Page 63 of Flat Out
Rows of other officials sat behind them, some leaning forward like this was theater, others slouched with their arms crossed as if they’d already placed bets on who would win the bloodbath. Team principals murmured behind their hands, assistants typed notes furiously. It felt like half the grid was here to watch me burn.
My breathing felt too loud. I may be bold, but I was still nervous about the lashing headed our way. Callum’s hand brushed the small of my back. It was support, not interference. He was letting me lead.
I refrained from shooting a glance at him, and we slid into the two open seats at the table. We were in between our teammates–Callum by Marco, me by Kimi.
Then we stared at the drivers across from us, who appeared both bored and disgusted by the sight of me.
It felt like minutes passing before the FIA president, Victor Reinhardt, cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention. Reinhardt was German through and through—precision in his suit, steel in his posture, and the weight of a man who had been running the FIA with an iron fist for nearly two decades.
And suddenly I was scared shitless.
“Miss Dubois,” Reinhardt said, his voice clipped, deliberate, carrying the weight of a gavel. “Perhaps you’d like to explain yourself. The FIA has tolerated your… let us call itactivism… long enough. But what happened during that live interviewcrossed a line. You undermined this institution in front of millions.”
I gulped nervously, praying it wasn’t audible. I couldn’t show any weakness right now, not in front of Reinhardt. He was a former corporate lawyer turned motorsport politician who then rose through the ranks of the FIA over decades, notorious for his ironclad contracts and refusal to bend to public pressure.
The guy was known asThe Chancellorbehind closed doors. All ruthless and immovable and feared by even the most powerful team principals. He believed in order above all else and viewed us drivers as “assets” rather than humans.
That was definitely not working in my favor.
He was also a total silver fox. So, there was another advantage he had since all the women in the room practically drooled over him. And okay, several men, too.
Murmurs rippled through the room. Kowalski smirked, Takeda’s brows lifted, Schrieber drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair like he was already bored.
My pulse pounded, but I held Morel’s gaze. “What I did,” I said evenly, “was tell the truth. You ignored me when I came to you with evidence of sabotage. You ignored me when I begged you to take safety protocols seriously. You ignored me because I’m a woman. And then you let Callum Fraser nearly die in a fireball of your making.”
Reinhardt leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “Careful, Miss Dubois. Accusing us of negligence and sexism is a very dangerous game. One you can’t win.”
My stomach clenched, a flash of nerves threatening to buckle my knees, but then the image of Callum dragged from wreckage while I screamed for someone to listen hit me. That fire lived in my veins.
“Dangerous?” I shot back, temper catching like gasoline. My voice rang sharper this time, cutting through the chamber. “Youwant to talk about dangerous? Try watching the reigning World Champion being pulled from burning wreckage because the governing body refused to listen. Try living with that blood on your hands.”
The silence that followed cracked like glass.
Every eye turned to Callum then, waiting for his denial, his softening, his usual cool diplomacy. But instead, he spoke with lethal calm.
“She’s right,” he said, blue eyes sharp as ice. “You ignored her. And I nearly paid the price in blood. If you’d listened when she brought you the evidence, the crash in Montreal never would’ve happened. A one place grid penalty? What kind of bullshit is that?”
A ripple went through the room. Marco leaned back in his chair with a wolfish grin. Kimi gave the smallest of nods. Others shifted uncomfortably, whispering behind their hands, eyes darting to Reinhardt.
Morel slammed his palm on the table, voice slicing through the murmurs. “That’s enough. You think this circus absolves you of your own mistakes, Fraser? You left the door open. You should’ve backed off.”
“Backed off?” Callum’s laugh was sharp and humorless. “I defended the line. You braked late and clipped me. Every driver in this room knows it. Own your recklessness, Morel, instead of hiding behind the FIA’s skirts.”
Gasps rippled across the room. A few mutters of agreement stirred from the back rows.
Callum leaned forward, voice cutting like a knife. “Commit to your line—racing 101. But you couldn’t even manage that.”
My chest tightened. The words were meant as an attack, but when his eyes flicked to me, sharp and blazing, I nearly came undone. He wasn’t just reciting racing doctrine. He was showingme his spine, his fire, his refusal to bend for anyone, hissupport for me. And God, I loved him for it.
“You’re a washed-up champion who hasn’t been a title contender in over a decade,” Callum added, and the whole room sucked in a breath, myself included.
Morel’s lips curled back, baring his teeth at us. His dark eyes narrowed, but before he could respond, Kowalski shot to his feet, sneering. “Don’t act like saints. Dubois has been playing puppet-master for months, stirring shit online, dragging our sport through the mud. You think the fans respect that? They’re laughing at you.”
Marco barked out a laugh, leaning forward on his elbows. “Better to have them laughing than mourning another driver in a coffin. You think sponsors will stick around for literal blood on the track?”
“Or women in the paddock,” Schreiber cut in, his voice low and oily. “First it was tears on live TV, now it’s legs spread for a champion. Looks less like advocacy and more like performance.”
Heat scorched my cheeks. Before I could defend myself, Callum was already out of his seat, his chair screeching back against the polished floor. The tension snapped like a live wire.
