Chapter 10
aurélie
If I was smart, I’d stop thinking about her. But, fuck, I couldn’t stop. -Callum
After the debrief and a quick dinner with the team, I found myself sprawled on a rooftop couch of the team’s motorhome, my limbs heavy with exhaustion, skin still carrying the scent of sweat, rubber, and engine heat.
I scrolled aimlessly through TikTok in an attempt to quiet the racing strategies running rampant through my mind.
The algorithm served me the usual mix of racing highlights, motivational edits, and the occasional cat video. It was mindless entertainment, exactly what I needed to unwind before bed.
And then, I froze.
The video that popped up on my For You Page wasn’t just another racing highlight. It was me.
Footage of me this weekend played on a loop, set to a pulsing beat.
The camera panned from my Luminis car speeding through a corner to a clip of Fraser and I competing with each other, to a shot of me climbing out of the cockpit, pulling off my helmet and balaclava, my braids whipping out in slow motion.
My name flashed across the screen in bold letters:
AURéLIE DUBOIS – THE ROOKIE WE CAN’T GET ENOUGH OF.
The comments were already flooded:
@girls4motorsports: She’s so badass, I’m obsessed.
@cockpitspodcast: One of the first women on the grid and already making history!
@just.girl.things: Is it just me, or is she kind of hot?
@forthef1f2fans: That stare when she gets out of the car… chills.
@girlscantoo: Talk about bringing the lion out… everyone should be scared of her.
I blinked, watching the video replay twice before I realized what I was doing. Normally, I didn’t give this kind of attention much thought, didn’t dive into the rabbit hole of what people were saying about me. But this? This was different.
I’d seen edits of étienne before—plenty of them. He’d been the golden boy of F1 for years, a darling of the fans. There were thirst traps for days. But this was the first time I’d seen myself in that light.
I was someone to people out there. Someone they were talking about, watching, analyzing.
A mixture of pride and discomfort settled in my gut. I’d worked so hard to get here, to prove I belonged, and now people were noticing. But it was strange seeing myself through their eyes—the cool, confident driver stepping into a sport that had never made room for someone like me.
The next video on my feed was another edit—this one showing a split screen of me and Callum, intercut with clips from the press interviews.
@wemakef1edits: Frabois is already my favorite rivalry. They’re straight FIRE.
@madeformachines: Imagine the power couple they’d make.
@booksandfastcars: LMAO book girlies, wya? This SCREAMS enemies to lovers.
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at my lips. The fans were eating it up, turning every interaction into drama and every look into a story.
Still, as I set my phone down and stared at the starry sky, the image of myself climbing out of the car lingered. Maybe I wasn’t just imagining it. Maybe I really could be the force I’d always wanted to be in this sport.
And maybe, just maybe, it was okay to let myself enjoy the moment.
For a little while, anyway.
There would be plenty of haters. Misogynists who felt like women didn’t belong on the grid beyond the extinct history of “Grid Girls”. Other drivers who felt more deserving of their seats. Champions who couldn’t handle losing to a rookie.
But for now, I’d bask in the success of my debut weekend.
My eyes closed, and the darkness of the night washed over me.
The night was heavy with the scent of rubber and fuel, lingering even hours after the last car had rolled into the garages.
I stirred on the couch of the rooftop terrace, blinking awake to the sound of voices below.
It took me a moment to orient myself, the sharp chill of the night air a contrast to the warmth of the blanket draped over me.
Voices. Familiar male voices.
I stood, stretching out the stiffness in my legs. The terrace offered a perfect view of the paddock, the three-story motorhomes arranged like a miniature city. It was quiet now, save for the small cluster of figures gathered near the edge of the lot.
I crept toward the railing, crouching low to stay out of sight.
My pulse quickened as I recognized some of them: Max Schreiber and Tomasz Kowalski—both drivers who’d made no secret of their disdain for me.
With them stood HiroshiTakeda, who had seemed neutral toward me up until now, and Adrien Morel, another world champion on the grid.
Seeing him there sent a pang through my chest. I’d grown up watching Adrien race, admiring his precision and flair.
Knowing he might be among those who saw me as an enemy stung more than I cared to admit.
He should be more mature than this at his age.
“I’m telling you, she’s dangerous,” Max was saying, his voice sharp with frustration. “She’s already too fast. If she gets a decent setup tomorrow, she’ll take points from all of us.”
“She’s not that good,” Tomasz countered, though his tone lacked conviction. “It’s just hype. She’ll crack under pressure, especially in a fucking Luminis car.”
Adrien crossed his arms. “Hype or not, she’s in the points already. P6 isn’t a fluke when she’s been quick all weekend.”
Hiroshi spoke next, his voice calm but firm. “We can’t let her make a habit of it. She’s a rookie. If we make it hard for her to stay in the points, she’ll lose momentum.”
“You mean box her out,” Max said.
“That’s one way to put it,” Hiroshi replied, his tone devoid of humor.
My stomach churned as their words sank in.
They weren’t just dismissing me—they were plotting against me.
Strategizing to keep me out of the points, out of contention.
And the worst part? It wasn’t just the usual suspects.
Even someone like Adrien Morel, who I’d once idolized, seemed to see me as a threat that needed neutralizing.
I should’ve felt flattered. But mostly, I was furious. These drivers should be focusing on their own success, not making their own alliance to try to push me to the back of the grid. They hadn’t even seen me in a race yet!
Fuck them.
I clenched my fists, my nails biting into my palms. Refusing to let the sting of their words discourage me, I forced myself to stand tall, even if they couldn’t see me. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of knowing they’d gotten under my skin.
But damn, it hurt.
My pulse thrummed in my ears, my jaw clenching so hard it hurt.
I grabbed my phone and slipped back into the motorhome, retreating to my small, tidy room.
The space was practical, a reflection of why I’d chosen to stay here instead of in a hotel this week.
I wanted to be close to the team, to immerse myself in the data, the telemetry, the endless adjustments that could make or break a midfield car’s performance.
But right now, I just wanted to be alone.
Sinking onto the edge of my bed, my phone was still clutched in my hand. I needed a distraction. Before I knew it, I was back on TikTok, scrolling through the growing wave of edits and comments about me.
At first, it was just fans celebrating my P6, calling me a trailblazer, a force to be reckoned with. But as I scrolled deeper, the tone shifted.
@erik.in.f1: She’s only there because of her brother. Let’s be real.
@thatbitchcassie: Another diversity hire ruining the sport.
@foreverformula1: She should stick to the kitchen, not the grid.
@faserfan.17.4ever: Fraser’s gonna smoke her tomorrow. She doesn’t stand a chance.
My eyes burned as the words blurred together. I’d known this would happen. Of course, I’d known. Women in motorsport had always faced this kind of scrutiny, this kind of vitriol. But knowing didn’t make it easier to stomach.
My thumb hovered over the app. For a moment, I considered deleting it altogether. But then, I thought of the fans who did believe in me.
I wasn’t here for the doubters. I was here for the ones who believed. And for myself.
With a deep breath and tears in my eyes, I exited the app and set my phone aside. Tomorrow was race day. My first Grand Prix. The world would be watching, waiting for me to falter.
Let them wait.
I undressed, peeling off each layer as exhaustion settled into my muscles. I’d pushed myself and the car hard this weekend so there was ample data for the team to make adjustments, and I was feeling it. This car was unlike anything I’d driven before, and I hadn’t even experienced racing yet.
Sniffling but refusing to let any tears fall, I pulled on comfortable pajamas, then eyed the nightstand drawer that housed my vibrators. I could probably use a release after the tension of the weekend.
No—I should be thinking about the race. About defending my position tomorrow. About proving myself.
But, fuck, instead all I could think about was the way Callum had looked at me today. The way he spoke about me in the press conference, voice steady, but his eyes… his eyes said something else.
Ugh.
I should sleep, but I couldn’t resist the urge. Before I could stop myself, I was pulling out my rose vibrator and climbing under the covers. I had to be quiet; with the thin walls and listening ears, I didn’t want my sex life going around the paddock, too.
No one had done that yet, but I really didn’t want to deal with that now.
I closed my eyes, trying to block out the noise from the outside world. The soft hum of the vibrator filled the room, drowning out the hateful comments that still lingered in my mind. I got lost in the sensation—until a stray thought crept in, uninvited.
Callum.
Not the only way you’ll be coming for me.
His name and voice echoed in my mind, mingling with the pressure that was slowly building within me. I imagined his intense blue eyes locked on mine, a smirk playing on his lips as he taunted me about tomorrow’s race.
In my fantasy, our newfound rivalry transformed into something else entirely.
The tension between us crackled like electricity, igniting a different kind of fire.
His touch was rough and demanding, matching his reputation on the track.
But there was an undeniable allure to his confidence, a magnetism that drew me in despite everything.
As I changed the setting, chasing that elusive release, I let myself sink deeper into the fantasy, imagining his lips all over me, him thrusting into me. The thought sent a shiver of excitement down my spine, fueling the growing heat between my thighs.
The vibrator worked its magic, sending waves of pleasure through me as I lost myself, detonating into a million fragments. I bit my lip to stifle my moans, riding out each wave until it was just me and my erratic breathing in the room.
The fantasy was gone, and its place was a peace that threatened to pull me under as I turned my vibrator off, dropped it back into the nightstand, and rolled over.
This time, slumber was a welcome reprieve from my thoughts.