Page 89 of Red Flagged
Beneath every window were matching planters carved from limestone, overflowing with lavender and pale blush peonies, their petals still damp from the earlier rain. The scent wafted faintly even from the steps, fresh and familiar. Like… my life before Callum and after Callum. Lavender for the girl I was before him. For the quiet ache I carried alone, for the nights I learned to endure instead of dream. Peonies for the life he gave me, even when I was bleeding our life out of me.
The thought was sobering, painful enough to steal my breath, and I had to look away, had to keep moving. The test was still in my pocket, but I couldn’t look at it again. Not yet, not here.
To the left was the detached four-car garage. That had sealed it for me when I toured the property the first time. It hadconcrete floors, tall raftered ceilings, and reinforced storage. I could rebuild an engine there with no problem. I could rebuildmyself there, if I wanted to.
This wasn’t some marble palace in Monaco or soulless penthouse in Paris.
It was better.
A fenced yard sprawled out to the side, with nothing but woods and old trails spilling beyond the property line. The sea was maybe a quarter mile away, tucked behind the trees, always close. Always roaring.
I pulled up beside the porch and cut the engine.
Packages were stacked neatly beneath the overhang, parcels I’d half-forgotten I ordered. Some decorative shelves. A set of dishes I didn’t need, but wanted. Accent pieces, cookware, a floor lamp I’d fallen in love with at a boutique in Lisbon. Rugs, new linens, furniture that didn’t come assembled.
Things meant to make this place feel like home. Seeing it all piled there, the cardboard softened by coastal humidity, sent a strange wave of pride and nausea through me. It was proof that I’d been planning for this even while the rest of my life burned.
I stepped out of the car, gravel shifting beneath my trainers, and stared up at the house.
Myhouse. My first home.
The silence was deafening but welcome. The movers hadn’t arrived yet; neither had my siblings. It was just me and the walls that would come to know me.
I climbed the steps, brushing my hand along the railing, the wood worn smooth by years of salt air. A lockbox hung on the ornate bronze doorknob. I entered the code and flipped the lockbox open, fingers brushing the keys. They jingled faintly as I slipped one into the door. The latch clicked open, and I paused, just for a breath, before pushing it wide and crossing the threshold.
The inside was cool and still, filled with the scent of limestone, rosemary, and wood polish. The creak of the floorboards was the only sound. I let the door drift closed behind me and stepped deeper into the space, heart thudding. Without thinking, my fingers reached for the light switches, illuminating the space one area at a time.
To the left of the entry was the kitchen. Warm, earthy tones bathed the space in comfort. Muted terracotta tile, butcher block counters, a soft clay backsplash. There was a long center island with a breakfast bar, and high-end stainless steel appliances gleamed under the soft overhead lighting. A small bay window overlooked the front of the property, garden beds visible just beyond the glass.
To the right was the formal dining room, technically its own room, but only half-enclosed, with wide archways that opened it up to the entry and living room beyond. It had space for eight but intimacy for four, with wide French doors that opened onto a stone patio covered in ivy and bougainvillea.
Past the far edge of the kitchen, stood the staircase winding up to the second floor. Behind the staircase, a narrow hallway led to the primary bedroom with an ensuite and a soaking tub I’d already dreamed about.
My hand brushed the edge of the banister as I rounded the kitchen island and passed the staircase. Just ahead was the living room, where I paused to take it all in.
A stone fireplace flanked by empty built-in shelves waited for photos and stories of a life worth telling.
The cream-colored walls soaked up the soft daylight filtering through the abundance of windows, casting a gentle glow across the floors.
Someone had opened a few windows after cleaning—maybe the seller’s agent—and now the space lived and breathed. Thesheer curtains left behind fluttered with the breeze, casting faint shadows across the floor like moving lace.
Through the windows at the back of the house, the view unfolded like a dream. The property stretched for several acres, the first of which was enclosed in a chestnut wood fence, weathered to a soft silver with age, giving the backyard a sense of quiet privacy rather than confinement. Plush green grass blanketed the ground, dotted with sprigs of white clover and wild violets. Beneath the back windows, flower boxes spilled over with more lavender and star jasmine, the blooms tangled like a secret kept between lovers.
Beyond the fenceline, dirt trails wove through low stone markers and into a thicket of French woodland—old oak, wild laurel, and pine. Trails I could run, walk, or ride for hours. Trails that led not just through the land, but into the kind of silence that could heal.
The quiet wasn’t an absence of anything. It wasbreathand hope and yearning. The kind that fills a place waiting to be lived in.
I spun in a slow circle, letting my eyes roam the open layout. High-beamed ceilings. Delicate molding around the corners of the ceiling. Arched doorways connected each room with fluid ease. The hardwoods carried markings of lives past, polished and preserved.
This house was old, but had so much character. Flawed, imperfect, andreal.
It wasn’t perfect. But it wasmine.And right now, it was the distraction I needed from what my body was going through.
The signing bonus from Ferrari had made it possible—something I’d justified as both a reward and a retreat. I’d told myself it was for solitude. Recovery. Rest.
But deep down, I’d imagined more.
I’d imagined holidays. Music playing in the kitchen, laughter echoing off the walls, dirty shoes by the back door. A life built slowly, carefully. Maybe not right away. But one day.
