Page 135 of Close Contact
Thirty minutes. That’s how long it took to lock inthreeinterviews.
AParis in-studio segmentwithPole Positioned. A Zoom interview forThe Guardian’s feature column on women in motorsport. And a Tuesday-night fireside-style podcast appearance withTwo Girls One Grid, hosted by women who knew how to ask real questions.
All of it would be complete before I had to report to Luminis HQ. All of it would toe the line with no outright accusations.
Justquestions. Well-placed, media-boosted questions. Wrapped in pretty packaging and powered by Article 3.6.2—the FIA’s own clause about personal statements.
As I paced the lounge, dodging lingering fans with strategic turns and fake phone calls, I started drafting captions, notes, openers. Not just for my interviews—but formy own story.
Instagram. X. A press kit if I needed it.
@aurélie.dubois47: You wanted a role model? Then you should’ve picked someone easier to control. #RECLAIMINGMYVOICE #DRIVERSNOTDOLLS #F1FORALL
I passed a kid wearing an Orion GP cap and forced a smile as he pointed at me. I kept walking. No photos today.
Because what none of them knew—not the fans, not the teams, not even Callum—was that I wasn’t just coming for the narrative.
I was coming for theinfrastructure.
And I was doing it with receipts, lipstick, and a microphone.
This layover wasn’t a pause. It was the launch.
I’ve hadone hour of sleep in two days.
My body ached—every joint, every muscle, every rib that had been compressed into the Luminis chassis like I was made to bend but not break. My skin felt tight with salt and stress. My eyes burned from exhaustion. My stomach hurt from living on protein bars and bad espresso. My entire body screamed for rest, a shower, and a meal that didn’t come in plastic wrap.
But I wasn’t here to rest.
I was here for war.
I’d flown across time zones, launched a media campaign mid-air, planned a week of interviews, and I was still forty-two minutes late to emotionally spiraling on Callum Fraser’s front doorstep.
The only question left was whether I was about to scream at him… or fuck him into the wall until we both forgot who betrayed who first.
The black car dropped me off in front of his building in the heart of Monaco—sleek, modern, over-secure. It loomed above the marina like a goddamn throne. Of course it did.
What I didn’t expect was thefrenzywaiting outside. Photographers. Microphones. Paparazzi in overpriced sunglasses and weekend-casual linen, shouting my name like I was late to a red carpet.
Yeah, should’ve expected that after the severity of his accident.
“Aurélie! Did you come here to see Fraser?”
“Is it true the FIA’s investigating you again?”
“What do you have to say about breaching contract terms?”
“Are you and Callum together?! Any comment on him kissing you before the race?”
That one hit the softest, deepest part of my battered soul, but I didn’t slow. I slipped off my sunglasses and shot them a sugar-sweet, rage-laced smile. “I came to speak with a friend. Not the press.”
And with that, I turned. My shoes slapped against the steps. My phone buzzed in my palm.
Security waved me through. Not because I gave a name—they knew me from the last time I’d been here. When Callum and I were drunk in love. Before this shitstorm hit.
And if they didn’t? They would’ve learned not to fuck with me.
The lift was mercifully empty. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirrored walls and nearly laughed. He’d held me in this lift after my breakdown. He’d loved me through it. And I knew he still loved me, even if he was pulling away for some godforsaken reason.
