56. Aurélie
I didn’t cry when the plane took off. There was no looking out the window and pining after Callum. No sense in wondering what he was doing, who he was texting, or why he couldn’t bother responding to me.
I planned, because hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
It was for me, for him, against him, against the world. Bitter vengeance wound through me.
Callum Fraser could’ve had me in the palm of his hand—and instead, he let me fall. Now I was going to rise from the ashes and remind him that he wasn’t the only one who would go to the ends of the earth just to worship at the other’s feet.
The cabin lights dimmed as the jet climbed higher, and I slipped on my headphones like armor. The hum of the plane, the muted clinks of champagne glasses around me, the distant whispers of strangers in business class? Background noise. I had bigger things to tear apart.
Before takeoff, I sent a single text:
I want everything they’ve kept from me.
Ivy replied with a thumbs up and a skull emoji. Not even joking. Then:
Ivy
Send me your social logins.
I did, and then I gave myself until we reached cruising altitude before I launched my crusade.
I connected to Wi-Fi and opened my socials.
Thousands of notifications swarmed the screen—DMs, @mentions, press tags.
I didn’t care about the fan edits. I wasn’t looking for thirst traps or soft-focus podium shots anymore.
I was looking for silence. And it took no time at all to find it.
Press inquiries. Dozens of them. Everything from Off the Grid interview offers—a motorsport talk show known for spotlighting corruption in the sport—to podcast invites— Two Girls One Grid had reached out three times.
There was an in-person op-eds based out of Paris, just a short ride from Luminis HQ.
Some were fluff, but many? Raw, real, journalist-driven stories about women in motorsport. Stories that needed to be told.
Every single one had been declined. Responses from me that weren’t me at all. “I’d love to, but I’m unavailable at this time!” Marked and flagged by my PR team—contracted through Luminis, not independently hired by me.
Funny. I wasn’t unavailable . I was silenced without even knowing it.
I blinked hard, my rage approaching a boiling point. I had been so wrapped up in proving myself and sneaking around with Callum that I didn’t see what was happening on the backend. Hadn’t even thought about it.
I furiously typed out another message to Ivy.
Luminis declined EVERYTHING. I figured you’d want to know.
Ivy
Such bullshit. I’ve already pulled contact lists and archived threads. Want me to send them your way, or do you want me to reach out on behalf of you?
I gaped at the screen, heart pounding as I tried to navigate the flood of emotions building within me.
Send them my way. They need to hear from me directly and know it wasn’t ME brushing them off. But if you could unblock every journalist or company that I never told to fuck off personally, that would be great.
Ivy
Done.
They’ve handed you the scandal on a silver platter, and now we sell the story. They can choke on their own silence.
You know why?
Because you’re the comeback. You’re the headline. And you’re the one who they tried to silence.
Let’s raise hell, Frenchie.
A smile tugged at my lips. Finally, someone in my corner who was going to fight with me.
Next I created a new folder on my drive:
/RECLAIMING MY VOICE/
I started keeping score. Screenshots. Dates. Email headers. Names. Every time someone tried to give me a platform and the team made sure I couldn’t take it.
Next came the FIA guidelines. I pulled up the 2025 rulebook and compared it to my contracts with Luminis and Ferrari, skimming like a woman possessed. I wasn’t trying to break the rules. I was trying to master them. Rules weren’t made to protect people like me—they were made to control us.
I highlighted furiously and circled important keywords.
DRIVER COMMUNICATION
FIA Reg. 3.6.2:
“Drivers may communicate with media unless otherwise instructed during official sessions. No regulation shall prevent a driver from offering personal statements post-race, provided said statements do not constitute direct slander against another party.”
Translation? I could speak my truth—long as I didn’t call Morel a fucking terrorist and attempted murderer with a steering wheel and a super license.
Cool. Noted.
Luminis PR Clause 12.4:
“Drivers shall defer all interview arrangements, quotes, and commentary to Luminis’ PR division. No independent media outreach shall occur without written approval.”
Except I wasn’t reaching out . I was responding and telling them I was available...
Let them try to call that a breach. I dare them.
MEDIA OBLIGATIONS
FIA Media Resp. 5.2:
“Drivers are expected to participate in scheduled media engagements unless medically exempt or given written reprieve by team management.”
I sat back in my seat and stared at the clause. I’d been barred from every press opportunity that gave me agency. That wasn’t a reprieve. That was a gag order in disguise.
Ferrari Clause 7.1.2:
“The Driver shall retain autonomy to accept or decline interview requests related to personal experience, driver safety, or off-track affairs, without prejudice or penalty.”
Autonomy. I let that word sink into my bloodstream like oxygen. Ferrari didn’t want a puppet. They wanted a weapon . They wanted me fast and free.
The opposite of Luminis, who’d only wanted me as a diversity hire. The replacement twin. One Dubois for another. An easy trade—upgrade, actually, given my performance in comparison to étienne’s.
SAFETY INFRACTIONS & DISCRETIONARY PENALTIES
FIA Code 39.3.1:
“Any driver leaving their car during a red flag condition must do so with due consideration for their own safety and the safety of others. Penalties are at the discretion of the Stewards and may consider context, urgency, and necessity.”
Necessity. Like trying to find out if the man I love stuck in a smoldering wreck was alive. But from a professional standpoint, I was just another driver who, out of concern for another, got out of my car to help.
Discretion. Theirs? Always weaponized. Mine? Never acknowledged.
I did pause and make sure I was cleared to cross the live track. And while I had been cleared to complete the race, I couldn’t help but wonder—what would’ve happened had Callum not shown up?
RULES AROUND “brINGING THE SPORT INTO DISREPUTE”
FIA Disc. Article 12.1.1(c):
“A breach is committed if a driver acts in a manner deemed prejudicial to the interests of competition or the image of motorsport.”
So let me get this straight. A woman reported a coordinated act of sabotage, was ignored, and then when she got out of her car to check on a driver who’d just been targeted—and nearly killed—they called it prejudicial ?
Oh, I was about to be prejudicial as fuck.
Luminis Image Clause 18.6:
“Driver shall uphold the public integrity of the team brand. Any comment made regarding the FIA, motorsport authorities, or driver conduct must be approved prior to distribution.”
You mean… unless I quoted their conduct?
Because I had the tapes. I had receipts. And I had a racing seat they needed more than I needed them.
I went back to my Luminis contract. Clause after clause about image , loyalty , compliance . I redlined every single section where “approval” was required.
They signed me because I was good press. They silenced me because I was too loud . But now that I had won? Now that I had traction ?
I wasn’t asking for permission anymore.
My Ferrari contract was different. No gag orders. No media restrictions. No demands to “stay charming and composed.”
Just one simple clause that sealed the deal:
Ferrari Clause 3.1:
“The Driver shall compete as themselves. Unapologetically.”
God, I couldn’t wait to wear that red suit and burn this grid to the ground.
Until then? I had thirty-six hours until I was due back to Luminis HQ in Paris, with a pit stop to make in Monaco to a man who couldn’t outrun me.
I reached out to Two Girls One Grid , to La Piste Rose , to The Motorsport Code . I set up interviews, both in-person and on the phone. Booked rides. Organized quotes. Sent my availability.
Then I started writing.
Not a script or a press release—a manifesto.
At the top of the page, I typed the first line with venom in my fingers:
“This is what happens when you try to silence the girl who already has a podium.”
And I wasn’t done. They’d sent me into overdrive, but I was about to red flag the fuck out of all of them.
The seatbelt sign blinked off, and the cabin shifted into quiet. Businessmen around me reclined. Someone opened a bottle of wine. But I didn’t move. I stared straight ahead, the glow of my screen lighting up my space, not looking at anything. Just… remembering.
They thought I didn’t know how this world worked. They thought I was a pawn—a dumb girl driver who just wanted a seat and would do anything for it.
They had no idea.
Because they didn’t know the girl who grew up reading balance sheets at ten years old for my family’s two hundred thirty-three year old vineyard.
I used to sit in on my father’s early investor meetings—legs dangling from the leather chair in the corner of his office—because my brother had karting practice and I needed to know the inner workings before I could go out and practice, too.
I corrected clauses in partnership contracts before I even had a driver’s license.
They didn’t know how often I stayed up reading legal documents while other girls were at sleepovers. How I’d memorized VAT breakdowns and international labor laws in between races and training sessions like formulas. For me, they were. Formulas to survive in a world that didn’t want me to.
By the time I was fifteen, I could tell the difference between a sponsorship clause and a licensing agreement before most people could even spell “liability waiver.”
By eighteen, I led the growth of our lavender fields.
I single-handedly found half a dozen brands—mostly family-owned companies to keep it small and exclusive—to partner with, and launched an aromatherapy line, skincare, and fragrances.
All while balancing a growing racing career.
That was the deal—my parents would sponsor part of my dream if I supported theirs.
It was in my great-great-grandfather’s will that continued to pass onto the next of kin to ensure the estate, vineyard, and lavender fields were always protected.
So when they handed me a press contract and said “Sign here”? When the FIA threw around Article 12.1.1(c) like it was divine scripture? When Luminis tried to muzzle me with bullet-pointed PR templates?
Luminis—hell, the FIA, too—assumed I wouldn’t know how to read the fine print.
But I didn’t grow up waiting to be invited to the table. I grew up building it. I didn’t need a degree from university to be smart.
They gave me a seat at their empire, assuming I’d feel grateful. But I saw the cracks in the marble from the second I sat down.
Because everything about me—the girl, the driver, the story—was a threat to their control.
And that’s what they always forget.
The ones who survive this sport don’t do it by obeying. They do it by bending. By outmaneuvering. By refusing to stay quiet even when their contracts beg them to.
They always underestimate the ones who sit pretty and say “thank you.”
I wasn’t here to break rules. I was here to weaponize them. To color just inside the lines—so that when they tried to penalize me, I could hand them their own damn handbook and smile.
They don’t realize what happens when the thank you becomes watch me.