Page 132 of Close Contact
And I wasn’t done. They’d sent me into overdrive, but I was about to red flag the fuck out of all of them.
The seatbelt sign blinked off,and the cabin shifted into quiet. Businessmen around me reclined. Someone opened a bottle of wine. But I didn’t move. I stared straight ahead, the glow of my screen lighting up my space, not looking at anything. Just… remembering.
They thought I didn’t know how this world worked. They thought I was a pawn—a dumb girl driver who just wanted a seat and would do anything for it.
They had no idea.
Because they didn’t know the girl who grew up reading balance sheets at ten years old for my family’s two hundred thirty-three year old vineyard. I used to sit in on my father’s early investor meetings—legs dangling from the leather chair in the corner of his office—because my brother had karting practice and I needed to know the inner workings before I could go out and practice, too. I corrected clauses in partnership contracts before I even had a driver’s license.
They didn’t know how often I stayed up reading legal documents while other girls were at sleepovers. How I’d memorized VAT breakdowns and international labor laws in between races and training sessions like formulas. For me, they were. Formulas to survive in a world that didn’t want me to.
By the time I was fifteen, I could tell the difference between a sponsorship clause and a licensing agreement before most people could even spell “liability waiver.”
By eighteen, I led the growth of our lavender fields. I single-handedly found half a dozen brands—mostly family-owned companies to keep it small and exclusive—to partner with, and launched an aromatherapy line, skincare, and fragrances. All while balancing a growing racing career. That was the deal—my parents would sponsor part of my dream if I supported theirs. It was in my great-great-grandfather’s will that continued to pass onto the next of kin to ensure the estate, vineyard, and lavender fields were always protected.
So when they handed me a press contract and said “Sign here”? When the FIA threw around Article 12.1.1(c) like it was divine scripture? When Luminis tried to muzzle me with bullet-pointed PR templates?
Luminis—hell, the FIA, too—assumed I wouldn’t know how to read the fine print.
But I didn’t grow up waiting to be invited to the table. I grew upbuilding it.I didn’t need a degree from university to be smart.
They gave me a seat at their empire, assuming I’d feel grateful. But I saw the cracks in the marble from the second I sat down.
Because everything about me—the girl, the driver, the story—was a threat to their control.
And that’s what they always forget.
The ones who survive this sport don’t do it by obeying. They do it by bending. By outmaneuvering. By refusing to stay quiet even when their contracts beg them to.
They always underestimate the ones who sit pretty and say “thank you.”
I wasn’t here to break rules. I was here to weaponize them. To color just inside the lines—so that when they tried to penalize me, I could hand them their own damn handbook and smile.
They don’t realize what happens when the thank you becomeswatch me.
I didn’t ask anyone.I didn’t run it by Luminis’s PR team. I didn’t wait for Ferrari to give me the green light—even though I had a feeling they’d support it.
I justacted.
I pulled up the list of journalists my team had ignored that Ivy had sent over. The podcast hosts, the freelance writers, the women-led outlets they claimed weren’t “high-profile enough.” I emailedevery single one. Then I DM’d the ones who’d followed me after Monaco. Sent a voice memo to Val fromTwo Girls One Gridthanking her for the support and asking if she wanted thereal story.
Reached out toLa Piste RoseandThe Motorsport Codewith a simple:
I’m ready to talk. Not anonymously. And I’m not asking permission.
Then I opened Instagram.
Story 1:
A screenshot of FIA Regulation 39.3.1. Highlighted in red.
“Penalties are at the discretion of the Stewards and may consider context, urgency, and necessity.”
I added:
Interesting how context only matters when it benefits them.
Story 2:
