Page 110 of Red Flagged
Like whatever I said mattered. Like I mattered.
It had been four days since everything shifted—since blood dripped down her thighs, since I held her in the shower and washed the last traces of it away. Since we stopped hiding the hardest parts of life.
The last few days were quiet, slow, and secluded.
She rested. I stayed busy.
I built the new dresser she ordered to match her headboard, unpacked boxes of clothes into the drawers at her direction. Assembled the living room furniture, the dining set, the bar stools, the beds in the guest rooms, her desk and bookshelves.
Most of the stuff to fill her house was still at her family’s estate in her room, which we agreed to finish moving out after the summer break next month.
When laundry needed done, or she bled onto the sheets, I cycled it without a second thought. Sorted it all. Got scolded for not folding her jeans right, which shirts could be hung in the walk-in closet, and which ones went into the dresser. But I learned, because I didn’t want her to lift a finger until she was ready—and fuck, I liked knowing how to take care of her.
We watched movies and ignored the rest of the world. We fell asleep on the couch more than once, limbs tangled under throw blankets, her head tucked against my chest like gravity had a favorite.
Sometimes she cried without warning, and she’d express the physical pains and emotional scars the miscarriage was leaving on her. I hung onto every word she said, held her when she needed me to, and did whatever I could to ease her discomfort.
Sometimes she laughed at the dumbest shit—like the way I startled during a jump scare, or how bad I was at making coffee without it tasting like motor oil. I told her she should switch to tea, and she rolled her eyes and insulted me in French.
She fought me on doing all the housework, claiming she “wasn’t completely useless”, so we compromised. She cooked when she felt up to it, even if I hovered behind her the entire time like a glorified bodyguard with a wooden spoon.
We talked about everything and nothing. What spices she wanted to stock in the pantry. Whether or not I knew the difference between baking soda and baking powder (I didn’t). What it would look like when her home actually started to feel like hers.
When she couldn’t sleep, we walked the trails behind her property together after dark, slow and aimless, her arm looped through mine, hoodie pulled over her head, sandals smackingquietly against the pavement. She liked when the breeze hit her skin. Said it made her feel real again.
We took the scenic route back from the pharmacy just to drive in silence with the windows cracked. Had lunch on the terrace one day because the sun was too soft to waste, and she pointed out the shapes in the clouds like it was a serious exercise in storytelling.
Handling our friends and the media as things came up. Insisting on teleconferencing into work calls rather than showing up in person. Aurélie told Henric it was a medical emergency. Which it was, but Henric was a dick, so he pressed her until she gave him the sordid details about a heavy period. That shut him up.
I was both surprised and saddened at how unbothered she was by the lie. Like she’d done it a hundred times before. Like lying about her own health issues was safer than telling the truth. It made me realize how often she’d had to shrink and explain herself to be taken seriously by people who only listened when it made them uncomfortable.
It showed me just how much she was used to managing men like Henric. How easily she weaponized the kind of discomfort that had probably been used against her a hundred times. Like it wasn’t worth wasting real truth on someone who would never believe her anyway.
And even though she—obviously—didn’t want to have sex, neither did I. It wasn’t about getting off. It was about showing up. Being with her. Letting her lean on me when she needed to. Making her laugh. Learning her rhythms and what softness looked like when she didn’t have to be strong.
I didn’t know when either of us would be ready for physical intimacy again. Because how do you rush something like that, when her body had just betrayed her so deeply?
When I thought about what I lost too, how it impacted her, how I found her, blood and fear and pain in her eyes. How I just needed to be near her, needed to remind myself she was real and alive. When touch wasn’t just about desire anymore, it was about trust. Safety. Willingness.
There was an unspoken understanding in our new rhythm. A quiet kind of alignment that told me we were on the same page: we wanted to spend as much time together as possible, and we wanted to build something real from the inside out.
For the most part, I stayed here with her. I only went into Monte Carlo once for a follow-up meeting with Maverick and Beckett and to pack more clothes.
My deadline to decide was today.
I had spent my whole career being needed. Needed on track. Needed to bring in points. Needed to sign contracts that made other people millions of dollars. Needed to play the game when it came to PR.
But being needed wasn’t the same as being wanted.
And with Aurélie… fuck. I was both.
I told her about Beckett’s business proposals. About how Maverick’s wife had uncovered Morel’s indiscretions internationally, how they planned to gut the entire company and rebuild it from the inside out. How they wanted me to be the face of the team.
And I could see it—the future we might build together if I said yes. How we could help each other change the sport—reallychange it. Level the playing field, increase access, push for better safety tech and more inclusive systems. Advocate for equity young drivers who didn’t have generational wealth or PR machines behind them.
How this wasn’t just about money or titles anymore. I told her that this decision didn’t just affect my career. It affected our future. And that terrified me just as much as the fact that if Iwalked away now, I didn’t know who I’d be. Because for so long, that was it. That was me. And I didn’t know if I could let it go.
Her response?
