his head deeper into your neck, but the little voice beside him is non-relenting. “Papa! You promised me we’d go to the race today!”
“Carlos,” you whisper covertly, “you’re going to make him cry.”
Giving you a look that silently says, No I won’t, he turns towards the little intruder in your bedroom, quickly gathering him in his arms as he puts him on the bed next to you. The sound of laughter coming from two of the most important men in your life bring a sleepy smile to your face as you watch Carlos tickle your son despites his protests for him to stop.
“Mommy!” Your son exclaims, climbing over Carlos to reach you, “Tell Papa to stop! We need to get ready!” His face is flushed with excitement and laughter, a sight that fills your heart with warmth.
“Alright, alright,” you say, giggling as you pull him into a hug, “let’s get ready then. You don’t want to be late for your big day, do you?”
Carlos finally stops his playful assault, sitting up and stretching with a groan. “She’s right, buddy. We should all get up and get going. Lots to do before the race, you still remember our plan for breakfast?” Your son’s eyes light up even more, if that were possible, and he scrambles off the bed, running back to his room to get dressed. You and Carlos exchange a glance, something you seem to do more now than ever.
You wait until Rafael is out of the hearing distance before you tilt your head sideways and narrow your eyes in question, “What plan are you talking about?”
“Nothing for you,” he boops your nose with his pointer finger as he straightens up and gets out of the bed, “to worry your pretty little head about. Just come to the kitchen when you’re ready.”
You raise an eyebrow, intrigued but willing to play along. “So, you think I’m pretty?” you ask, batting your eyes at him exaggeratedly as he gently shoves you back into the bed. Getting up and stretching, which you shamelessly take the opportunity to ogle him, you watch him with a smile as he heads towards the kitchen following your son. Getting ready consists of brushing your teeth and hastily throwing on a robe for you, too anxious to see what you son and husband cooking up in the kitchen – literally.
The scene in the kitchen is enough to melt your heart on its own – Rafael is standing on his trusty step stool at the counter, his little hands busy arranging an assortment of fruits on a plate. The concentration on his face is evident by the way his tongue peeks out slightly in that adorable way he does when he’s focused, a habit that he picked up from his father. Your boyfriend, on the other hand, is busy with flipping something in a pan, shirtless might you add.
“Oh my God, look at my boys!” You croon, leaning against the doorframe with a playful grin. “You even have matching hats and everything!”
“Boys?” Carlos scoffs, turning to Rafael and pointing his finger towards you, “Can you believe her?” He then turns to you as he places his hands on his hips and puffs out his chest. “We are not boys, amor, we are men.”
You chuckle at his exaggerated display of masculinity, shaking your head as you walk further into the kitchen. “Oh, of course, how could I forget? The two manliest men I know,” you tease, your voice dripping with playful sarcasm.
Rafael, picking up on the banter, puffs out his little chest just like his father, mimicking his stance. “Yeah, Mommy! We're strong, right, Papa?”
Carlos grins, his eyes twinkling as he looks at Rafael. “That’s right, we’re the strongest men in the world." He turns back to you, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “And we make the best breakfast too. Isn’t that right, Raf?”
“Yes!” Rafael exclaims, beaming with pride as he holds up the plate of perfectly arranged fruit. “Look what I made, Mommy!”
You lean down to inspect his handiwork, smiling softly. “Wow, this looks incredible, sweetheart. You’re so talented!” You give him a big kiss on the cheek, making him giggle.
Carlos steps closer, holding out a fork with a piece of pancake speared on it. “And how about a taste test, amor?” His voice is softer now, the playful tone giving way to something more tender.
You take the fork from him, taking a bite of the pancake. The fluffiness and warmth of it fill your senses, and you can’t help but let out a contented sigh. “This is amazing, Carlos. You’ve outdone yourself.”
He watches you with a satisfied smile, clearly pleased with your reaction. “Only the best for you.”
Rafael, not wanting to be left out, grabs a piece of fruit and holds it up to you. “Try mine too, Mommy!”
You take the fruit from him, savouring the sweetness as you chew. “Delicious! You’re both going to spoil me with all this great food.”
Carlos chuckles, wrapping an arm around your waist as he presses a kiss to your temple. “That’s the plan,” he murmurs against your skin, making you shiver slightly. “I can also spoil you in the other way you like,” his voice drops enough for only you to hear.
You glance up at him, meeting his playful yet heated gaze, and feel a blush creep up your cheeks. “Carlos,” you murmur, half-warning, half-inviting, as Rafael happily oblivious to the exchange, chatters away about his breakfast creation. “I would like to still be able to walk by the time we get to the paddock.”
But Carlos just smirks, leaning in to brush his lips against your ear, his breath warm and intoxicating. “Later, amor,” he promises, his voice thick with affection and mischief.
Before you can respond, Rafael tugs at your robe, breaking the spell. “Mommy! Let’s eat now!” His voice is filled with the kind of innocent excitement that only a child can muster, and it instantly brings you back in the present moment.
You smile down at him, ruffling his hair affectionately. “Alright, let’s eat. I’m starving.” Carlos gives you one last knowing glance before stepping back to grab the plates. As the three of you settle down at the table, you try to ignore his lingering gaze that makes your heart race just a bit faster, though you’re not exactly that successful.
It would be safe to say that it had been a crazy few years for Carlos Sainz. Or at least, that’s what Charles would say – if, you know, anybody was to ask him his opinion. First, he had lost his seat at Ferrari, and Charles really felt for him at first; after all, he was his teammate. But he was also the man who ended his marriage, so his feelings for Carlos changed for the worse very quickly. The whole situation had him coming to some revelations.
First revelation he came to was the fact that he was wrong for cheating on his wife, however complicated the situation might be. He had tried to justify it to himself, blaming the stress and the strain, but deep down, he knew there was no excuse for what he’d done.
Second revelation was that you deserved to be happy, with or without him – he was just being petty because it was with his old teammate. You deserved to be happy, and while Charles could admit that in theory, accepting that your happiness was now tied to Carlos was a bitter pill to swallow.
Third, and probably the biggest, revelation was that he had royally screwed up when he chose the other woman over you and your son, and it was a loss that he mourned every single day. If he thought seeing Carlos thrive after his own life was crumbling down was hurting his ego, seeing Carlos be the father to his son, was a thousand times worse.
Life took an interesting turn for Carlos after that night at the hotel in Monte Carlo. You had no expectations for him, you didn’t expect him to stay true to his words and be there for you and your baby. But that was the thing, because he kept his promise. He was at your door the next morning with a short list of apartments and penthouses in Monte Carlo. Anticipating your need of getting out of the country, he was prepared – he also looked at apartments in New York, houses in LA and townhouses in London (the few apartments he chose in Madrid also didn’t escape you, but it was a conversation you weren’t ready to have yet). So, when you were having, yet another breakdown in front of him, he just stood next to you and held you until you calmed down. He was always next to you, somehow managing his schedule for the racing season and coming out to see you between races. He kept true to his promise as he made waffles for you at midnight, grumbling about how pancakes were superior, and he held your hand when you were in the delivery room even though you were probably close to breaking the poor man’s hand. The bigger shock came when he announced that he would not be racing for the next season – something he had conveniently not told you in the months leading up to your pregnancy. It also led up to your first fight, and your first real confrontation since this unexpected journey began. The news that Carlos wouldn’t be racing the next season blindsided you. It wasn’t just the fact that he had made such a monumental decision without consulting you; it was the realisation that he had chosen you and your child over the sport he loved so deeply.
“What do you mean you’re not racing next season?” you had asked, your voice edged with disbelief. You were standing in the kitchen of the new apartment he had helped you find, your baby—your son—napping peacefully in the next room. Carlos was casually leaning against the counter, arms crossed, as if he had just announced something as mundane as what was for dinner.
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, a habit you had come to recognize as a sign that he was about to say something serious. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” he said, his voice calm, and God it drove you insane how calm and rational he was being with a decision so irrational to you. “And after everything that’s happened... I just think it’s the right decision for now.”
“But racing is your life,” you insisted, the weight of his words settling in. “I don’t understand how you can just walk away from it.”
Carlos met your gaze, his brown eyes steady and full of determination. “It’s not about walking away,” he explained. “It’s about priorities. You and Rafael... you’re my priority now. I want to be here for you both, not halfway across the world, missing out on everything.”
The sincerity in his voice made your heart ache. For so long, you had been used to being let down, to promises that were made and then broken. But here was Carlos, standing in front of you, willing to give up something he loved more than anything for you and your son.
“That’s not fair to you,” you whispered, feeling the tears welling up in your eyes. “I don’t want to be the reason you give up on your dreams.”
Carlos stepped closer, gently cupping your face in his hands. “You’re not taking anything away from me,” he assured you. “You’re giving me something I didn’t even know I needed. I’m choosing this, because I want to. I want to be here for you, to be the father Rafael deserves. I want us to be a family.”
His words broke through the wall you had been holding up, and you let the tears fall. It wasn’t just about the sacrifice he was making; it was about the fact that he was doing it willingly, without hesitation, because he wanted to be with you and Rafael. It was a love that was deeper than anything you had ever known, and it terrified you as much as it filled you with hope.
“But what if you regret it?” you asked, your voice trembling with the weight of your fears.
“I won’t,” Carlos said firmly, his thumbs gently brushing away your tears. “I know what I want. And if I ever go back to racing, it’ll be when we’re ready. When we both decide it’s the right time. But for now, this is where I need to be.”
You searched his eyes for any sign of doubt, but there was none. He was as serious as ever, and in that moment, you realized that this wasn’t just about him making a choice— it was about him choosing you, over and over again, in a way no one ever had before.
The argument you had anticipated fizzled out before it could even begin. There was nothing left to fight about, not when he had laid his heart bare for you. All you could do was fall into his arms, holding onto him tightly as you let the weight of his decision sink in. It was overwhelming, knowing that someone loved you that much, that they would uproot their entire world just to be by your side.
So, yeah, Carlos Sainz had not raced for the 2025 season. If it were up to him, he would stay with the two of you for the 2026 season as well, but you and Carlos Sainz Sr managed to convince him to get back to the real world, no matter how much he was enjoying being a stay-at-home dad. But the biggest shock for the world, and Charles, wasn’t that Carlos was returning to the F1 grid – no, the biggest shock was that he was returning to the F1 grid in one of the most coveted seats; right next to Max Verstappen. The reaction to the news had been mixed. Some were thrilled to see him back, eager to see what he could do in a car as competitive as the Red Bull. Others were skeptical, wondering if a year away from the sport had dulled his edge. For Charles, the news was a bitter pill to swallow. Carlos wasn’t just returning to the grid—he was stepping into one of the most sought-after seats in F1. But more than that, it was the reminder that Carlos had taken something else from him, something far more personal and painful. Watching Carlos step into his new role at Red Bull, knowing that he was now part of your life and Rafael’s life in a way Charles never could be, was a constant, aching reminder of everything he had lost.
And so began the Leclerc-Sainz rivalry – which although sounds riveting, is probably the reason why you had to visit your cardiologist more times than necessary within the last couple of years. On the surface, it was the perfect storyline: two former teammates, now on opposing sides, battling it out on the track in some of the most intense and thrilling races the sport had ever seen. But for you, it was far from entertainment. Each race weekend became a new source of anxiety, and Carlos knew how much it affected you, so he tried his best to keep the rivalry on the track. He would reassure you, telling you that whatever happened during the race, it wouldn’t change how he felt about you or Rafael. But even he couldn’t deny that the tension between him and Charles was personal. It was more than just racing—it was about proving something, not just to the world, but to themselves and each other. And so, race after race, you found yourself on an emotional rollercoaster. The thrill of seeing Carlos perform at his best was always accompanied by the fear of what might happen if things went wrong. The rivalry wasn’t just a storyline for the media—it was a real, living thing that had a profound impact on your life.
So, when Rafael told you that he wanted to watch his father race live, you were hesitant to agree. The thought of bringing your son into that world—where emotions ran high, and the stakes were even higher—filled you with dread. The last thing you wanted was for Rafael to witness the intensity of the rivalry that had consumed not just Carlos and Charles, but your entire life.
Carlos, however, was adamant. He knew how much it meant to Rafael to see him race, to be a part of something that had been such a significant part of Carlos’s life before Rafael was born. “He needs to see it,” Carlos told you one evening as you sat together, discussing Rafael’s request. “He needs to know what I do, why it’s important to me, and why I went back to racing in the first place.”
You couldn’t deny that Carlos had a point. Rafael idolized his father and seeing him in action would only strengthen the bond between them. But the idea of watching the race unfold, of seeing Carlos and Charles go head-to-head while your son was there, was almost too much to bear. The days leading up to the race were a blur of preparation and anxiety. Carlos did his best to reassure you, but the tension was palpable. He understood your fears and promised to keep things professional, but you both knew that once the lights went out, everything would be on the line. So, you weren’t exactly surprised that your boyfriend spent the entire morning buttering you up and getting you to relax as much as possible about the day ahead of you.
And to be perfectly fair, he was right for the most part. It had been fine from the moment you made it into the paddock, which somehow worked wonders on your anxiety. As you made your way to the circuit, Rafael’s excitement was infectious. He was practically bouncing in his seat, his little face pressed against the window as he took in the sights. You couldn’t help but smile, his joy momentarily easing the knot of anxiety that had been tightening in your chest since the moment you agreed to come to the paddock in the first place.
Seeing him so happy and in his element, you know instantly that the paddock, no matter in which country, is going to become his safe place. Rafael keeps asking Carlos questions about everything from how they manage to keep the cars so clean to what would happen if they didn’t wear helmets. And Carlos is patient as he answers all his questions, no matter how childish or obvious they might seem. So, when he told Rafael that maybe, just maybe, he might end up in one of the cars he admires so much one day, you know your son won’t miss the beat. “Can I?” He asks you, eyes widened with a pleading look as he clasps his hands together under his chin, “Please, Mommy, I promise I’ll be very careful.”
“Absolutely not,” you shake your head, mind immediately starting to think about all the things that could go wrong, “it’s so dangerous! Just think about how afraid you’d be of the speed.”
Rafael scoffs, arms crossed on his chest as he pleads through the pout he has on his face, “I’m not afraid of the speed! Papa, tell her I’m not afraid of the speed!”
Carlos reaches over Rafael’s head as he takes off his cap and ruffles his hair, which manages to get a series of giggles from the little boy, and he affirms, “You are not afraid of the speed, but your mother is right.” You have to hold in your laughter when you see the indignant look on Rafael’s face, but Carlos continues talking as he signals for his son to listen, “We can talk about it when you are older, but for right now you are my lead strategist, capisce?”
Rafael steers his pout towards you, and you shrug innocently in response, which gets a resigning sigh from him. “That’s fine, I guess.” He mumbles, and points to the garage door behind the table the three of you are sitting, “Can I look at your car again?”
“Be careful, and make sure you tell Caco where you are.” Carlos reminds him, as Rafael excitedly scurries off toward the garage, leaving you and Carlos to share a quiet moment.
Carlos leaned back in his chair, a content smile playing on his lips as he watched Rafael dart off. “He’s got the bug,” he says, a hint of pride in his voice.
You sigh, shaking your head playfully. “I know. He’s already got the attitude. I don’t think I’m ready for him to jump in a kart and never look back.”
Carlos reaches for your hand, his touch grounding you. “We’ll keep him safe,” he says quietly, his gaze meeting yours. “I promise. Whatever happens, we’ll make sure he’s ready, and we’ll protect him from the worst of it.”
You nod, squeezing his hand in return, trusting him like you always have. As you sit together, watching Rafael’s excitement fill the garage, the sweet moment is interrupted by a voice both of you know very well. “Seriously? You’re using him to get to me on a race day now?”
Your fingers nearly crush your poor boyfriend’s hand as you look at the intruder, your heart immediately racing. You turn to see Charles standing there, his expression a mix of frustration and disbelief. His eyes flicker from Carlos to you, then toward the garage where Rafael had just run off. “Excuse me?” You manage to get out, your voice sharp with surprise. The audacity of his accusation stings more than you expected. Charles' gaze hardens as he steps closer, clearly not backing down.
“You heard me,” Charles says, his tone edged with bitterness. “Bringing Rafael here, right in the middle of everything... it’s not a coincidence. You’re just trying to—”
“To what?” Carlos cuts in, his voice calm but firm. His protective instincts kick in as he stands, placing himself between you and Charles. “To have a good day with our son? To let him enjoy the race?”
Charles scoffs, shaking his head. “He’s not your son, he’s mine. Stop fooling yourself into thinking you’re his father just because you’re here.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, everything goes silent. Carlos' expression tightens, but he doesn’t move, his body still a shield between you and Charles. You feel your breath catch in your throat, the weight of Charles’ words hanging heavy in the air. “I know who his father is, Charles,” Carlos says, his voice calm but steely. “And considering the fact that he doesn’t even know you exist, I’d say me being here is more than proof that I am his father.”
Charles' jaw clenches, and his eyes flicker with something raw—pain, jealousy, frustration, all mixed together. “You think you can just step in and take my place? Be the dad, play happy family with my son?”
“Cabrón,” Carlos warns, and though you’ve heard him use that nickname for his friends countless of times, this voice is devoid of all affection, “you lost all right to call yourself Rafael’s father when you decided to choose whatever flavour of the month you were with at the time.” You feel your heart race, not from fear, but from the sheer intensity of the moment and the murderous look on Carlos’ face. Carlos steps forward, his voice low but terse. “You think being a father is about biology? About showing up when it’s convenient for you? Rafael doesn’t even know who you are because you’ve never been there for him. I have. I’ve been the one tucking him in, I've been there when he was sick and crying, and I’m the one showing him love every single day.”
Charles flinches, the sting of the truth evident in his expression. For a moment, the fire in his eyes dims, replaced by something else— regret, perhaps. But it’s gone as quickly as it appeared, and he straightens his posture, trying to regain control of the situation. “I made mistakes,” Charles says, his voice quiet but defiant. “But you can’t just erase me from his life. He has a right to know who his real father is.”
Carlos’ gaze doesn’t waver, his protective instincts blazing. “Rafael knows who his real father is. He may not understand all the details yet, but he knows who’s been there for him. And when the time comes, when he’s ready, we’ll tell him the truth. But that decision isn’t yours to make anymore, Charles. You gave up that right a long time ago.”
“You’re just going to sit there and let him talk to me like this?” Charles hisses, turning towards you in an attempt to find sympathy. His eyes are pleading, but there’s anger simmering beneath the surface.
Your chest tightens as you meet his gaze, feeling the weight of everything that has been left unsaid between the three of you for so long. You take a deep breath, your voice soft but firm when you finally respond. “It’s time to let go, Charles.” Charles' face falls at your words, the weight of their finality hitting him hard. His lips part slightly as if he wants to argue, but no words come. The tension in the air is suffocating, each second stretching out painfully. Carlos remains silent, standing tall beside you, his hand subtly resting on your back for support. He knows this conversation is yours to finish. “It’s not about erasing you from Rafael’s life,” you continue, your voice steady though your heart is pounding in your chest. “It’s about doing what’s best for him. And right now, that means protecting him from the confusion and hurt that the fact that you were too much of a coward to choose him.”
Charles takes a step back, the anger in his expression dimming into something more fragile. His eyes search yours, perhaps looking for a trace of the bond you once shared, but it’s clear that things have changed too much. Too much time has passed. “I’m not trying to hurt him,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I apologised countless of times, what more do you want from me? I am sorry, okay?”
“Are you quite done?” Charles flinches at your sharp tone, the weight of your words settling heavily between the three of you. His gaze drops to the ground as if he’s searching for something to say, but nothing comes. Carlos stands steady beside you, his presence strong, comforting, even. “I am sorry, too, about it all.”
You can feel Carlos’ confused stare on you, and Charles looks at you with the same expression as he asks, “You... do?”
“I’m sorry that you were cheating on me from the start, I’m sorry you were too weak to stay faithful to me after we got married,” you continue, the words heavy but resolute as they fall from your lips. Charles' expression shifts, a mixture of guilt and pain crossing his face. Carlos’ hand tightens slightly on your back, offering silent support as you finally lay bare what you’ve held inside for so long. “I’m sorry I ignored it for as long as I did, and I’m sorry that I ever found out.” Charles’ face hardens, his eyes clouded with guilt and perhaps a hint of defensiveness as your words hit him. The weight of what you're saying seems to pull him down, and he takes a deep breath as if trying to absorb the impact. He opens his mouth to speak, but you cut him off, not willing to let this moment slip away before you say everything that’s been weighing on your heart. “I’m sorry I ever found out about the lies, but most of all, I’m sorry for Rafael. He deserved better, he deserved a father who was present and loved him without conditions,” you say, your eyes locking with Charles’. “You weren’t there, Charles, you weren’t there before Rafael, and you weren’t going to be there after him. So, I suppose what I’m not sorry for is falling in love with a man who was courageous enough to fill that role for both me and him.” Charles’ lips part as if to argue, but no words form. His eyes betray the guilt and regret he’s been carrying, but there’s nothing left for him to say. He knows it. You know it. Even the mechanics and people around you who have stopped what they are doing to watch this whole thing go down know it. “Finally, I’m sorry that you felt the need and audacity to come down here, now not only have you ruined our marriage, but you’ve also ruined my day-off which I intended to spend with my boyfriend, and our son.”
Charles flinches at your final words, his face crumpling under the weight of it all. The sting of your truth, laid bare for everyone to hear, leaves him speechless. His bravado has completely evaporated, replaced by a hollow sense of regret and defeat. He opens his mouth as if to respond but quickly closes it, realizing there’s nothing he can say that will undo the damage he caused, the pain he inflicted, or the years he lost. His eyes flicker to Carlos, who stands steady, unmoved by Charles’ turmoil. There’s no room for pity here. “I—” Charles begins but stops as Carlos raises his hand.
“I think you’ve said enough,” his voice lacks all sympathy for his old friend, his old teammate, “it’s best you should go before you distress my girlfriend, or my son any further.
Charles’ eyes widen slightly at Carlos’ words, the final blow landing hard. He looks as if he’s been physically struck, his shoulders slumping as any remaining fight drains from him. His gaze flickers between you and Carlos, searching for something—anything—but finding no redemption, no sympathy. There’s nothing left to say.
He swallows hard, his lips pressed into a tight line, before finally nodding in a reluctant acceptance. “Fine,” he mutters, his voice barely audible. He turns on his heel, walking away with slow, defeated steps. The tension that had gripped the air slowly begins to dissipate as he disappears into the distance, leaving only the echoes of his footsteps behind.
Carlos turns to you, his hand still resting on your back, but now it’s a comforting gesture rather than a protective one. His expression softens as he searches your face. “Are you okay?” he asks gently.
You take a deep breath, feeling the weight of everything that’s just happened, but also a sense of relief. “I think so,” you reply, your voice steady despite the emotional whirlwind you’ve just gone through. “It needed to happen.”
Carlos nods, his thumb brushing soothingly against your back. “He’s not going to ruin this for us. Not today, not ever.”
You smile faintly, grateful for his support. “No, he’s not. He’s gone now, and I’m finally free of it all.”
“We’re free of him,” Carlos adds, a reassuring strength in his voice. “You, me, and Rafael. That’s what matters.”
“Just promise me you’ll be careful on the track today,” you plead, chin resting on his chest as you look up to him.
Carlos chuckles softly, his warm smile easing the tension that still lingers. “I promise,” he says, his voice light but sincere. He tilts his head, giving you a playful wink. “But you know me, I can’t drive too carefully. It's in my nature to push the limits a bit.”
You roll your eyes with a small laugh, but your heart flutters slightly at the thought of him racing. It’s something you’ve grown used to, but there’s always that edge of worry. "Just... don’t make me regret asking," you tease, though the concern in your voice is real.
Carlos leans down, brushing his lips gently against your forehead, the gesture filled with tenderness. "I’ll come back to you both, safe and sound," he whispers softly, his forehead resting against yours for a brief moment. "Always."
You smile, feeling reassured by his words, and you give him a small nod. "Alright. Go show them what you’re made of, then."
As Carlos pulls away, you can see the familiar spark in his eyes, the passion and excitement that he always carries before a race. He gives your hand one last squeeze before turning to head toward the car. You watch him for a moment, taking in the sight of him—confident, composed, and ready for whatever comes next. Just before he reaches the garage doors, he turns back and flashes you that signature grin that always makes your heart skip a beat. “For you and Rafael,” he calls out. Your smile widens as you watch him go, knowing that no matter what happens on the track today, you’ll always have each other.
It’s not hard for you to find Rafael when you head back to the garage yourself. He’s completely engrossed in conversation with one of Carlos' engineers, pointing out different tools and parts of the car with wide-eyed fascination. His little hands gesture excitedly, and the engineer listens with a warm smile, clearly amused by Rafael’s enthusiasm. Carlos stands off to the side, leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, watching his son with a look of pure affection and pride. His eyes sparkle as he takes in the sight of Rafael’s excitement, and there’s a certain softness to his expression that makes your heart swell.
You walk over, standing beside Carlos, who doesn’t take his eyes off Rafael but greets you with a small grin. “He’s already talking like he’s part of the team,” Carlos says quietly, his voice filled with pride. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s taking over the pit crew in a few years.”
You chuckle softly, watching Rafael explain something animatedly, his little voice echoing through the garage. “He’s got your passion,” you say, leaning into Carlos slightly, feeling the warmth of his presence.
Carlos hums in agreement, his arm slipping around your waist. “Maybe,” he says, his tone affectionate, “but the way he talks about everything… that’s all you. He’s got your curiosity, your heart, so, all my favourite parts of you.”
“My boyfriend the charmer,” you mumble as you lightly hit him on his chest.
Carlos chuckles, catching your hand gently against his chest before pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. “Just telling the truth,” he murmurs, his eyes twinkling as he holds your gaze for a moment longer. “You deserve all the charm in the world.”
You roll your eyes playfully, though you can’t hide the smile tugging at your lips. “You’re lucky you’re good at this, or I might think you’re just trying to get out of bath time for the next few days.”
Carlos laughs, his warm, deep voice sending a wave of comfort through you. “I’d never do that. Bath time is part of the job.” He leans in slightly, lowering his voice with a mischievous grin. “But if I do this race right, maybe we can negotiate something.”
You raise an eyebrow, feigning suspicion, but you can’t help the flutter in your chest at the way he always manages to make you feel light and cared for, even in the most mundane moments. “Alright, we’ll see how you perform today,” you tease back “if you win, I’ll let you put a baby in me, how about that?”
Carlos freezes for a moment, his eyes widening in surprise before a slow, playful grin spreads across his face. “You’re serious?” he asks, his voice filled with both excitement and disbelief.
You nod, biting your lip, unable to hide your own smile. “If you win today, we can start thinking about it.”
Carlos lets out a short laugh, running a hand through his hair as if trying to process what you just said. “Well, I’ve never been more motivated to win a race in my life,” he says, his eyes gleaming with a new intensity.
You chuckle, your heart racing at the look on his face. "Just make sure you’re focused on the track and not… well, other things."
“Oh, I’ll be focused,” Carlos says, stepping closer and lowering his voice. “But now, I’ve got the best reason in the world to win.” He leans in, brushing his lips against your ear. “For you, and for giving Rafael a baby sister or a brother.” Your breath catches at the sincerity in his voice, and as he pulls back, he flashes you that charming grin again before heading off toward the car. You watch him go, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness settle in your chest.
Eventually going behind the barriers and watching the race is harder than you’ve expected, you realise. As the laps go by, you keep glancing at Rafael, who’s glued to the action, his eyes wide with admiration for his dad. You smile at the way he clutches his little racing helmet, a miniature version of Carlos’ gear, his excitement evident. It’s clear he’s living every moment of the race through his dad’s performance, just as you are. When Carlos is in the lead, you hold your breath, willing him to stay ahead. When he’s fighting for position, you’re on the edge of your seat, cheering him on with every ounce of energy you have.
As the final laps approach, you glance at the clock and then at Rafael, who’s practically bouncing with excitement. You can tell he’s just as invested in the outcome as you are. You squeeze his hand, giving him an encouraging smile, and he returns it with a determined nod.
When Carlos crosses the finish line, the roar of the crowd is deafening, and you let out a cheer of your own, tears of joy welling up in your eyes. You look down at Rafael, who’s jumping up and down, his face beaming with pride and excitement. “He did it!” you shout, lifting him up in your arms as you join in the celebration.
Caco and a couple of the mechanics help you and Rafael to get to the barriers, weaving through the throng of celebrating fans and team members. As you approach the barriers, Rafael’s excitement is noticeable. His eyes are wide with wonder, and he clutches his mini helmet tightly, bouncing with every step. Caco, with his warm, reassuring smile, offers a few words of congratulations and gives Rafael a high-five. Carlos comes into view, his car parked in the parc fermé. His grin is infectious, and you can see the joy and relief in his eyes as he looks up at you and Rafael. The moment he gets out of the car, he’s enveloped by his team, but his gaze quickly finds you and Rafael. He finds his way to you after getting weighed and you can see him grab his cap before finally rushing towards you. Carlos scoops Rafael up into his arms, spinning him around as they both laugh, and then turns to you, his eyes shining with gratitude and affection.
“Well, looks like we’ve got a baby sister or brother to start thinking about,” Carlos says with a wink, setting Rafael down so he can pull you a in for a kiss.
You smile against his lips, feeling the warmth of his embrace and the joy of this moment. When you pull away, you look up at Carlos, your eyes sparkling with love and excitement. “We do, don’t we?” you say softly, your heart full as you take in the sight of your family together in this victorious moment.
Rafael, still buzzing with excitement, tugs on Carlos’ sleeve, his little voice bubbling over with enthusiasm. “Papa, did you see me cheering? I was so loud!”
Carlos laughs, his eyes crinkling with joy. “I heard you, buddy. You were the loudest cheerleader out there.”
As the celebration continues around you, you feel a profound sense of contentment. The day’s events, the race, the emotions—everything has come together perfectly. You take a deep breath, savouring the feeling of being surrounded by the people you love most.
Carlos pulls you close, wrapping his arms around both you and Rafael. “Thank you for everything today,” he murmurs, his voice filled with sincerity. “You’ve made this day even more special.”
You rest your head on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his embrace and the steady beat of his heart. “It’s been an incredible day,” you agree, looking out at the jubilant scene around you. “I wouldn’t have wanted to spend it with anyone else.”
As you watch him savour the moments with your son before he needs to go for his interview and the podium celebrations, you realise just how lucky you are to have something that only happens every few lifetimes.
The room is warm, the air thick with lavender and a nervous sort of energy that seems to cling to the walls. Your maids bustle about, fingers trailing over the lace of your gown, smoothing the fabric, tugging it tighter in places.
You can feel the weight of their glances, the words they’re holding back. There’s something they want to say, something that’s been dancing in the air all morning but hasn’t quite landed.
“Hold still, milady,” Jeanne says, her tone gentle, though there's an edge of anticipation to it. She pulls a comb through your hair, carefully teasing the strands into place.
You feel the weight of the occasion pressing down on you. You’ve been preparing for this day for months, and yet, something about it feels … off. There’s a knot in your stomach that refuses to unravel.
A maid at your feet tightens the laces on your shoes, while another adjusts the pearls around your neck. Everyone is fussing over every small detail, yet they keep exchanging looks — nervous, knowing looks — that you can’t ignore much longer.
“What is it?” You finally ask, your voice breaking the silence. You glance at Jeanne, who’s avoiding your eyes, concentrating far too hard on an already perfect braid. “You’re all acting strange.”
Jeanne freezes for just a moment, the comb pausing mid-stroke. You see her exchange another glance with Marguerite, the older of your maids, who’s standing near the door, hands clasped in front of her apron. Marguerite clears her throat, steps forward, and it’s as if the entire room collectively holds its breath.
“There is … something we need to talk to you about,” Marguerite says, her voice careful, deliberate. You can sense her choosing each word like it’s something fragile, like she’s afraid it might break in her mouth. “About tonight.”
“Tonight?” You echo, confused. You already know about the feast, about the dancing and the endless stream of congratulations. It’s all been drilled into your head by your mother and your tutors. What else could there be?
Jeanne places the comb down, smoothing her hands over your shoulders, her touch soft but tense. “It’s about what happens after the wedding,” she says quietly. “After the ceremony … with Prince Charles.”
There’s a flicker of recognition somewhere deep inside you, a faint memory of hushed conversations you weren’t meant to overhear. You feel your heartbeat quicken, but you don’t understand why.
“What happens after?” You ask, genuinely lost.
The room falls into a silence that’s almost unbearable. Jeanne’s fingers tighten on your shoulder for a moment before she steps back, leaving Marguerite to speak.
Marguerite lets out a small sigh, one that seems to carry the weight of the world. “After the feast, after the guests have left … there’s the bedding ceremony,” she explains. Her words are slow, careful, as if she’s trying not to startle you. “It’s tradition. You and the prince will be led to your chambers to … consummate the marriage.”
You blink, consummate ringing in your ears. You’ve heard the term before, but only in passing, never with any real explanation attached to it. It’s something that’s been whispered about, something the older women in the court would smirk at when they thought you weren’t listening. You swallow, suddenly feeling like you’re on the edge of understanding something much larger than you’re ready for.
“And what does that mean exactly?” You ask, your voice quieter now. You know you’re supposed to understand, but you don’t.
Marguerite glances at Jeanne, who looks like she would rather be anywhere else right now. Finally, Marguerite steps closer to you, lowering her voice as if that will somehow soften the blow. “It means that the prince will … well, he will lay with you.”
“Lay with me?” You repeat, still not grasping it fully.
Jeanne steps in again, her face a mixture of embarrassment and determination. “He will … be with you. As a husband is with his wife,” she tries, but it’s clear the words are slipping away from her.
You blink at them, frustration growing. “What does that mean?” You ask, more sharply than you intended.
Jeanne sighs, glancing at Marguerite as if pleading for help. Marguerite nods once, the movement almost imperceptible, before taking another small step toward you.
“Y/N,” Marguerite starts, and the use of your name makes you sit up a little straighter. “When a man and a woman are married, they … share a bed. And during that time, the man … inserts himself.”
The words hang in the air like a bad joke.
“Inserts himself?” You repeat, confusion evident in your voice. “Inserts himself where?”
Jeanne coughs, and Marguerite turns a shade of red you didn’t think possible.
“In you, milady,” Jeanne finally says, her voice barely above a whisper.
It takes a moment for the meaning to settle in. And even then, it feels slippery, like something you’re not entirely ready to catch hold of. You stare at them both, waiting for them to laugh, to tell you it’s all some strange misunderstanding. But they don’t. They just stand there, looking at you with a mixture of pity and something else — concern, maybe?
Your heart is thumping loudly in your chest now, your hands clutching the arms of your chair. “That’s what’s going to happen?” You whisper, more to yourself than to them.
Marguerite nods slowly. “Yes, milady. It is … part of your duties as a wife.”
The word duties feels heavy, like it’s pressing down on you from all sides. You’ve heard it a hundred times — duty to your family, to your country, to your future husband. But this? This is something else entirely.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me this before?” You ask, your voice small, almost breaking.
Jeanne steps forward, crouching down so she’s eye level with you. “We didn’t want to frighten you, milady,” she says softly. “But now … now you must be prepared.”
Prepared. The word feels hollow, like it could never be enough for whatever is coming. You stare at Jeanne, at her wide, honest eyes, and for a moment, you think about how easy it would be to just say no. To refuse. To walk away from all of it. But then you remember who you are, what’s expected of you, and that thought quickly fades.
“What if … what if I can’t?” You ask, voice trembling despite your efforts to keep it steady.
Jeanne’s hand finds yours, squeezing it gently. “You can,” she says with more confidence than you feel. “Every woman goes through this. And you will, too.”
You glance at Marguerite, who nods solemnly. “It’s normal to feel this way,” she adds. “To be scared. But once it’s done … it becomes easier. You learn to live with it.”
The knot in your stomach tightens further at the thought of having to “learn to live” with something like this. You had always thought marriage would be a partnership, something beautiful. But now it seems like another duty, another burden placed upon you.
“What … what if I don’t want him to?” You ask quietly, barely audible.
Jeanne hesitates for a moment, her smile faltering. “It’s not about want, milady. It’s what must be done. For the marriage to be valid.”
You nod, though you feel like you’re in a daze, like you’re suddenly floating above the room, watching yourself from a distance.
Jeanne’s hand squeezes yours again, as if trying to tether you back. “It will be all right,” she whispers, as if that could make it true.
But you’re not sure anything will be all right again after tonight.
***
The doors swing open with a creak, and the air shifts — heavy, thick with the weight of expectation. You take a step forward, your legs barely cooperating beneath the layers of your gown, and your maids gently guide you into the room. The space is dimly lit, candles flickering along the stone walls, casting long shadows that dance with the faint tremble in your chest.
A crowd lines the edges of the room, a sea of faces, each expression unreadable, their eyes fixed on you and Charles. They’re waiting. Watching. Witnessing. Your breath catches in your throat as the enormity of what’s happening presses down on you like a heavy cloak. You steal a glance at the bed — a massive, looming thing that takes up nearly half the room, its dark wooden posts adorned with silken drapes.
You can’t feel your hands anymore. Your fingers are numb as they clutch the folds of your gown, and your heart is pounding so loud in your ears that you can hardly hear anything else. The maids hover around you, their hands steady but their faces as tense as yours. Jeanne’s voice is low in your ear as she begins to untie the laces of your bodice, but the words barely register.
Your eyes drift toward Charles, standing across from you, surrounded by his own attendants. He’s calm — too calm. His posture is steady, his movements fluid as one of his men begins to undo the buttons on his doublet. His eyes meet yours for a moment, and the weight of his gaze feels like a physical thing, grounding you and unsettling you all at once.
The room is suffocating, the walls closing in around you, and suddenly, your legs give a slight wobble. Jeanne catches you by the elbow, steadying you before anyone else can notice. She leans close, her voice barely above a whisper. “Breathe, milady.”
But breathing feels impossible.
The rustle of fabric fills the room as the maids continue to work, pulling at the ties of your gown, loosening it inch by inch. Your heart races faster as more of your skin is exposed, the cold air prickling against your back as they slide the heavy fabric off your shoulders. You feel the weight of every gaze in the room, the eyes of the witnesses burning into you, watching each movement, each breath.
Charles steps toward you, his attendants falling back, and in that moment, you realize that his chest is bare, his broad shoulders illuminated by the faint glow of the candlelight. He looks powerful, every inch of him radiating control, and the sight of him only makes the trembling worse.
You lower your gaze, staring at the floor, but his presence looms closer until he’s standing directly in front of you. He tilts his head slightly, his expression unreadable as he watches you. Then, his hand reaches out — strong, firm — and he cups your chin, lifting your face to meet his eyes.
“You’re trembling,” he says quietly, his voice low and steady.
You try to answer, but your throat feels tight, your mouth dry. Instead, you just nod, swallowing hard as his thumb brushes lightly against your cheek.
His touch is firm but not unkind, and for a brief moment, the world narrows down to just the two of you. The witnesses, the maids, the ceremony itself — all of it fades into the background as he looks at you with an intensity that makes your heart skip.
“They’re watching us,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.
“They don’t matter,” he says, his tone calm, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He drops his hand from your face, letting it trail down your arm before resting it at your waist. “Forget them. This is about you and me.”
You blink up at him, unsure how you’re supposed to just forget the dozens of eyes burning into your skin. But there’s something in the way he speaks, the way he holds himself, that makes it sound almost possible.
His hand tightens slightly at your waist, grounding you in the moment. “Look at me,” he says, and you do. His eyes are dark green, piercing, and for a moment, the noise in your head quiets, the panic subsides just enough for you to breathe.
The maids step back now, leaving you in only your shift, the thin fabric barely covering your trembling body. Your skin feels exposed, vulnerable, and the cold bites at you as the gown is carried away, leaving you standing in front of Charles in nothing but the flimsy fabric.
He nods to his attendants, and they move quickly, removing the last of his clothing. You can feel the shift in the room — the way the witnesses straighten, their attention sharpening as the final barrier between you and Charles is stripped away.
Your breath catches as you look at him. He’s … overwhelming. His body is all sharp lines and muscle, his skin bronzed by the sun, and he stands there, completely unbothered by his own nakedness. He’s everything you’re not — strong, powerful, certain. And yet, despite the fear twisting in your chest, you can’t help but be drawn to him.
Charles steps closer, his bare chest only inches from yours now, and you feel the heat radiating from his skin. He lifts a hand again, this time running his fingers lightly over your shoulder, down your arm, the touch both calming and terrifying at once.
“Look at me,” he repeats, his voice firmer now, but not unkind. His other hand comes up, cupping the side of your neck, and the warmth of his skin makes you shiver. “Focus on me. Only me.”
You nod, though your eyes flick nervously to the crowd.
“Don’t,” he says softly, but there’s an edge of command in his voice. “Pretend they’re not here. Pretend it’s just us.”
His hand moves to the ties of your shift, and you feel the world spin around you. Your breath catches in your throat as his fingers work quickly, and the fabric falls away, leaving you utterly exposed. The cold air rushes over your skin, and for a moment, you think you might faint.
But then, his hands are on you — steady, firm, pulling you toward him. You gasp, but he holds you, one hand on the small of your back, the other tangling in your hair as he brings his face close to yours.
“Breathe,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. “Breathe.”
You force yourself to inhale, though the air feels thin and sharp in your lungs. His hand slides down your back, guiding you, and before you realize it, he’s leading you toward the bed, his steps slow but purposeful.
Your legs feel weak, but he keeps you upright, keeps you moving forward. The bed looms closer, and the witnesses fall away into shadows as you focus on the feel of his hands, his voice in your ear.
When you reach the edge of the bed, he turns you to face him again, his eyes searching yours. “Lie down,” he says, his voice still calm, still steady. It’s not a request — it’s an instruction, and there’s no room for hesitation.
You sink down onto the bed, the sheets cool against your skin, and Charles stands over you, watching you with an intensity that makes your heart race. He’s so close, his body towering over yours, and you can feel the heat radiating off him, a stark contrast to the cold air around you.
He kneels beside you, his hands moving over your body in a way that’s both possessive and reassuring. His fingers trace the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist, and he leans down, his breath hot against your neck.
“Relax,” he whispers, though you’re not sure how that’s possible.
Your mind is a whirl of thoughts, your body trembling beneath him, but somehow, his presence — his control — anchors you. He’s dominant, powerful, every movement calculated, and though you’re terrified, there’s a strange sense of safety in his certainty.
He shifts his weight, pressing his body against yours, and the feel of him — his skin, his heat — sends a jolt through you. His lips find your collarbone, trailing soft, deliberate kisses along your skin, and his hand moves lower, his touch firm but not harsh.
“Focus on me,” he murmurs again, his lips brushing against your ear. “Only me.”
You close your eyes, willing yourself to block out the rest of the room — the witnesses, the maids, the ceremony. It’s just him. Just Charles. His hands, his voice, his body guiding you through the fear.
“I’m going to take care of you,” he whispers, his voice low, and despite everything, you believe him.
You have to.
The room feels like a furnace, despite the cool draft from the open windows. Every breath you take is shallow, every movement calculated, dictated by the presence of so many eyes around you. Charles hovers above you, his body a solid, commanding force. His hands, warm and firm, travel over your skin as if he owns it. And maybe he does — at least tonight.
He leans closer, his lips brushing your ear again, his breath hot against your skin. “They’re still here,” he whispers, and there’s a sharpness in his voice that sends a shiver down your spine. “Waiting. Watching. Pathetic, isn’t it?”
Your breath hitches as his fingers trail down your side, tracing lines that ignite something deep within you. You barely manage to whisper, “Why aren’t they leaving?”
Charles lets out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling through his chest as he shifts his weight, his body pressing into yours. “They’ll leave when they see what they came for,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the curve of your neck. His fingers find the soft skin of your inner thigh, and your body tenses in response, your heart pounding in your chest.
Your mind is spinning, overwhelmed by the sensations, by the weight of what’s happening. But Charles — he’s steady, unshaken, like the eye of a storm. His hand moves with a deliberate slowness, sliding between your legs, and you gasp, your body arching involuntarily as his fingers brush against your most sensitive spot. He pauses for a moment, as if savoring the way your body reacts to his touch.
“They’re just waiting for a little blood,” he whispers against your skin, his tone mocking. “That’s all it takes to satisfy them. A few drops, and they’ll be convinced the marriage is … properly consummated.”
You try to focus, try to breathe, but the way his fingers move, the way his body presses against yours — it’s all too much. Your fingers dig into the sheets beneath you, your chest rising and falling with each shaky breath. Charles smirks, his lips trailing down your neck as he shifts his body, positioning himself between your legs.
“Are you ready?” He asks, his voice low, commanding.
You don’t know how to answer. Your heart is racing, your body trembling, but there’s something else beneath the fear now — something you don’t entirely understand. You nod, your throat tight, and Charles gives a satisfied hum in response.
He moves with purpose, and you feel the weight of him pressing against you. His eyes lock onto yours, and for a moment, everything else — the witnesses, the cold air, the fear — disappears. It’s just him, just you, and the heat that pulses between you.
“Stay with me,” he says, his voice firm but almost gentle. “Don’t think about them. Think about us.”
Then, with one powerful motion, he enters you, and the world narrows into a sharp, bright point of sensation. You gasp, your body tensing as the pain cuts through you, sudden and overwhelming. Tears sting your eyes, but before you can let them fall, Charles leans down, his lips grazing your ear.
“They’re still watching,” he murmurs, his voice dark, laced with a twisted sort of amusement. “Do you think they’re disappointed? Hoping for more drama? More blood?”
You let out a sharp, startled laugh — half from the absurdity of it, half from the overwhelming sensation of him inside you. The laugh turns into a gasp as Charles moves, slow but deliberate, his hips pressing firmly against yours. You feel everything — every inch, every movement, every breath he takes — and it’s all too much, too overwhelming. Yet, somehow, it’s not enough.
“Ignore them,” he whispers again, his lips brushing your neck, sending sparks down your spine. “Pretend we’re the only ones here.”
You try — God, you try — but it’s impossible to block out the weight of their stares, the silent judgment from the witnesses lining the walls. And yet, with each movement of Charles’ body, with every thrust that presses him deeper inside you, the world blurs at the edges. He’s taking over, filling every space, every thought, until nothing remains but him.
He groans softly, his breath hot against your skin, and you feel your body responding in ways you hadn’t expected. The pain begins to ebb, replaced by something else — a strange heat building inside you, coiling tight in your belly. You bite your lip, trying to keep the sounds inside, but Charles is relentless, his movements steady, controlled, each one drawing you closer to something you don’t quite understand.
His lips hover over your ear again, and his voice is a dark whisper. “Do you think they’re jealous? Do you think they wish they could be in my place?”
The thought is absurd, but another laugh escapes you — half gasp, half breathless amusement — and it startles you, the sound foreign and unfamiliar in the midst of everything happening. Charles grins against your skin, clearly pleased with himself.
“See? It’s not so bad,” he says, his voice low, coaxing. “You’re doing beautifully.”
Your body is trembling beneath him, each movement sending jolts of sensation through you, and you can barely think, barely breathe. His hands grip your waist, pulling you closer, and you feel the sharp contrast of his dominance, his control, with the tenderness in his touch.
“They’re waiting for the proof,” Charles whispers, his tone mocking again. “So eager to see it.”
You feel the heat in your face, the embarrassment rising, but before you can fully register it, Charles thrusts harder, his body pressing into yours with more force. You gasp, the sound escaping before you can stop it, and your fingers grip the sheets tighter, knuckles white.
“There it is,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Let them hear you.”
You shake your head, biting your lip to suppress the sounds, but Charles isn’t having it. His hand slides up your thigh, gripping firmly as he moves faster, his body commanding yours, pulling you deeper into the sensations.
“Don’t fight it,” he whispers, his voice dark and intoxicating. “Let them know how good it feels.”
Your heart is racing, your breath coming in shallow gasps, and to your surprise, his words sink into you, fueling the heat growing inside. You can’t fight it anymore — not the sounds, not the way your body responds to his touch. You let out a soft whimper, and Charles grins, clearly satisfied with the effect he’s having on you.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice rougher now, and the words send a shiver down your spine. “That’s it. Just like that.”
His pace quickens, and with each thrust, the witnesses, the judgment, the fear — all of it fades into the background. It’s just him, just you, and the intoxicating rhythm of his body against yours. You feel the tension building inside you, coiling tighter with every movement, every breath, until you’re on the edge of something you’ve never felt before.
You gasp, your body trembling beneath him, and Charles leans down, his lips brushing your ear once more.
“You’re going to come for me,” he whispers, his voice dark and commanding. “Aren’t you?”
You can’t speak, can’t think, but your body answers for you, your hips bucking beneath him as the sensation builds to a fever pitch. You’re gasping now, your breath ragged, and Charles smirks against your skin.
“Let go,” he murmurs, his voice a low growl. “I want to feel you.”
And then, suddenly, everything snaps — the tension, the heat, the coiled tightness in your belly — and your body explodes with sensation, pleasure rolling through you in waves so intense you can’t breathe. You cry out, your fingers digging into the sheets, and Charles groans in response, his movements becoming harder, more erratic as he drives you through the climax.
Your body shudders beneath him, the pleasure overwhelming, and for a moment, everything else falls away. It’s just him, just you, and the raw, unfiltered sensation coursing through your veins.
When the waves finally subside, you’re left trembling, gasping for breath as Charles slows his movements, his body still pressed firmly against yours. He leans down, his lips brushing your temple, and you feel the faintest hint of tenderness in the gesture.
“There,” he murmurs softly, his voice still rough but with a new edge of satisfaction. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
You can’t respond, your body too spent, too overwhelmed by everything that’s just happened. But in the silence, you realize something: the witnesses haven’t left. They’re still there, watching, waiting.
The room is suffocating in its silence. Your chest rises and falls, still trying to catch up with the intensity of what just happened. Your body hums with the aftershocks, your legs trembling, and all you want is to close your eyes and forget the weight of the gazes pressing in on you from the crowd of witnesses.
Charles is still above you, his body warm and heavy, grounding you in the moment. His breath slows, his hand coming to rest on your thigh, his fingers tracing slow circles that should have soothed you, but all you can think about are the people watching — still there, still waiting, still leering.
And then, without warning, Charles drags the duvet up, uncovering you completely.
You gasp, your body jolting in shock as the cool air hits your bare skin. The sense of vulnerability swells in your chest, your hands instinctively moving to cover yourself, but it’s too late. Charles exposes the sheets beneath you, stained with the tell-tale sign of blood — the proof the witnesses had been waiting for.
Your cheeks burn, mortification flooding your body as you feel their eyes burning into you. You bite your lip, willing yourself to shrink, to disappear beneath the sheets. But Charles, in contrast, doesn’t flinch. His expression is calm, his body still and powerful as he scans the room, his gaze cold and sharp.
“Get a good look,” he says, his voice ringing out clear and firm in the stillness of the room. He gestures to the blood-stained sheet with a casual wave of his hand, as if this was nothing more than a trivial detail. “There’s your proof. Now leave.”
You hear the murmurs ripple through the crowd, hushed whispers that slither across the room like a serpent. But no one moves. They stay rooted to the spot, their eyes glued to the two of you, hungry and intrusive, unwilling to give up their position as witnesses to this private moment.
Your heart races, your pulse thundering in your ears as you look up at Charles. He’s tense now, the muscles in his jaw tightening, his body coiled with barely restrained frustration. He sits up slightly, still keeping you shielded beneath his frame, his hands never leaving your body.
“I said leave,” he repeats, his voice dropping into a dangerous tone, like the low growl of a predator. His eyes flick from one face to another, daring any of them to defy him. But still, no one moves. The tension in the air thickens, suffocating, and you feel the weight of it bearing down on you, threatening to crush you.
Charles’ patience snaps.
“Get. Out.” His voice roars through the room, sudden and violent, like the crack of thunder in a storm. The force of it sends a jolt through your body, but more importantly, it makes the witnesses flinch. His eyes burn with fury, his body rigid as he glares at them, each word seething with barely-contained rage. “This is no longer your concern.”
The murmuring stops, and for a moment, no one dares to breathe. The power in Charles’ voice — his command, his authority — leaves no room for argument. Slowly, reluctantly, they begin to shuffle toward the exit, the room clearing bit by bit, though not quickly enough for your liking.
You can still feel the weight of their stares as they leave, lingering, prying. It makes your skin crawl, the discomfort settling deep in your bones. You can’t help but shudder, and Charles’ hand, large and warm, immediately rests on your back, steadying you.
“Don’t look at them,” he says, his voice softer now, but still firm. “They don’t matter anymore.”
But you can feel them. Even as the room starts to empty, their presence lingers like a foul stench in the air. The feeling of exposure gnaws at you, tearing at your insides, and you can’t stop the tears from welling up in your eyes.
You try to blink them away, but Charles notices immediately. His hand shifts, brushing your cheek, and when you meet his gaze, his expression softens slightly. “It’s over,” he murmurs, his voice low but sure. “They’re gone.”
Your lips part to respond, but no words come out. All you can do is nod, your throat tight, the humiliation still fresh in your mind. You feel Charles’ hand move again, this time slipping beneath your chin, tilting your face up toward his.
“Don’t let them see you like this,” he says, his tone gentle but firm. “You’re stronger than this.”
The words wash over you like a balm, and though the tightness in your chest doesn’t completely dissipate, there’s something in his voice — something steady and unshakable — that anchors you. You take a shaky breath, your gaze flicking down to the blood-stained sheet beneath you, and for the first time, you feel a strange sense of relief.
The worst is over. The witnesses are gone.
Charles pulls the duvet back over you, shielding your body from the cold air and the prying eyes that had only just left. His touch is still commanding, but there’s a tenderness to it now, a sense of care that surprises you. He leans down, his lips brushing your forehead, and the simple gesture feels more intimate than anything else that’s happened tonight.
You close your eyes, letting the warmth of his body against yours settle into your bones, and for a brief moment, you feel safe. Protected. Charles’ presence, his power, has a way of making everything else seem small, insignificant. Even the lingering humiliation feels distant now, a shadow at the edge of your mind.
“I should’ve thrown them out sooner,” he mutters, almost to himself, his voice dark with frustration.
You blink up at him, surprised by the hint of regret in his tone. “It’s not your fault,” you whisper, though the words feel strange on your tongue.
Charles’ eyes meet yours, and there’s a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze before it hardens again. “I won’t let them make you feel like that again,” he says, his voice firm, resolute. “Not ever.”
You swallow hard, your throat dry, and for a moment, you don’t know what to say. The vulnerability of the moment hangs between you, heavy and fragile, and you’re not sure if you should thank him or hide from the intensity of his gaze. Instead, you just nod, the weight of exhaustion finally settling over you.
Charles’ hand lingers on your cheek for a moment longer before he pulls away, shifting to sit beside you on the bed. He’s still close, his presence filling the space around you, and though the room is quiet now, the tension hasn’t entirely lifted.
“They only stayed because they’re cowards,” he says, his voice low, as if continuing a conversation with himself. “Pathetic leeches, desperate for some form of power they’ll never have.”
You let out a soft, breathless laugh, the absurdity of the night catching up to you. “You didn’t have to yell so loudly,” you murmur, your voice shaky but laced with a trace of amusement. “I thought they’d leave eventually.”
Charles turns toward you, his eyes narrowing slightly, though there’s a glint of humor behind them. “They deserved worse,” he says, his tone sharp but not unkind. “Next time, I’ll throw them out myself.”
The image of Charles physically tossing a group of nobles out of the room makes you laugh again, this time more freely, though the sound is still tinged with disbelief. You never imagined you’d be laughing after a night like this. But somehow, here you are, with Charles beside you, his hand resting on your thigh, steadying you in ways you didn’t expect.
“Thank you,” you whisper, the words falling from your lips before you even fully realize what you’re saying.
Charles’ gaze softens, just for a moment, before he nods. “You don’t need to thank me,” he says quietly. “This is my duty.”
But it doesn’t feel like duty anymore. Not entirely. There’s something more to the way he looks at you now, something that makes your heart beat a little faster despite everything that’s happened.
You glance down at the sheets again, the faint stain still visible beneath the duvet, and a wave of exhaustion crashes over you, heavier than before. Your body aches, your mind spinning with everything that’s transpired, and all you want now is for the night to end.
Charles seems to sense your weariness. He moves closer, pulling you gently into his arms, his body warm and solid against yours. You sink into him, your head resting against his chest, and for the first time all night, you feel a sense of peace.
“We’ll deal with everything else tomorrow,” he says, his voice a low rumble in your ear. “For now, rest.”
You close your eyes, letting his words wash over you, and slowly, the weight of the night begins to lift. You’re still raw, still vulnerable, but with Charles beside you, the darkness doesn’t seem so overwhelming.
***
The morning sun filters through the heavy drapes, casting a soft glow over the room. The air is cool, the bed warm, and you stir slightly, the weight of Charles’ arm still draped over your waist. You blink awake slowly, your face pressed into his chest, the steady rise and fall of his breathing a comforting rhythm against you. For a moment, you forget where you are, wrapped in the warmth of his body, the soft cocoon of blankets around you.
Then the sound of footsteps pulls you from your daze.
The door creaks open, followed by a collective gasp. Your body stiffens, and you can feel Charles tense beside you, though he doesn’t move just yet. His arm tightens slightly, as if to reassure you, before he finally shifts, lifting his head from the pillow.
Two of your maids stand at the foot of the bed, their eyes wide, shock etched across their faces as they take in the sight of you and Charles — still tangled together beneath the sheets, bodies pressed close, intimate. You can’t help but feel the heat rise to your cheeks, a flush of embarrassment creeping up your neck.
You had expected to wake up alone, with Charles already gone to attend to his duties. Instead, here you are, cocooned in the aftermath of last night, and the sight is clearly not what anyone had anticipated.
“Good morning, milady,” one of the maids stammers, her eyes darting between you and Charles, clearly uncertain of how to proceed.
Charles sits up, propping himself against the headboard, but he doesn’t make any move to untangle himself from you. Instead, he casts a slow, measured look at the maids, his expression calm but commanding. “Her Highness,” he corrects them, his voice still gravelly from sleep, but carrying a distinct authority. “She is no longer ‘milady.’”
The maids exchange nervous glances, their cheeks coloring as they quickly curtsy. “Y-Your Highness,” they echo, clearly flustered by the correction.
You bite your lip, feeling the flush deepen at the reminder. It’s still strange to hear yourself referred to as “Your Highness.” The title feels foreign, like a borrowed gown that doesn’t quite fit, and yet there’s something about the way Charles says it that makes it feel … real.
Charles turns his attention back to you, his hand brushing against your waist as he leans down slightly, his voice low and intimate. “You should get dressed,” he says softly, though there’s a note of amusement in his tone. “We’ve scandalized them enough for one morning.”
You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips, though your cheeks still burn. The fact that he’s still here, still close, feels … surprising, but in a way that warms your chest. You nod, reluctantly pulling away from him, and the maids rush forward, eager to help you from the bed.
As you stand, the cold air nips at your skin, and you suddenly feel exposed, despite the nightgown that clings to your body. You shiver slightly, and one of the maids, always attentive, quickly drapes a robe over your shoulders.
Charles watches you for a moment longer, his gaze lingering, before he swings his legs over the edge of the bed, standing in one fluid, graceful motion. His servants enter the room then, bowing low as they approach, clearly hesitant to disturb the prince. But Charles merely waves them in with a flick of his hand, dismissing their cautiousness.
“Have her belongings brought to my chambers,” Charles says, his voice casual, as if he were giving the most mundane of instructions. He reaches for his own clothes, still laid out by the servants, pulling on his tunic with practiced ease.
Your heart skips a beat.
The maids freeze in place, their eyes wide, as if they’ve just heard something outrageous. You can feel their shock ripple through the room, though they try to mask it with a quick curtsy.
“Your Highness,” one of them stammers, clearly unsure of how to respond. “But — your quarters? Surely, you mean-”
“I mean what I said,” Charles interrupts, his tone leaving no room for argument. He doesn’t look at them as he speaks, busy fastening the leather straps of his tunic, but his voice carries the weight of authority that only someone like him can wield. “Her belongings will be moved to my chambers by midday. Is that understood?”
Your maids glance at each other again, their expressions caught somewhere between shock and dismay. The scandal of it is clear — they had expected you to maintain separate quarters, as was the custom for all noble marriages. The idea of sharing a bed — sharing quarters — on a permanent basis was practically unheard of.
“Y-Yes, Your Highness,” one of them finally manages to say, her voice small. They both curtsy again, though their faces are still flushed with surprise.
You can’t help but feel the weight of what this means — the implication of it — and your cheeks warm at the thought. Charles wants you in his chambers, in his space. It’s a decision that speaks volumes, one that suggests more than just a sense of duty or obligation. The intimacy of sharing quarters … it’s something deeper, something more personal.
Your gaze flickers toward him, but he’s already focused on his servants, giving them instructions as they help him with his attire. You feel a rush of emotions — nervousness, anticipation, and something you can’t quite name. It’s as if the ground beneath you has shifted, the reality of your marriage settling in ways you hadn’t expected.
The maids, clearly still rattled, help you into your gown, their hands quick and efficient but a little clumsy in their haste. You can sense their discomfort, though they don’t say anything directly. You remain silent as they lace up the back of your gown, your mind spinning with thoughts of what sharing chambers with Charles will mean.
Once you’re fully dressed, you turn to find Charles watching you, his eyes dark and unreadable as he takes in the sight of you. There’s something about his gaze that sends a shiver down your spine, something that reminds you of the intensity of last night, the way he had held you, commanded the room, and, ultimately, you.
He crosses the room in a few long strides, his hand brushing your waist as he leans in, his voice low. “Are you alright?”
The simple question makes your breath catch. It’s a small gesture, a quiet moment of concern, but it feels significant. You nod, offering him a small smile, though your heart still races.
“I am,” you say softly, though the truth is, you’re not entirely sure what you feel. There’s a whirlwind of emotions churning inside you, and you can barely make sense of them.
Charles studies you for a moment longer, his hand lingering at your waist before he finally pulls away. “Good,” he says simply, his voice firm. “You’ll get used to this. To all of it.”
There’s something comforting in his certainty, as if he’s made up his mind that you’ll both navigate this strange new reality together. You take a deep breath, the knot of tension in your chest loosening slightly.
The maids finish with your hair, pinning it up into an elegant style, and they step back, glancing nervously at Charles, as if still processing the scandal of his earlier command.
One of them finally speaks, her voice barely a whisper. “Milady, shall we prepare your things for-” She stops herself, catching Charles’ sharp gaze. “Your Highness,” she corrects hastily, “shall we prepare your things for the move?”
You nod, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks again. “Yes,” you say softly, though the idea still feels strange. You had grown accustomed to the idea of separate quarters, of having a space to retreat to, a sanctuary of your own. But now, you’d be sharing that space with him.
Charles gives a small nod of approval, his expression unreadable, though you can sense his satisfaction with the arrangement. He turns to his own servants, dismissing them with a wave of his hand. “See to it that everything is ready,” he says. “I want no delays.”
The servants bow deeply and file out of the room, leaving you alone with Charles once more. The silence that follows is thick with unspoken tension, the weight of everything that has happened — and everything that is yet to come — hanging in the air.
Charles steps closer, his eyes never leaving yours as he reaches for your hand. His grip is firm, steady, and you feel the familiar jolt of warmth spread through you at his touch.
“You belong with me,” he says quietly, his voice low and commanding, as if stating a simple fact. “That’s how it will be. From now on.”
You swallow hard, the weight of his words sinking in. There’s no uncertainty in his tone, no room for negotiation. He’s made his decision, and you can feel the power of that decision pulsing through the air between you.
You nod, your voice barely above a whisper. “Yes, Your Highness.”
He smiles then, a small, satisfied smile that sends a shiver down your spine. His hand tightens around yours for a moment before he releases you, stepping back.
“We have a long day ahead,” he says, his voice returning to its usual confident tone. “But we’ll face it together.”
You take a deep breath, steadying yourself as you nod in agreement. The future feels uncertain, but with Charles by your side, you feel a strange sense of reassurance.
***
The evening air in Charles’ chambers is cool, thick with the scent of freshly lit candles and the quiet hum of crackling fire. The servants had come and gone, preparing the room for the night, and now the two of you stand in a silence that’s more charged than it is peaceful. You’ve spent the day together, walking the halls of the palace, facing curious eyes and polite murmurs, yet now, here, in the privacy of the chambers you now share, everything feels more intimate.
You’re still getting used to the space, to the idea that this room is no longer just his — it’s yours too. The bed, the wardrobe, the desk by the window. It’s unsettling, in a way, this sudden intrusion into his world, and yet, it feels oddly right. Charles moves about the room with ease, as if he belongs here, as if he belongs with you, and there’s something comforting in that.
The evening had been quiet, the both of you falling into an easy rhythm of shared conversation and long, lingering looks that spoke more than words could. But now, standing at the foot of the large, canopied bed, you feel the weight of what comes next pressing in on you.
Charles steps closer, his eyes dark and steady, full of that quiet confidence that always seems to radiate off him. He doesn’t rush — there’s no hurry in the way he approaches you, but there’s a deliberateness in his movements that makes your heart race.
He stops just in front of you, close enough that the warmth of his body reaches you. “You look nervous,” he says softly, a hint of amusement curling at the edges of his mouth.
You swallow hard, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. “I-I’m not,” you lie, but your voice betrays you, shaking just a little.
He arches a brow, clearly unconvinced. “Liar,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, as he reaches up to brush a strand of hair from your face. His touch is light, gentle, but it sends a shiver down your spine all the same. “You forget, I know your body better than that by now.”
You can’t help but smile at that, despite your nerves. His words are true, but it’s still strange to think that someone who was, just days ago, a stranger in many ways, could now know so much about you. And yet, here you are, bound together in ways you never imagined.
Charles’ hand lingers on your cheek for a moment longer before he pulls away, his expression shifting from teasing to something more serious. He steps back slightly, his gaze holding yours as he speaks again. “It’s my duty as your husband to teach you what happens in the marriage bed.”
Your heart skips a beat, and you blink at him, confused. “Teach me?” You can’t keep the surprise out of your voice. “But … I thought-” You hesitate, unsure how to phrase it. “I thought what happened yesterday was … all there is.”
For a moment, there’s only silence. Then Charles laughs, a deep, rich sound that fills the room and sends another shiver through you. His eyes gleam with amusement, and there’s something almost predatory in the way he looks at you, as if your innocence is both endearing and utterly baffling to him.
“Oh, ma chérie,” he murmurs, shaking his head slightly. “You really have no idea, do you?”
Your cheeks burn with embarrassment, and you look down, unable to meet his gaze. You had thought that after last night, you’d learned everything there was to know about what happens between a man and a woman. But now, faced with the way Charles is looking at you, you realize how naïve you must seem.
He steps closer again, his hand coming to rest lightly on your arm. “Look at me,” he says softly, his voice gentle but firm.
You do as he says, lifting your eyes to meet his, and the intensity in his gaze makes your breath catch in your throat.
“There’s more,” he says quietly, his voice low and full of promise. “Much more.” He pauses, letting the words hang in the air between you, before he continues. “And I’m going to teach you. I’m going to show you exactly what it means to be my wife.”
You feel your heart hammering in your chest, a mix of nerves and anticipation swirling inside you. There’s something in the way he speaks, in the way he looks at you, that makes your skin tingle, your body instinctively leaning into him despite your uncertainty.
Charles reaches for you then, his hands steady and sure as he guides you to the edge of the bed. You sit down, your legs trembling slightly as the reality of what’s happening begins to sink in.
He stands before you, his gaze never leaving yours, and slowly, deliberately, he lowers himself to his knees in front of you.
Your breath hitches in your throat, your heart pounding so loudly you’re certain he can hear it.
“What are you doing?” You whisper, your voice shaky.
He smirks, the corner of his mouth curling up in that confident, almost arrogant way that always makes your stomach flutter. “I’m going to demonstrate something for you,” he says, his voice calm and controlled, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. “It’s called the lord’s kiss.”
You blink at him, confused. “The … the lord’s kiss?” The words sound strange to your ears, and you have no idea what he means.
Charles’ smirk deepens, and there’s a glint of something dark and heated in his eyes as he watches your confusion. “Don’t worry,” he says softly, his voice low and dangerous. “You’ll understand soon enough.”
Before you can respond, he reaches for your legs, his hands firm but gentle as he pulls you closer to the edge of the bed. Your heart races, your breath coming in short, shallow bursts as you try to process what’s happening.
You’re not sure what you expected, but it certainly wasn’t this.
Charles leans in, his hands sliding up your thighs as he positions himself between your legs. The fabric of your gown bunches around your hips, and you feel the cool air against your skin as he pushes it aside.
Your pulse quickens, your body trembling with a mix of nerves and something else — something you don’t quite understand but can’t deny.
He pauses for a moment, his gaze flicking up to meet yours, as if giving you one last chance to stop him. But you don’t. You can’t. You’re too caught up in the moment, too overwhelmed by the intensity of his presence, the way he commands every inch of your attention.
Then, without another word, he lowers his head, his lips brushing softly against your skin.
You gasp, your body jolting at the unexpected sensation, but Charles doesn’t stop. His movements are slow, deliberate, his mouth tracing a path along the inside of your thigh, his breath warm against your skin.
“Charles,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, your hands clutching at the sheets beneath you.
He doesn’t respond, not with words. Instead, he continues his slow, torturous exploration of your body, his lips and tongue moving with a precision that makes your head spin.
Your body reacts instinctively, your back arching slightly, your breath coming in ragged gasps as he brings you to the edge of something you’ve never felt before.
You’ve never been touched like this, never even imagined that this was something a man could do. And yet, here you are, trembling beneath his touch, your mind a whirlwind of sensations that you can’t even begin to comprehend.
Charles pulls back slightly, his lips hovering just above your skin as he murmurs, “Do you see now?” His voice is low, rough, filled with a quiet intensity that makes your pulse race. “Do you understand?”
You can’t speak. You can barely think. All you can do is nod, your body trembling, your breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts.
He smiles then, a slow, satisfied smile, and before you can catch your breath, he lowers his head again, continuing his demonstration.
The sensations are overwhelming. You’re lost in the world Charles is creating for you, your body alive with a heat and need you never imagined could exist. His lips, his tongue, every movement is precise, deliberate, like he’s playing a well-rehearsed melody on your skin.
The sound that escapes your lips is beyond your control — a high-pitched moan, raw and unrestrained, tearing through the quiet chambers. Your hands twist in the sheets, and you arch into him, trembling beneath his touch.
Charles doesn’t falter. His grip tightens on your thighs, keeping you grounded even as you feel like you might fly apart. He’s relentless, each kiss deeper, more commanding, pulling you into a space where only the two of you exist.
Your moans grow louder, filling the room with a sound that feels almost foreign to your ears. You can’t help it — he’s drawing something out of you, something primal, something you didn’t even know was there.
“Charles,” you gasp, your voice thick with desire and desperation, barely a whisper in the storm of sensation. But he doesn’t stop. His focus remains unbroken, his mouth working you over with a precision that drives you wild.
The tension builds, like a coil tightening inside you, every nerve alight, ready to snap. And then, just as you feel yourself tipping over the edge, the door to the chambers slams open with a sudden, jarring force.
The sound startles you, and your eyes fly open in panic. For a moment, the world blurs around you, your mind struggling to grasp what’s happening, but then you see them — two palace guards, standing in the doorway, their eyes wide with shock and confusion.
“Oh my God!” You yelp, mortified beyond belief, scrambling to pull the covers over yourself, your heart racing for a different reason now.
Charles, on the other hand, doesn’t even flinch. His grip on your thighs doesn’t loosen, and he doesn’t lift his face from between your legs. If anything, the intrusion seems to embolden him. His lips move with a newfound intensity, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure through you that makes your body jerk despite the embarrassment flooding your veins.
“W-we heard shouting, Your Highness!” One of the guards stammers, his face flushed as he averts his eyes. “We thought-”
The other guard clears his throat, equally uncomfortable. “We thought someone was hurt or … or being … shamed.”
You feel your face go up in flames, utterly humiliated. Your hands clutch the sheets to your chest, trying to cover as much of yourself as possible, but Charles … Charles remains exactly where he is, completely unfazed by the situation.
“Charles!” You hiss, your voice barely above a whisper, your eyes darting between the guards and him. “Please stop-” But even as you plead, your body betrays you. A fresh wave of pleasure washes over you, and another moan slips from your lips, softer this time, but no less damning.
The guards exchange a look, clearly unsure what to do, their faces red with embarrassment. “Should we — should we call for help?” One of them asks, his voice almost panicked, still refusing to look in your direction.
“No,” Charles growls, finally lifting his head just enough to speak, his voice dark and commanding, but his face remains close to your skin, his breath hot against your thigh. “Leave.”
“But … Your Highness-”
“I said leave,” Charles snaps, his voice low but laced with enough authority to make both guards jump.
They hesitate for a moment, as if debating whether they should follow his command or call for reinforcements. But the look on Charles’ face — sharp, predatory, completely in control — leaves no room for doubt. They turn on their heels and practically stumble over each other as they rush out of the room, slamming the door shut behind them.
Your heart is still racing, your face burning with humiliation. “Charles …” you begin, but your words dissolve into a gasp as his mouth moves against you once again.
“Don’t,” he says, his voice muffled against your skin, his lips brushing your most sensitive spot with a devastating precision. “Don’t think about them. Don’t think about anything but me.” His fingers tighten on your thighs, holding you firmly in place as he continues his slow, torturous assault on your senses.
You can’t help it — the moment takes you over again, your body responding to his touch in ways you don’t fully understand. Despite the lingering embarrassment, despite the guards and the intrusion, your body betrays you. You sink back into the pleasure he’s offering, every nerve in your body alive, on fire, as he drives you higher and higher.
“You feel incredible,” Charles murmurs, his voice low and full of that commanding confidence. He’s barely paused, barely stopped his ministrations, but he’s still somehow able to speak to you in that dark, soothing tone that makes your pulse race. “Do you know that? How good you taste … how perfect you are for me?”
His words send another wave of heat rushing through you, your breath catching in your throat. You can feel yourself unraveling, your body trembling beneath his hands as he works you over with a mastery that leaves you gasping for air.
You try to form words, to say something, anything, but all that escapes your lips is a soft, breathless moan. Your hands fist in the sheets, your back arching as you teeter on the edge of something vast and overwhelming.
Charles notices, of course. He always notices. His lips curl into a faint smile against your skin, and he hums low in his throat, the sound vibrating through you, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.
“I can feel it,” he says, his voice a growl now, low and full of promise. “You’re close, aren’t you? I can feel you trembling for me.”
You nod, unable to speak, unable to think of anything but the pleasure coursing through your veins, the way your body feels like it’s about to shatter into a thousand pieces.
“Let go,” he murmurs, his breath hot against you. “Let go for me.”
And you do. You fall, hard and fast, your body shaking as the tension finally snaps, sending you spiraling into a release so intense it leaves you breathless, gasping for air.
Charles doesn’t stop, his mouth moving against you with slow, deliberate strokes, drawing out every last bit of pleasure until you’re trembling and spent, your body weak and boneless beneath him.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he pulls back, his lips curling into a satisfied smirk as he watches you, his hands still resting lightly on your thighs.
“You’re beautiful like this,” he says softly, his voice full of that same commanding power that always makes your heart race. “Completely undone … because of me.”
You can’t find the words to respond. All you can do is lie there, your chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, your mind still reeling from the intensity of what just happened.
Charles rises to his feet with a grace that seems unfair, considering how your own limbs feel like jelly. He looks down at you, his dark eyes gleaming with a satisfaction that makes your stomach flip.
“You see?” He says softly, his voice smug but also warm, affectionate even. “There’s much more to being a wife than what you knew.”
You can only nod, still too breathless to speak, as you collapse back against the pillows, completely spent.
Charles leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his voice a low murmur as he says, “And there’s still so much more to learn.”
