Page 74 of Flat Out
“You okay?” he asked, tone cautious.
I forced my lips into something that might pass as a smile. “Fine. Just… cold bath hangover.”
His gaze lingered a beat too long, like he knew I was lying, before he nodded. “All right. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The door clicked shut again, and I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, sagging against the wall. My pulse thrashed in my throat. If he’d seen the papers… if anyone knew I had them…
I pressed the phone to my chest, eyes burning.
This definitely wasn’t paranoia anymore. This wasn’t noise. This wascriminal intent. And suddenly, the only person I wanted with me was Callum Fraser.
Somewhere quiet, somewhere no one could overhear. The paddock after dark, or our hotel room with the curtains drawn.
Meet me at the east end of the hospitality lounge. Fifteen minutes. Don’t be late.
I hit send before I could second-guess it. It was too risky to do it here, and I didn’t want to wait until later tonight to talk to him. The hospitality lounges were tucked into the corners of the paddock, white cabanas draped in sponsor logos, glass walls half-frosted for privacy. They weren’t off-limits—teams used them for press or for guests—but if we slipped into the far booth behind the partition, it would be quiet enough to talk without raising alarms.
The papers were shoved deep into my gear bag. I stripped out of my spandex and sports bra and put them into a garment bag to not destroy the evidence. Leggings, a team polo, and trainers went on over damp skin in frantic, clumsy motions. I didn’t care. I had to move.
I slipped into the hallway, heart hammering, the fluorescent lights overhead too bright, too exposing. Every footstep echoed like a countdown. Out past the bustle of the garage, I wove through media crews and mechanics keeping my chin down, ignoring every flicker of a camera lens.
A few dozen fan signatures and quick answers to reporters in passing, and I was far enough away from the clusters of microphones and fans. I pulled out my phone again, thumb hovering before pressing Ivy’s name.
It rang twice before I heard her voice, warm and teasing even through the static: “Frenchie? To what do I owe the honor?”
I ducked into the shadow of the catering tent, the lounge’s cabanas already in sight down the row. “Ivy. It’s bad. I need to tell you what I found.”
Ivy wassilent for a long moment after I finished. It was the kind of silence that pressed heavy through the phone as if she was either counting to ten or deciding whether to light someone on fire.
Then, finally, she spoke. “They’re lucky I’m not there.” Her posh English accent was sharp as glass, each syllable like it could cut. “Because if I was? I’d be in that garage right now stapling those setup sheets to your team principal’s forehead. Henric’s day of reckoning is coming.”
Despite the knot in my chest, a strangled laugh escaped. “Ivy?—”
“No, don’t you dare laugh,” she snapped, though there was a playful tone underneath, not real anger. “Aurélie, this isn’t just dirty politics. This is criminal. This isattempted murder with extra steps. And the FIA brushed you off after MonacoandMontreal? God, I swear to fuckingGod, the next pressconference I get you into I’m loading your talking points with napalm.”
“Ivy,” I hissed, ducking further into the shade of the hospitality tent, keeping my voice low and turning the volume down, even though it wasn’t on speaker. I kept checking over my shoulder, paranoia licking at me. “Keep it down. If someone overhears?—”
“Oh, please,” she said, wicked amusement bleeding into her tone now. “Let them overhear. Let themdaretry to spin this. We’ll burn them at their own game.”
I pressed a hand to my temple, trying to calm the migraine building behind my eyes. “You’re my PR rep, not my attorney.”
“I’m both when it comes to you,” Ivy shot back without hesitation. “And newsflash, babe, PR is artillery in this sport. You give me the proof, and I will turn this whole ‘slutty rookie troublemaker’ circus narrative they’ve shoved you into on its head. They want to make you a scandal? Fine. We’ll make you the scandal that eats the FIA alive.”
God, I loved her. In weeks, she’d gone from rep to friend, to someone who made me believe I wasn’t screaming into the void anymore.
“Ivy,” I whispered, pulse still hammering so hard I could feel it against my ribcage. “You really think I should go public with this?”
“Not yet,” she said, instantly measured, sharp mind cutting through the chaos. “Right now, your best weapon is silence. Let them keep thinking you don’t notice. Meanwhile, we collecteverything. Telemetry, setup sheets, any FIA filings we can get our hands on. We find witnesses. When we go, we go nuclear. Understand?”
My throat tightened, but I managed, “Yeah. I understand.”
“Good girl.” Her tone softened at last, fierce but warm, and I rolled my eyes. “Now go find your Scottish sex god before youcombust. And tell him I said if he doesn’t help you nail these bastards to the wall, I’ll castrate him myself.”
That earned her a shaky laugh from me, exactly the release I needed. Well, notexactly, but it helped. “I’ll pass on the message.”
“You better. Now go. I’ve got a press angle to practice that will make their heads spin.”
The line clicked dead, and I lowered the phone, exhaling shakily. My hands were still unsteady.
