Page 133 of Close Contact
A photo of me scaling the barrier to get to Callum.
Captioned:
They only love you until you stop being easy to contain.
Story 3:
An old video from my karting days—me in my oversized helmet, overtaking a boy who was twice my size.
Caption:
I’ve been outracing boys since I was 9. This isn’t new. It’s just televised now.
Then I hit Twitter—X, whatever. Because subtle wasn’t the plan anymore.
@aurélie.dubois47: They ignored the tapes. They delayed the investigation. They wanted to penalize me for saving a life. But I’ve read the rules. And I’ve lived the danger. So now? I write the story. #RECLAIMINGMYVOICE #DRIVELIKEADUBOIS #AURELIEAGAINSTTHEGRID #FIXTHEFIA
And it started working.
Within two hours, I had four women from inside the paddock messaging me. Two current drivers from other motorsports. One former F1 team comms director. One ex-FIA compliance rep.
Some shared quotes. Some asked for anonymity.
“They told me to smile more and speak less. So I left the sport.” – Former Team Comms
“You’re saying what we were all too scared to.” – Anonymous W Series Driver
“They tried to use you. Now they’re going to watch you rise.” – Ferrari Development Coach
I compiled everything. Organized it by theme. Safety, misogyny, image manipulation, favoritism, grooming. Added references. Quotes. Screenshots.
Not enough to be sued. Just enough toscare the shit out of them and take some of their power away.
Because this wasn’t a tantrum. It was athesis.
They didn’t just light this match. They handed me the gasoline.
And now I was going to teach them the difference between a marketing stunt…
…and a fucking wildfire.
The airport loungewas cold and sterile, all glass walls and forced politeness. A little too clean. A little too curated.
Just like everything else in this sport. Funny that at the beginning of the season, I was blinded by the glitz and glamour and caught up in proving myself.
How things had changed.
I’d landed somewhere in Zurich for my layover—neutral ground, politically speaking. But emotionally? I was preparing for war.
I had two hours before my connection to Monaco, and I wasn’t wasting a second. I pulled my hoodie tighter, sunglasses shielding my face even indoors, and sank into a private corner booth in the far corner of the lounge. My phone, tablet, and AirPods spread out across the table like weapons on a battlefield.
What I really wanted to do was sleep. I hadn’t gotten to yet after the emotions of the crash, winning the race, and the short victory celebration at the hotel bar. I’d gone straight to the airport and set a plan in motion.
This was too important to sleep through.
I checked the time—12:37 p.m. in Zurich. Perfect. That made it morning in Paris, early enough in New York, and prime hustle time in London.
My fingers flew. There was a lot to do while I had the cell service.
