Page 3 of Close Contact
The silence that followed was deafening. No one met my eyes. My stomach churned as the realization sank in: they really were considering replacing me.
“I’ll handle the media,” I said finally, my tone clipped. “I’ll put the rumors to rest on Media Day.”
The meeting ended, but the tension lingered, a suffocating weight pressing down on me as I left the room.
I locked myself in my hospitality suite in the garages, plopping onto the small couch to give myself a moment to breathe. Then I openedsocial mediato watch the videos in private, trying to garner a semblance of how to move forward.
I’d been right. My seat was in question and not guaranteed. And if I wanted to stay inF1next year, I had to find a way to salvage this.
Every clip in this newest wave of fan edits, every insinuation, was a blow to my professionalism, to the reputation I’d built with blood, sweat, and tears far removed from the bedroom.
A string of French curses flew from my mouth. I had been so fucking careful! I kept it private, ended it after one night, and this is what I fucking got in return?
I didn’t cry. I wouldn’t give them that, but my fingers shook as I tossed the tablet across the couch. For one night, I let myself need something—someone. And the universe punished me for it.
Well, fuck that. I wouldn’t need anything or anyone again.
I curled into a ball, wincing when my legs protested the movement. My body still ached from the treadmill incident yesterday, the ghost of that collapse lingering in my limbs like an aftershock. My knees throbbed. My ribs felt tight every time I took a deep breath. I’d pushed myself too hard, again, and not just on the track or in the gym. I’d been pushing myself for months—years, even. Pretending I didn’t want things, that I didn’t need anyone.
Now my heart was splintered in ways I didn’t know how to stitch back together.
Callum had been a balm I didn’t ask for, a fire I didn’t expect to find comfort in. His hands, his mouth, the way he’d looked at me as if I was the only thing in the world worth fighting for. I hated how much I wanted that to be true, how much Istillwanted to run back to him.
But intimacy didn’t keep you safe. It kept you vulnerable and unraveled.
I wasn’t here to be unraveled.
I pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes until the pressure hurt, then dragged in a shaky breath. No moreweakness. No more yearning. No more letting my body override my brain.
The team could paint me as the villain. They could twist the narrative all they wanted. I’d give them a show.
I wasn’t Callum’s. I wasn’t anyone’s.
Let them find their perfect puppet. I’d give them a season to remember—and then I’d vanish so fast, they’d feel the whiplash.
The Monégasque sunbounced off the chrome and marble of the city, turning every surface into a mirror and every breath into a warm gust of decadence.
It wasn’t race day—not yet, but Monaco didn’t need a green flag to show off. Today was the fan experience day—a sponsor event with cameras, chaos, and exclusive access. The kind of thing only Monaco could make feel like the Met Gala.
We were parading through Monte Carlo on an open-air flatbed truck—basically a float without all the ridiculous decorations—all dressed in our livery kits for the week. It was a PR stunt disguised as a celebration. And everyone was watching.
It should’ve been a rush. Monaco always was. The scene here was always an addicting combination of new and old money. And if you had enough of it, you blended right in, no matter how humble your beginnings. It always made me feel like I’d madeit, that I’d earned my place in this world, that all my parents’ sacrifices weren’t for nought.
It was technically my home race—only because I lived here, not because I was born here. There was no Scottish Grand Prix, no nostalgic return to the Highlands, no waving my country’s flag like some kind of hometown hero. Vanguard’s headquarters weren’t even in a country on the F1 calendar, tucked in the mountains outside Salzburg, so this was as close to home turf as I’d get.
And somehow, Aurélie had always been close. France and Monaco weren’t even separated by a proper border. We’d probably spent the past few years living within a couple hours of each other—same climate, same streets, same skyline—never realizing we were destined to collide.
But instead of soaking it in, I was looking for her, as always.
Two days. That’s how long it had been since I’d watched her walk out of my hotel room in Imola, leaving behind a silence that’s still fucking echoing.
She was near the front of the truck, caught between the two Red Bull drivers who looked entirely too smug for their own good. Her Luminis polo was light blue instead of navy this week—part of their Monaco limited edition kit—and tucked into a pair of khaki shorts that did absolutely nothing to help my self-control. Her name was stitched across the chest in pale gold, delicate and loud all at once. She looked like a sun-drenched weapon.
I, on the other hand, was in Vanguard’s inverted colors—red over black instead of the usual black over red. It was the same kit I’d worn for theVogueshoot last year, and if they were trying to make me look like a villain, well… they fucking nailed it.
I couldn’t take my eyes off Aurélie. Her hair was clipped up off her neck, cascading like a blonde waterfall and exposing thesoft curve of her spine. She looked tan, tense, and somehow… like the world’s most irritated tour guide.
And I ached. I didn’t know how I could miss a person so much when she was technically right there, but I felt it like a pulled muscle you couldn’t stop testing. I especially didn’t know how I could miss her when she wasn’t mine in all the ways I wanted her to be.
