Page 31 of Close Contact
My mom sidled up next to me, wrapping me in a side embrace as we both watchedÉtienne.
It was strange. A few months ago, I was relieved to see my family, but the more I settled into my job, the more distance I put between us, I realized all the trauma I had. How broken I was and how much healing I needed to do.
“Let them have their moment,” my mom said softly in French, her hand resting lightly on my shoulder. Her voice was soothing, but it didn’t ease the ache blooming in my chest. “You’ll have yours.”
It’s supposed to be mine right now.
I nodded, forcing a smile. The words were kind, but they felt hollow, and all I felt was anger.
My mother’s comforting presence beside me was both a balm and a trigger. She had always been a rock, but it was also a painful reminder of the expectations and pressures that weighed on my shoulders. The burden of being aDubois, and now the sister who replaced her brother, the one who had to prove herself over and over again when he never had to. The fucking golden boy ofF1.
No. Fuck this. I was tired of being overlooked. It was time to take back the narrative.
With a newfound resolve, I straightened my shoulders and stepped forward, cutting through the crowd towardÉtienne. As I approached, his eyes met mine with elation, but I was beginning to wonder whether it was authentic at all.
“Aurélie!” He pulled me into a hug, which I returned briefly before turning to the press. “You look ready to race today,”Étiennegushed. “I couldn’t be prouder of my sister, racing in my stead and showing the world what aDuboisis made of.”
His words were like a stab to my heart, each one echoing the sentiment that I was still merely filling in for him and was not worthy of standing here on my own merit. But today, something snapped.
“Thank you,Étienne,” I replied, my voice steady and sugar-sweet despite the turmoil inside me. “But let’s not forget who’s behind the wheel out there on the track. It’s not your name they’ll be cheering for today.”
The subtle shift in the atmosphere was palpable as the reporters exchanged glances, sensing the tension between us.Étienne’ssmile faltered for a moment before he recovered, his charm slipping back into place like a well-worn mask.
He always was the picture-perfect PR dream.
“Of course,” he replied, giving me a questioning look. I smiled curtly before squeezing his shoulder and slipping back into the shadows.
My mother met my eyes across the garage, her expression soft, almost apologetic, as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Instead, she offered me a small, hesitant smile.
She’d always been my quiet champion, the one I confided in late at night, the one who used to sneak extra track time for me when my father wasn’t paying attention. But when it came down to it—when it really mattered—she almost always backed my father. Or Étienne. It wasn’t malicious, I don’t think, just habitual. They were the ones who always won, who were always right. And I was the wildcard no one quite knew what to do with.
I returned her smile, though mine felt brittle, and turned away before the silence between us could stretch too thin. Whatever understanding we might have shared would have to wait. Today, I didn’t have room for doubt or unresolved family drama. Today was mine.
Once in my suite, I popped my headphones in. I needed to focus. I had so many people to prove wrong today, and I would not accept any distractions.
By the timeQ3rolled around, my world had shrunk to the cockpit and the track ahead. I’d spent most of the morning dodging my family. The sight ofÉtiennein the paddock, surrounded by the press, had been enough to solidify my choice. His return overshadowed everything, and I refused to let that narrative swallow my own.
I was the first woman to ever race in F1 in Monaco. A native French-speaking driver for a French team in a French-speaking country. It was powerful, and it was all mine. I didn’t care that this was where Callum lived now—his so-called home race. This was my stage, my moment, my legacy to carve into the glittering streets of Monte Carlo.
The car had felt alive beneath me all weekend, every adjustment dialed in with precision. Between yesterday’s sessions and today’s clean runs inFP3throughQ2, I’d found my rhythm. My sector times were blistering despite the tight turns, the kind of performance that reminded me of why I’d fought so hard to be here. TheLuminisGP car wasn’t the best on the grid, but today, it felt like an extension of myself—sharp, responsive, and capable of something extraordinary.
Or maybe it wasmecoming alive. This track felt like home, so similar to the streets I grew upkartingon. I was no strangerto Monaco, either. Besides, I had a point to prove today, and any mishaps with my car weren’t going to stop me.
Now strapped in forQ3, the harness bit into my shoulders. The familiar scent of rubber and fuel surrounded me. My gloves creaked slightly as I flexed my fingers around the steering wheel, my body humming with the residual soreness of a grueling weekend. None of it mattered. Pain, exhaustion—they disappeared the second the engine fired to life.
“Keep it clean,Aurélie,” my race engineer’s voice crackled in my ear. “You’ve got the pace. Focus on telemetry.”
“Copy,” I replied, my voice calm, clipped. The words were automatic, my focus already narrowing. Monaco was a driver’s track, and an unforgiving one. The walls loomed close, leaving no margin for error, and the narrow streets punished even the smallest misstep.
Exiting the pit lane for my final flying lap, the tires gripped the asphalt with the perfect balance of temperature and pressure. The moment the track opened up ahead of me, the world outside the cockpit dissolved. Every brake marker, every apex, every millisecond of throttle application—it was all instinctive, honed through years of relentless pursuit.
“Delta’s green,” crackled in my ear. The numbers on the dash blurred as I feathered the throttle through Turn 1, kissing the apex. My foot hovered over the brake before easing into the gas again, my eyes darting to the sector times as I hit the climb up BeauRivage, the G-forces pressing me into the seat.
The tunnel swallowed the sun. Light exploded on the other side, and I blinked instinctively, throttle steady. The car bucked slightly as I pushed through the high-speed stretch, the tires barely brushing the curbs as I navigated the chicane. My telemetry flashed yellow for a split second, but I adjusted instinctively, dialing back just enough to correct without losing pace.
Into the Swimming Pool section, I dared to ride the curbs aggressively, knowing the risk. My engineer’s voice crackled again, a warning about track limits, but I was already through, heading into LaRascassewith the tightest line I’d ever taken.
As I crossed the finish line, the world seemed to hold its breath.Henric’svoice burst through the radio. “Provisional pole,Aurélie. You’re on fire. Hell of a lap.”
