18. Aurélie
The conference room felt like a tribunal.
A long mahogany table stretched across the front, where a panel of FIA officials sat with their papers and pens, flanked by team principals whose faces were carved into polite neutrality.
But the real danger sat scattered in the rows facing us.
Morel—the man who clipped Callum, who’d sent him spinning into a barrier in a fireball that still haunted my nightmares.
And of course, Takeda, Kowalski, and Schrieber—the very drivers who had plotted, who had tried to end me, and who had nearly ended Callum.
Their smug faces filled my vision, each one a reminder of every time I’d been dismissed, mocked, threatened.
It only added fuel to the fire.
I refused to falter. My heels clicked like gunfire across the polished floor as I stepped forward with confidence, my shoulders squared.
If they expected me to shrink, to wilt under the weight of their stares, they hadn’t been paying attention to who I was.
I didn’t just walk into the wolves’ den—I bared my teeth.
The door shut behind us, and the hush that followed was absolute.
And there was Morel. He looked as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, jaw square, posture immaculate, the picture of composure. As if he hadn’t almost killed the reigning world champion.
Rows of other officials sat behind them, some leaning forward like this was theater, others slouched with their arms crossed as if they’d already placed bets on who would win the bloodbath.
Team principals murmured behind their hands, assistants typed notes furiously.
It felt like half the grid was here to watch me burn.
My breathing felt too loud. I may be bold, but I was still nervous about the lashing headed our way. Callum’s hand brushed the small of my back. It was support, not interference. He was letting me lead.
I refrained from shooting a glance at him, and we slid into the two open seats at the table. We were in between our teammates–Callum by Marco, me by Kimi.
Then we stared at the drivers across from us, who appeared both bored and disgusted by the sight of me.
It felt like minutes passing before the FIA president, Victor Reinhardt, cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention.
Reinhardt was German through and through—precision in his suit, steel in his posture, and the weight of a man who had been running the FIA with an iron fist for nearly two decades.
And suddenly I was scared shitless.
“Miss Dubois,” Reinhardt said, his voice clipped, deliberate, carrying the weight of a gavel.
“Perhaps you’d like to explain yourself.
The FIA has tolerated your… let us call it activism …
long enough. But what happened during that live interview crossed a line.
You undermined this institution in front of millions. ”
I gulped nervously, praying it wasn’t audible.
I couldn’t show any weakness right now, not in front of Reinhardt.
He was a former corporate lawyer turned motorsport politician who then rose through the ranks of the FIA over decades, notorious for his ironclad contracts and refusal to bend to public pressure.
The guy was known as The Chancellor behind closed doors. All ruthless and immovable and feared by even the most powerful team principals. He believed in order above all else and viewed us drivers as “assets” rather than humans.
That was definitely not working in my favor.
He was also a total silver fox. So, there was another advantage he had since all the women in the room practically drooled over him. And okay, several men, too.
Murmurs rippled through the room. Kowalski smirked, Takeda’s brows lifted, Schrieber drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair like he was already bored.
My pulse pounded, but I held Morel’s gaze.
“What I did,” I said evenly, “was tell the truth. You ignored me when I came to you with evidence of sabotage. You ignored me when I begged you to take safety protocols seriously. You ignored me because I’m a woman.
And then you let Callum Fraser nearly die in a fireball of your making. ”
Reinhardt leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “Careful, Miss Dubois. Accusing us of negligence and sexism is a very dangerous game. One you can’t win.”
My stomach clenched, a flash of nerves threatening to buckle my knees, but then the image of Callum dragged from wreckage while I screamed for someone to listen hit me. That fire lived in my veins.
“Dangerous?” I shot back, temper catching like gasoline.
My voice rang sharper this time, cutting through the chamber.
“You want to talk about dangerous? Try watching the reigning World Champion being pulled from burning wreckage because the governing body refused to listen. Try living with that blood on your hands.”
The silence that followed cracked like glass.
Every eye turned to Callum then, waiting for his denial, his softening, his usual cool diplomacy. But instead, he spoke with lethal calm.
“She’s right,” he said, blue eyes sharp as ice. “You ignored her. And I nearly paid the price in blood. If you’d listened when she brought you the evidence, the crash in Montreal never would’ve happened. A one place grid penalty? What kind of bullshit is that?”
A ripple went through the room. Marco leaned back in his chair with a wolfish grin. Kimi gave the smallest of nods. Others shifted uncomfortably, whispering behind their hands, eyes darting to Reinhardt.
Morel slammed his palm on the table, voice slicing through the murmurs. “That’s enough. You think this circus absolves you of your own mistakes, Fraser? You left the door open. You should’ve backed off.”
“Backed off?” Callum’s laugh was sharp and humorless. “I defended the line. You braked late and clipped me. Every driver in this room knows it. Own your recklessness, Morel, instead of hiding behind the FIA’s skirts.”
Gasps rippled across the room. A few mutters of agreement stirred from the back rows.
Callum leaned forward, voice cutting like a knife. “Commit to your line—racing 101. But you couldn’t even manage that.”
My chest tightened. The words were meant as an attack, but when his eyes flicked to me, sharp and blazing, I nearly came undone. He wasn’t just reciting racing doctrine. He was showing me his spine, his fire, his refusal to bend for anyone, his support for me . And God, I loved him for it.
“You’re a washed-up champion who hasn’t been a title contender in over a decade,” Callum added, and the whole room sucked in a breath, myself included.
Morel’s lips curled back, baring his teeth at us.
His dark eyes narrowed, but before he could respond, Kowalski shot to his feet, sneering.
“Don’t act like saints. Dubois has been playing puppet-master for months, stirring shit online, dragging our sport through the mud.
You think the fans respect that? They’re laughing at you. ”
Marco barked out a laugh, leaning forward on his elbows. “Better to have them laughing than mourning another driver in a coffin. You think sponsors will stick around for literal blood on the track?”
“Or women in the paddock,” Schreiber cut in, his voice low and oily. “First it was tears on live TV, now it’s legs spread for a champion. Looks less like advocacy and more like performance.”
Heat scorched my cheeks. Before I could defend myself, Callum was already out of his seat, his chair screeching back against the polished floor. The tension snapped like a live wire.
“Say that again,” Callum growled, voice lethal quiet.
Marco straightened in his seat, lips curled. “Yeah, go on, Schreiber. Say it again so we can all hear you prove what a useless little prick you are.”
Kimi didn’t raise his voice, but the ice in it was colder than I’d ever heard him before.
“Maybe what really scares all of you is the fact that the public isn’t laughing at her.
It’s that they’re listening because she’s right .
You think it makes you strong to sneer at a woman for saying what none of you had the balls to say first? Pathetic.”
The room devolved into chaos. Shouts, overlapping arguments, the FIA board members pounding the table for order.
Every set of eyes ping-ponged around the chamber: from Callum, bristling with fury, to me, heart hammering but refusing to bow, to Marco and Kimi like wolves baring their teeth.
Across from us, Morel and his posse were yelling, their faces all turning red.
Someone hissed “attention whore,” another snapped back with “coward.” The din swelled until Reinhardt finally raised a hand.
“ENOUGH.” His voice carried, a steel gavel slamming the room into silence.
From all the rumors about him, I knew he rarely raised his voice because he didn’t need to.
He was the kind of man whose silence felt louder than a scream.
His gaze swept across us—me, Callum, Marco, Kimi.
“So. This is your united front.” His clipped German accent made every word feel like a judgment.
I straightened, pulse steady now, fire licking at every nerve. “That’s right,” I said. “And we’re not going anywhere.”
A few drivers scoffed. One team principal muttered something about discipline, another about “circus politics.” Reinhardt let them grumble for a beat before speaking again.
“Very well,” he said, eyes narrowing on me. “If this is the hill you wish to die on, then answer me this: do you stand by that interview? Do you stand by weaponizing social media to drag this sport into the gutter?”
The words were meant to cut me down, to belittle me, force me to back down. Every gaze in the room landed on me, waiting to see if I’d flinch.