Page 33 of Close Contact
“It’s been about finding harmony,” I said. “The car felt like an extension of me today. The team has worked tirelessly to give me a machine that can compete at the front, and I’m grateful for that. Today, everything aligned. The car felt incredible.”
My fingers flexed, and I refrained from rolling my shoulders. Shit, my body was really aching today.
A third reporter stepped forward. “Aurélie, your lap time was not only the fastest of the session but ranks as one of the best qualifying laps in Monaco’s history. Do you feel like this performance silences your critics once and for all?”
“I think the lap times speak for themselves,” I said simply, letting my achievements do the talking.
The reporters exchanged murmurs, a few smiling at my defiance before another question cut through the noise. But as the questions shifted, so did my demeanor.
Another reporter spoke up. “As the first woman to secure pole position inF1history, do you feel an added responsibility to represent and inspire others who might follow in your footsteps?”
I hesitated. “Yes, but I don’t see it as a burden,” I admitted. “I’ve worked hard to be here, and I hope that by being here, I can show others—women, girls, anyone watching—that talent and determination matter more than preconceived notions of who belongs in this sport.”
“Aurélie, your brotherÉtienneis here this weekend, making his first public appearance since his crash. What does it mean to have him here on such a historic day for you? And has he given you any advice this weekend?”
And just like that, they were trying to shadow my statement with questions about a man. Go fucking figure.
“Étiennehas retired,” I replied, my tone clipped. “I’m proud of what he’s achieved, but today is about me and my team.”
The reporter hesitated, then pressed on. “And seeing your former Formula 2 team principal here—do you think he’ll congratulate you on your first pole position?”
My heart flew to my throat, anger bubbling beneath the surface. Before I could respond, a hand rested on my shoulder.
“Great question,”Callumsaid as he appeared by my side, his tone smooth and laced with subtle mockery. “But maybe you should askAurélieabout the best lap on the grid today instead of unrelated topics.”
The reporter faltered, clearly thrown off, and I turned toCallum, his presence a welcome one. Of course he was here, beingP2and all. He gave me a small, reassuring nod before stepping back, allowing me to regain control.
I swooned. God, I was falling for him. It terrified me a little, how deep it already felt with him, how real it was becoming even if it was all behind closed doors.
I swallowed the emotions. I would not let it show.
For months, I’d avoided speaking my ex’s name, sidestepping questions that tethered me to him. But now, standing here on the streets of Monaco as the first woman to ever claim pole position at this track, I realized I didn’t need to avoid it anymore. Not him, not his shadow, not the past.
I squared my shoulders, meeting the reporter’s gaze directly. “SantinoCostaplayed his role,” I said, my voice showing no signs of fondness, and probably a bit of bitterness. “He’s an old part of my career, not my present. Whatever lessons I learned under his leadership, I’ve carried with me. And today,” I continued, a razor-sharp edge to my words, “I’m grateful for the opportunity to show that those lessons were mine to master—not his to dictate.”
The silence that followed was deafening. The reporter blinked, his question hanging unfinished in the air. I could feel the shift in the crowd—a ripple of understanding and, perhaps, respect.
I glanced briefly at the cameras, letting the moment linger. “This is my story,” I said softly, but with steel in my tone. “Not anyoneelse’s.”
My eyes flickered toCallumwith a sense of urgency, because I felt follow-up questions arising, and I realized I needed him to step in and take me away from this. They would listen to him.
“Excuse us,”Callumsaid, his voice firm yet polite as he steered me away from the microphone with a hand casually on my shoulder. As if we were just colleagues, not… whatever we were romantically.
I glanced up at him, my annoyance melting into gratitude. “Merci,” I muttered under my breath.
“Someone’s got to make sure they talk about your driving, not your past,” he replied, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity that made my pulse quicken.
As we walked away from the reporters, I heaved a sigh. Finally today’s events didn’t feel suffocating now that he was by my side for the first time since we parted ways yesterday. His hand brushed against mine as we turned away from the crowd, a touch so fleeting it might have been accidental—if not for the flicker of something deeper in his eyes when he glanced at me.
“You don’t need their validation, love. You did this on your own. Plus, you have mine. A four-time world champion.” His voice was soft, teasing—but his eyes burned. I felt the heat of it long after he looked away.
I snorted. “So humble, Fraser. You should write cards for a living once you retire from this sport.”
He chuckled and bumped my shoulder with his.
Today, I was proud of myself, and nothing would take that away from me.
The fight wasn’t over. Tomorrow would be harder. The streets of Monaco were going to be difficult, and holding ontoP1 would require everything I had—and more.
