Chapter 129 Aurélie
aurélie
She could run to the ends of the earth, but there isn't a country, a camera, or a curse strong enough to keep me from finding her. Because she's mine—and I show up for what's mine. –Callum
The green room lights buzzed overhead, but it was the silence inside me that felt loudest.
Everything hurt. My skin, my throat, my ribs. My period was finally over, but I still felt like I’d been chewed up and spit out. The last seven days had crawled by like years, every one of them pulling a piece of me apart.
I sat in front of the vanity, staring at a stranger.
Red lips. Smoky eyes. Power blazer. Wearing all black, because what was even the point anymore in feeling anything else. It was a warrior costume, a parody of strength, nothing but a facade.
The act was all autopilot now. Breathe, smile, answer questions about being brave while your own team wanted you gone and your inbox was full of strangers saying you deserve it.
Talk about driver safety when the people who were supposed to protect us didn't care.
Stand up for sexism while being told you should kill yourself for being in a male sport.
Well, merde, maybe I should. Not like it would matter anyway. The world would keep turning, and everyone's lives would move on. The thought made my eyes water. Forever forgettable. That was my entire existence.
And then there was Callum.
More than a full day, and nothing. Two days ago, on my last night of visiting before flying to Austria, I left him some polaroids of me in lingerie, getting myself off.
In return, he sent me a filthy masturbating video, telling me I was his, and then followed up with a flat-out sext.
I hadn't responded, because I was too busy hiding my puffy, tear-covered face on a commercial flight and trying to not completely lose it in public.
Or that’s what I told myself to quell the guilt of pulling away.
I’d given him everything—care, devotion, my body—and maybe that was the problem. Maybe I’d given too much, made it too easy, and now he was slipping through my fingers without even saying goodbye. Just a final send-off of how my body got him off.
Santino said it best back in Monaco.
She was a fun fuck while it lasted.
She fucks like a pornstar if you give her what she wants.
My fingers trembled as I opened my phone and tapped through notifications. Hate, slander, twisted headlines. I scrolled until my thumb hurt.
@thef1advocate: She only cares about her image.
@f1trollololol: Faking trauma for attention.
@bringbackthegridgirls: Fraser’s just a notch on her belt. A FUCKING SLUT.
@theogf1fan: Pit chaser turned activist. Yawn.
I locked my phone and let my head fall to my hands, and seconds later, my phone buzzed.
Peeking through my fingers, I saw it was Ivy.
I nearly didn't answer, but something about her name flashing across the screen brought a sense of comfort when I needed it the most. A woman also fighting her way through a male-dominated world.
She'd get it.
"Hey," I croaked, putting it on speaker, because holding my phone up felt like too much work.
"You sound devastated," she said, her posh English accent soothing through the phone. "What happened? When we spoke yesterday, you were on top of the world."
I rolled my lips together, debating how much I should tell her, but I decided to anyway. I needed someone to talk to that wasn't just my subconscious and team members who hated me. When I was done, there was a moment of silence.
"You need to breathe, baby girl. Deep breath. In. Out. You've got just a couple minutes left, and I need you to remember who the fuck you are."
Through the tears pooling in my eyes, I laughed. It was bitter, but it was at least some emotion. "What, a disaster in red lipstick?"
"You're Aurélie fucking Dubois. The only driver on the grid actively fighting sexism and advocating for driver safety.
You were just appointed one of France's top thirty under thirty.
You're the face of the sexiest damn lingerie campaign the sport has ever seen.
A national icon with blistering lap times and a body that broke the goddamn internet.
You're rewriting the rulebook and smashing the glass ceiling in stilettos. "
My heart squeezed, and I struggled to get air in my lungs. "You say that, but none of it feels like it matters because of him. I didn't mean to push him away."
"I know. But sometimes we do what we need to in order to survive.
That note you left him?" Her voice softened.
"That was your way of saying, 'If you really want me, prove it.
' You flew across the fucking planet for him.
You rearranged your life to make sure he was taken care of, because he sure as fuck wasn't going to ask anyone else to do it. Hell, he wasn't even going to ask you."
I shut my eyes, unable to look at my reflection any longer without feeling sick.
In the black behind my lids, there it was, burned into memory.
The stack of Polaroids I’d scattered across Callum’s bed before I left, my last pathetic attempt at permanence.
A last-ditch effort to seem alluring, to make him remember me when I couldn’t be there.
Maybe sexy, maybe something more than that, but also something raw enough to haunt him.
They weren’t just photographs. They were pieces of me I could never take back, because each one captured a version of me only he was allowed to keep.
My smile, soft and unguarded in one. My bra half-unhooked in another, the curve of my shoulder tilted like I wanted him to look forever.
My mouth parted, flushed, still damp from a gentle yet draining orgasm, seductively looking at the camera over my shoulder, caught in the most vulnerable afterglow I’d ever let anyone see.
I told myself it was brave, that leaving them behind would tether him to me when distance made me feel like nothing.
But the truth was uglier. It wasn’t bravery; it was desperation.
Flying across the world, nursing him back to health like a fool in love, and then leaving him tokens like a woman begging not to be forgotten.
And the last one—God, the last one—had my handwriting scrawled across the bottom in black ink, two words that felt less like a promise and more like a plea: yours. always.
"I just didn't want to be the only one chasing after this,” I whispered, my lower lip trembling as I fought tears. I couldn’t explain why I was shutting down, other than finally feeling the crushing weight of all the pressure I was under.
"You're not," Ivy reassured me firmly. "You're showing up. You're leading this movement. The world is just catching up to you. And you know what?"
"Hmm?"
"He's going to catch up to you too. Just have a little faith and patience. The man literally just survived a near life-ending crash and then fought for your career."
Something about her words settled in my chest, and I felt my armor returning. I let myself bask in that for a moment before saying, "You're too good at this."
"I know. Now go knock them dead. You know what you're doing.
Let the world see you're not just some dumb blonde who expects handouts.
You're a woman standing up for what's right and knows more about contract law than most people will ever know.
So let them see the power of a woman who doesn't flinch, even in the face of adversity. "
I sucked in a deep, cathartic breath and rolled my shoulders back. “You’re right.”
“Yes, just like I’m right that Callum will show up right when you need him. Trust me on that.” She was so sure of herself when she said it, and something in that made my hackles rise.
My pulse stumbled, suspicious. “Ivy,” I warned. “What are you up to?”
“No spoilers,” she said quickly, then lowered her voice into something conspiratorial. “Just… remember the last picture you gave him.”
The reminder twisted like a knife and soothed like a balm at the same time. Yours. Always. Stupid tears pricked my eyes and I stared up at the vanity lights, blinking them away. I was such a goddamn mess these days, and I wasn’t sure how to get out of this.
When I didn’t say anything, Ivy hummed knowingly. “Exactly. So go show the world that same woman. The one who doesn’t flinch. And please, for the love of God, put on a smile. You’ll need it tonight.”
"D'accord." I said my goodbyes to her, just as the door behind me opened.
An intern approached quietly, setting a chilled water bottle on the table beside me. “They’re ready in five.”
I nodded without lifting my head. My heart pounded like I was gearing up to race, not sit under a spotlight and smile for the world.
I took one last look at myself. “You look like shit,” I whispered with a watery smile that looked as broken as I felt. My reflection didn’t flinch. “Putain. I feel like it.”
Then I left the room, my heels echoing in the hallway and sounding like my pulse. Heavy, reverberating, loud. If I could survive everything I had, I could smile through a shattered heart and put on the best performance of my goddamn life.
Another intern approached me backstage, mic'ing me up and waiting to usher me out, but I was numb. Disconnected from reality as I stepped into the spotlights with a fake grin splitting my face. I shook Cleo Fontaine’s hand.
She introduced me with excitement and admiration, then sat back in an armchair; I sat stiffly across from her on the long sofa, every muscle coiled tight.
The cameras were rolling, the audience clapping, the world was watching the way they always were.
Just one more show before I could take a break.
Cleo asked how I was holding up. What I’d learned, what I wanted the world to take away from the last week. I said all the right things, but I didn’t feel any of them.
But then her tone changed.