3. Aurélie
TheLuminisconference room may as well have been a battlefield, though the weapons here were words and glances rather than bullets.
The team bosses and PR reps sat across from me, their laptops open to frozenTikTokframes.
Their faces were masks of professionalism, but the judgment in their eyes was unmistakable.
“We need to address this,” one of the PR reps began, her tone clipped. She turned her laptop around, and the video began to play.
The montage was brutal.
Clips of me in the lobby the morning after the race in Italy, disheveled and wearingCallum’sshirt, played first. The logo on the corner of the fabric was unmistakable, a damning detail I’d overlooked but tied us together in the public eye.
Then came shots ofCallumcelebrating his win, the same logo visible as he hugged his team.
The edits grew more invasive, cutting to workout clips my PR team had posted.
A slow-motion shot of me arching backward in apilates move faded into a grainy video ofCallumkissing a nameless blonde woman—which gutted me.
The narrative was clear: we were a real-life enemies to lovers trope.
I clenched my fists under the table, my nails biting into my palms.
“This kind of attention isn’t good for the team,” one of the bosses said, his voice measured but firm. “It’s a distraction. It was supposed to be a rivalry. Not… whatever the hell this has turned into. We need answers,Aurélie.”
My pulse thundered in my ears, but I forced my voice to remain steady. “The fans’ imaginations are running wild. None of this violates my contract, and my personal life is just that—personal.”
“Perception matters,” another boss interjected. “Especially when your seat is already… under review.”
The words hit like a freight train. “Under review?” I repeated, my voice sharpening. “I’ve onlyDNF’done race, and I’ve placed in the points every other race. We’re already two places higher in the Constructor’s than last year.”
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 I still wanted 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 more weakness. 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.