Chapter 163
aurélie
This isn’t just her fight anymore. It’s ours. And I'm done playing fair. –Callum
“Okay, I realize that’s a bit extreme,” I muttered in French, pacing the floor of our hotel suite. “I don’t mean I want to actually sue an entire international, multi-billion dollar organization. Perhaps just the stewards who didn’t want to listen to me.”
The storm slammed against the windows, rattling the glass like it wanted in. I watched the rain come down in crooked sheets, beading on the railings and pooling on the plush outdoor furniture. The concrete floor of the balcony shimmered under the muted grey morning light.
I reached out and pulled the sliding glass door open to feel the cool breeze across my heated skin. I stood just at the edge of the threshold, letting the damp wind sting my cheeks. Goosebumps broke out down my legs, the only flesh exposed as I adorned my newest favorite sleep shirt.
That silly long-sleeve that read Les Twisty-est Virages across the chest, gifted to me by Marco and Kimi.
This weather reminded me of home. Different, but the same.
In the vineyard, storms would roll over the fields and turn the soil to mud, thunder rumbling low between the rolling hills of the estate.
I used to watch from the shelter of the ornate wooden cellar doors while I corked bottles, hands busy with the repetitive work while the sky split open.
I knew the vines would bend, then rise again once the skies cleared.
Here, though, the storm didn’t promise renewal. It pressed down on my shoulders, heavy and restless, like the sport itself. Formula 1 was glamorous, relentless, intoxicating—but never gentle. Every second of it was a wild ride.
Home had been lonely in its own way, all that silence between breathtaking rows of lavender and grapes, but at least the storms there had an ending. It was the nature of Southern France. But here… this one felt endless.
And maybe that’s what I was always chasing: some fragile moment of calm in the middle of the ferocity. Something to numb the ache long enough to breathe.
Basically, everything Callum Fraser was for me in our moments together.
But even as the storm beat down, I knew the truth: vines survived because they bent. If they resisted, they snapped. In this world, I wasn’t sure which I was becoming.
It was hard to describe the nostalgia of being at peace while simultaneously chasing that feeling because it numbed the pain.
Behind me, I heard the kettle click off.
Callum’s arm wrapped around my waist from behind, his other appearing with a fresh cup of coffee.
He pressed the warm mug into my free hand and pressed a tender kiss to my temple.
His T-shirt was rumpled, his hair wild, and he looked at me like I was the most fascinating thing in the world.
Like he hadn't looked me in the eye and vowed he wanted me, no matter what future my body could or couldn’t carry.
That I wasn’t ruined. That love wasn’t conditional.
And then proved it with the kind of devotion that felt less like sex and more like worship, not even thirty minutes ago.
I leaned back into his chest, and his stubbled chin dropped to my shoulder.
My eyes closed, and I knew I was safe here. We were safe.
On the other end of the line, my attorney let out a long-suffering sigh. “Bonjour to you, too, Aurélie. I’ve been watching your interviews. That little social media crusade the last few weeks? I am impressed. Almost inspired to post something myself, if that tells you how serious it was.”
I snorted, clutching my mug tighter. Callum broke away to sit on the couch in the living space of our suite. “So you saw the chaos.”
“I saw conviction. And I assumed this call was about that.” A pause. “Then you opened with ‘I want to sue the FIA.’”
Callum made a strangled noise behind his cup of tea, trying not to laugh. I flicked a glare at him, but it only made his grin widen. Bastard. Then I spilled everything we knew to Alain—the crash, the assault, the tampering with my car, the FIA’s negligence.
Alain’s voice turned more serious. “Aurélie, ma chère, if you were going to sue the FIA, I’d rather you didn’t say so aloud where anyone could hear you.”
“I’m in a private suite in England. You’re in Paris. You think someone bugged my room?”
“I think the FIA has eyes and ears everywhere, and a long legal reach. So if we’re going to shake them down, we do it with precision, not bravado.”
I let out a slow breath and finally turned away from the rain-soaked balcony, eyeing Callum as he opened a box of pastries he’d just had delivered. Then he pulled out a pistachio-covered croissant like it was nothing.
It was everything.
Biting my lip, I stared at the golden pastry, my stomach growling suddenly. I shouldn’t indulge, but honestly, we’d both been through enough to warrant a treat every once in a while. I crossed the room to sit beside him on the couch.
“Then tell me how to be precise, Alain,” I said.
“Because I am so tired of playing nice. I tried to go through the right channels. I brought evidence, I went to the stewards, and they dismissed me like a hysterical child… a woman. And a man almost died. A forty-eight G impact, and they're calling it a racing incident. Then there’s the tampering with my car, the groping—”
“What evidence, exactly?”
I glanced at Callum. He met my gaze, all silent encouragement and unwavering loyalty. My shoulders dropped, relief hitting me. Here he was, once again showing me that he would always be here for me.
“The audio recording,” I said at last. “From the hotel in Montreal. I overheard four drivers, Adrian Morel included, talking about taking Fraser out to get in my head. I recorded it. I took it to the stewards and reported it. They ignored me. I played it in a live interview in Austria.”
Silence met me on the other end of the line, and I could practically hear him scribbling notes.
“And then the crash,” Alain said. “You believe it was connected?”
“I know it was,” I whispered. “Morel forced Fraser wide.
The data shows Fraser did everything right, down to his reaction time, and that Morel could've held his line. Besides, he fucking admitted it to me yesterday, along with the sabotage to my car, when he pushed me against a wall and copped a feel. Which we also have footage of.”
Callum’s hand brushed my lower back, a silent reminder that I wasn’t alone in this.
“What you’re describing,” Alain said slowly, “is more than negligence. It borders on coordinated endangerment on multiple drivers’ parts.
But a recording isn’t enough. We’ll need hotel security footage—confirmation that you were there, that they were there, that you went to the FIA.
Audit logs from the stewards’ meeting. All race reviews must be recorded.
If there’s proof they dismissed a legitimate safety concern… that’s our wedge.”
I nodded. “And then we go after them?”
“Not exactly. We open a targeted investigation. Stewards, marshals, officials from Montreal. We cite violations of failing to ensure safety and sporting integrity." He cleared his throat. "And clauses regarding gender-based discrimination.”
“You think we can prove that?”
“With your statement, the recording, and any corroborating footage? Yes. Especially when paired with Callum’s crash and the fact that your warning was ignored. Male drivers have had lesser concerns taken seriously. We build a case around systematic negligence.”
My pulse quickened. “Systematic negligence,” I repeated under my breath, the words tasting both vindicating and terrifying.
“And that’s just the start,” Alain continued. I could hear papers shifting, the scratch of his pen. “Let’s break this down. First, negligence: you reported a credible safety threat, the stewards ignored it, and the result was a near-fatal impact of another driver. That alone could sink them.”
He didn’t pause before the next strike. “Second, we have gender-based discrimination. The pattern is clear—when your male colleagues complain, the FIA investigates and the GPDA gets involved. When you complain, you’re dismissed as emotional. We’ll build a comparative record. It will hold.”
A tremor went through me, half fury, half relief. Callum’s hand pressed firmer against my back.
“Third, duty of care. The FIA is legally bound to protect its drivers. By ignoring sabotage, by failing to act on your evidence, they breached that duty. If anything, they enabled danger.”
Callum flexed his free hand, and I knew he was seconds from saying something violent.
“Fourth—retaliation. The FIA didn’t just ignore you. They let the media mock you publicly when they called you emotional. They spun your complaints as dramatics by dismissing you more than once. That’s a hostile environment claim, Aurélie. A damning one.”
The words sank in like stones, heavy and hard.
“And then there’s Morel.” Alain’s tone dropped, deliberate and cutting.
“His actions extend beyond the FIA. We have assault—the groping, the physical intimidation, potential marks left behind—and if you truly have footage, that is indisputable. Pair it with any on-record proof of sabotage, and we have conspiracy to endanger. Possibly even attempted manslaughter on two counts, if a prosecutor were feeling bold.”
My stomach tumbled. Callum muttered something vicious under his breath, his arm tightening like he could hold the rage in his body and mine at once.
“So you’re saying…” I swallowed hard. “This isn’t just one case.”
“No,” Alain said, his tone almost sinister.
“It’s five. Negligence. Discrimination. Breach of duty.
Retaliation. Assault. Each one damning on its own.
Together?” He paused, and it felt heavy and certain.
“Together, Aurélie, this isn’t a lawsuit.
It’s an indictment. Of Morel, of the stewards, of the system that protects them. ”
Lightning cracked outside, close enough to rattle the glass. It felt ominous, but Callum didn’t flinch. He leaned forward, voice low, unshakable. “Then we bring the whole system down.”
Callum leaned in. “You’re not doing this by yourself,” he said softly. “Whatever you need, I’m with you.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line before Alain chuckled and switched to English.
“Then we have a narrative. Instead of litigation, we demand reform. An independent audit, stewarding changes, perhaps mandatory gender representation on panels. A driver advocate for medical concerns, appointed by the GPDA. Transparency reports.”
I leaned back into Callum's arm, the full weight of it settling around me. “So this isn’t revenge.”
“This is revolution,” Alain said. “You’ll threaten legal action. But you’ll offer them a better option: real, structural change. If they refuse… then we sue.”
Callum’s thumb skimmed the edge of my shoulder. “I’ll talk to my team. They’ll release the internal report and the telemetry of the impact. Also the medical reports.”
“And Callum, if you'll speak publicly in support—”
“He will,” I cut in, smiling up at him. A gust of wind blew through the open door and tousled his hair, lifting it off his temples where it was starting to curl at the ends. He looked like walking sex, and I suddenly couldn't wait for this call to be over.
“You know the media will spin your relationship," Alain warned. "They’ll call Callum biased and say this is personal.”
“It is personal,” I said defensively. “But that doesn’t make it untrue. I brought this to the FIA before we were public about anything.”
“Exactly,” Alain agreed. “If you’re both open about it—about why you’re fighting, and what you’re fighting for—they’ll have no choice but to listen.
A safety and equity campaign, spearheaded by one of the sport’s few female drivers in history and a fan-favorite male champion?
” His tone shifted, warm and resolute. “Then what we have, Aurélie… is not just a case or justice. It’s a movement. And it will be impossible to ignore.”
“And if they try to bury it?” I whispered.
Callum’s hand brushed mine, his pinky looping gently around mine. His voice was quiet but firm. “Then we bury them.”
Alain exhaled. “You’d make a terrifying legal duo.”
I smiled faintly and looked at Callum, who just sipped his tea with the calm of a man already committed to arson.
“Let me make some calls,” Alain continued. “Stay quiet for now. No more veiled threats on social media. No interviews.”
“No promises,” I muttered.
“Aurélie.”
“Fine.”
When the call ended, I dropped my phone on the coffee table, snagged a pistachio croissant, and turned fully toward Callum.
The pastry flaked between my fingers, light and sweet, a stark contrast from the bitterness in my chest. It felt wrong to taste something so delicate when the storm outside promised to wreak havoc.