Page 118 of Close Contact
He nodded, and then said the one thing that could get me to leave.
“Give ‘em hell, love.”
That’s what did it. Not the race. Not the rules.Him.
“Go.” His voice was firmer now.
I sucked in a breath and nodded, stepping back finally and dropping his hand. I watched the medics usher him into the ambulance while a tractor drove by with his mangled, burned car suspended. I stood there, feeling smaller than I ever had, and at the same time, a thousand times more determined than when I climbed in my car at the start of the race.
And for the first time all day, I didn’t feel afraid.
I felt unstoppable.
I stormed toward the fence line where the cameras had gathered—paparazzi, sports networks, influencers—all of them pressed in like vultures. The lenses were trained on me already, zoomed in and hungry for drama.
Fine. I’d give them something worth showing.
My feet carried me straight to the barrier, the wall of reporters parting just enough to shove a mic in my face.
“Aurélie, how does it feel watching Callum go airborne like that?”
“You want a quote?” I snapped, pointing an accusatory finger at the cameras, sweat and fury clinging to my skin. The FIA had no idea who they’d just unleashed. Callum wanted me to give them hell? They could all fucking watch as I burned this goddamn grid to the ground. “Then here’s your headline: I warned the FIA this would happen.”
The crowd stilled. Every camera locked onto me like I’d lit a match.
“I brought them evidence. Audio files. Proof. I told them Adrian Morel was a danger to every single driver on this grid, and they gave him aone-placepenalty. One. And now?” Myvoice cracked, but I didn’t back down. “Now a man—afour-timeworld champion—could’ve died. A man too good for this goddamn world to begin with.”
A murmur spread behind the cameras. I didn’t care. Let them hear it. Let the whole fucking world hear it. Let the FIA fucking fine me for swearing.
I. Was. Done.
“You all want to know what bravery looks like?” I continued. “It’s Callum Fraser believing the rookie when no one else did. It’s him beggingmeto finish the race while he bled. And it’s every driver who’s ever been forced to race alongside someone willing to kill just to get ahead.”
I pointed directly at the track. “Adrian Morel shouldn’t have been on this grid today. And the next time the FIA ignores a warning from a woman, I hope they remember what nearly happened in Montreal. Because I won’t fucking let them forget next time.”
I turned, walking away before they could ask a single follow-up question.
The crowd wasn’t cheering anymore.
They were watching.Reallywatching. For once, maybe finally, they’d start listening too.
I pulled my balaclava and helmet back on, fire igniting in my veins. Then the crowd cheered again, loud and persistent. I blocked it out. The cameras wouldn’t show the desperation, the fear in his voice. They’d spin this into a spectacle—a reckless female rookie ignoring the rules to get to a man. Whatever.
This wasn’t just about finishing the race to me. It was about making a statement.
I climbed back into the cockpit, a new worry settling into my gut. Leaving my car mid-race was a violation of protocol, and assisting another driver could bring its own repercussions. Penalties, fines, grid drops. I’d probably handed the FIA a fieldday on a silver platter. But none of that mattered. They could penalize me. If defending—saving—Callum and protecting other drivers from reckless behavior meant facing consequences, I’d gladly face them head-on.
And while I was at it, I’d show that low-life piece of shit Adrian Morel exactly what Aurélie Dubois was made of when the people she cared about got hurt. He had crossed a line—obliterated it, actually—and I wasn’t going to let him get away with it. I didn’t know how yet, but I’d find a way.
God, Ivy was going to have a fucking field day with this. I could already hear her half reaming me, half praising my performance. But then she’d craft the perfect narrative, one that would have the internet eating out of the palm of her hand. She’d spin it just right. Frame me not as the dramatic, rebel rookie, but as the woman who refused to shut up when it mattered most.
She’d protect me, shield me with clever captions, help make them listen. We were a team, she and I. And the relief I felt in not having to smooth things over alone… that thought alone gave me the fire to fight this.
The FIA may be accustomed to turning a blind eye, brushing off reckless driving as “aggressive” and ignoring warning signs. Well, not anymore.
They had brushed me off once before, but they couldn’t ignore this. I’d blow this entire sport up from the inside to make sure of it. If they didn’t want to act, I would, and I didn’t give two fucks if I had to burn every bridge to do it.
Formula 1 was not the level of child’s play, and yet, that’s exactly what they were treating it like.
