Page 129 of Close Contact
I thought he was dead. He didn’tget to do this. He had no right.
He’d begged me to let him in. Begged me to stop running. Promised me he’d never turn away when it mattered.
And now he was choosingeveryonebut me.
I didn’t need to cry. I didn’t need to beg.
I needed a flight.
I pivoted, turned on my heel so fast Marco didn’t even see me pass.
Back in my hotel room, I threw my suitcase open like I was loading a weapon. Each item I shoved in felt like armor. My black blazer. A pink jumper I hadn’t worn yet. The lipstick he said he liked—the one he smudged when he kissed me as if he wanted to wear me. I’d brought it all because we were both ready to say fuck it and close the distance our teams were putting between us.
Within thirty minutes, I had a first-class ticket from Montreal to Monaco.
He was on his cushy private jet, probably sipping something expensive with his team and textingMarcoabout tire degradation. I was flying commercial, but that wasn’t the difference. The difference was that I was done waiting.
He wanted me loud? Good. He could hear me from ten thousand feet in the air just like the rest of the world would.
I didn’t crywhen the plane took off. There was no looking out the window and pining after Callum. No sense in wondering what he was doing, who he was texting, or why he couldn’t bother responding to me.
I planned, because hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
It was for me, for him, against him, against the world. Bitter vengeance wound through me.
Callum Fraser could’ve had me in the palm of his hand—and instead, he let me fall. Now I was going to rise from the ashes and remind him that he wasn’t the only one who would go to the ends of the earth just to worship at the other’s feet.
The cabin lights dimmed as the jet climbed higher, and I slipped on my headphones like armor. The hum of the plane, the muted clinks of champagne glasses around me, the distant whispers of strangers in business class? Background noise. I had bigger things to tear apart.
Before takeoff, I sent a single text:
I want everything they’ve kept from me.
Ivy replied with a thumbs up and a skull emoji. Not even joking. Then:
Ivy
Send me your social logins.
I did, and then I gave myself until we reached cruising altitude before I launched my crusade. I connected to Wi-Fi and opened my socials. Thousands of notifications swarmed the screen—DMs, @mentions, press tags. I didn’t care about the fan edits. I wasn’t looking for thirst traps or soft-focus podium shots anymore.
I was looking for silence. And it took no time at all to find it.
Press inquiries. Dozens of them. Everything fromOff the Gridinterview offers—a motorsport talk show known for spotlighting corruption in the sport—to podcast invites—Two Girls One Gridhad reached out three times. There was an in-person op-eds based out of Paris, just a short ride from Luminis HQ. Some were fluff, but many? Raw, real, journalist-driven stories about women in motorsport. Stories thatneededto be told.
Every single one had been declined. Responses from me that weren’tmeat all. “I’d love to, but I’m unavailable at this time!” Marked and flagged by my PR team—contracted through Luminis, not independently hired by me.
Funny. I wasn’tunavailable. I was silenced without even knowing it.
I blinked hard, my rage approaching a boiling point. I had been so wrapped up in proving myself and sneaking around withCallum that I didn’t see what was happening on the backend. Hadn’t even thought about it.
I furiously typed out another message to Ivy.
Luminis declined EVERYTHING. I figured you’d want to know.
Ivy
Such bullshit. I’ve already pulled contact lists and archived threads. Want me to send them your way, or do you want me to reach out on behalf of you?
