28. Aurélie
It took nearly two full days before I stopped feeling Callum’s piercing every time I shifted in my seat. The dull ache lingered in ways that were almost embarrassing, constant and teasing, a reminder of how completely he’d claimed me.
Then came the race, and that ache was drowned by something fiercer.
It wrung me out and left me sore in places that had nothing to do with sex.
Yesterday had been something else entirely.
The near-debilitating pain of muscling the car around the circuit had chewed through me, stealing my breath each time the rebound jarred my back.
Every rebound rattled through my spine like a hammer strike, every corner was another demand on a body already stretched too far.
By the time I collapsed in Kimi’s arms after climbing out, I’d been trembling with exhaustion.
This morning, every muscle burned, my neck screamed, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to curl up in bed for a week or crawl inside Callum’s lap and never leave.
Instead, I was at a private air strip in Spielberg, sipping bitter coffee.
It was the morning after. The air was cooler, an overcast sky rolling low and gray above us.
Jet fuel hung heavy in the damp air, and a faint chill slid through my race jacket as Callum and I crossed the tarmac.
Yesterday there was blistering sun and smoke.
Today was all quiet clouds and muted light, the world dulled to exhaustion.
I was tucked against Callum’s side while we whispered about Silverstone.
What evidence we’d need for the FIA, how we could corner them with data—telemetry sheets, suspension reports, engineer notes.
His voice was low, conspiratorial, and despite everything we’d both endured, there was a thrill to it.
We were a team, even if we were on different teams.
God, I loved him so fucking much.
I leaned into him, letting his warmth soak into my tired body. His thumb brushed circles over my hip, a gesture so casual it might’ve gone unnoticed, but it grounded me.
“Telemetry first,” I whispered, too drained to raise my voice. “Then the dampers. That’s the evidence.”
He hummed, brushing his lips over my hairline. “And witnesses. Somebody signed off on those submissions. We’ll find them.” It was conspiratorial, intimate—just the two of us murmuring against the gray horizon. For a second, it felt like no one else existed.
Then Marco’s voice broke it.
“Look at him,” Marco called, sunglasses crooked, his grin wide enough to cut through the fog. “Domesticated. Tamed.”
Kimi trailed beside him, helmet bag slung lazily over his shoulder. “Pathetic,” he added with a smirk. “Give it a week and he’ll be making you tea in bed, Aurélie.”
I scowled, tugging my jacket tighter against the chill. “Better than waking up hungover and late to briefing.”
Kimi only grinned wider, unbothered.
And then, like a scene from a film, a sleek black town car rolled to a stop at the edge of the strip, glossy and out of place against the utilitarian backdrop.
The door opened, and out stepped Ivy—heels clicking on concrete, oversized sunglasses despite the clouds, a steaming coffee in one hand and a glossy magazine in the other.
She didn’t stroll. She didn’t wave. She cut across the tarmac, straight into our path, and stopped dead in front of us.
“Morning,” she said breezily in her posh English accent, then lifted the magazine high like a queen presenting tribute.
France’s Most Impressive Thirty Women Under Thirty
My stomach dropped.
Because there I was. On the cover. Hair tousled, lips swollen, eye makeup smudged and sultry, my skin glowing with the kind of post-sex sheen no makeup artist could replicate.
My silk slip was pooled at the foot of the ornate chair I kneeled on, dark red lingerie adorning my body.
And faint but undeniable… were Callum’s handprints branded across my ass.
The world went silent.
Marco froze mid-step, mouth falling open. Kimi’s sunglasses slid down his nose, his brows climbing above the frames. Callum choked on his tea so violently I had to pat his back.
Heat rushed to my face, a crimson flush that burned hotter than any spotlight. “Oh my God.”
Marco was the first to crack, laughter exploding out of him. “ Dio mio, that is not Photoshop.”
Kimi tilted his head, the corner of his mouth curling. “You French girls,” he said in that low, amused tone, “always dramatic.”
Callum’s jaw worked, caught between pride and mortification, his accent thickening until the words rolled rough and guttural: “It’s art.”
I smacked his chest. “ART? That’s your bloody handprint! ”
Ivy pushed her sunglasses on top of her head of jet black hair, thrown in a messy bun, her green eyes glittering. “Relax. France thinks you’re a feminist icon now. Sexual liberation, women in motorsport, all that.” She sipped her coffee, smirk widening. “Honestly? You look hot as hell.”
Marco leaned closer, peering over Ivy’s shoulder at the cover. “Hot, yes, but…” His grin spread wickedly. “Also very, very French. Bold. A national treasure.”
Kimi stepped in too, shameless, tilting his head for a better angle. “I approve. She looks like she could kill you or fuck you—maybe both.”
Ivy arched a brow at them, unbothered. “Careful, boys. Flattery gets you everywhere.”
The way both of them suddenly straightened, smug but intrigued, made my stomach flip.
Of course they’d flirt with her, and of course Ivy would revel in it.
The night I met her—the night of that very same photoshoot—she literally told me she seduced a security guard to get into the paddock to meet me.
She was a maneater in the best way.
Even in leggings, heels, and an oversized sweater, she looked like the most badass bitch I’d ever seen.
“I think I’m going to need a copy of this magazine,” Marco said. “Are there any other photos of Dubois in there?”
He reached for it, Ivy yanked her arm back so the magazine was out of reach, and Kimi grabbed Marco’s forearm, muttering something about him being a horny bastard.
Meanwhile, Callum slid his arm tighter around my waist, pulling me flush against his side like he was ready to fend off the entire world.
I pressed my lips together, holding in my laughter over the whole ordeal.
His voice dropped, brogue thick as whiskey.
“They’re not looking at you, love. They’re looking at my mark. ”
I wanted to crawl into the tarmac and disappear.
“Why are you even here?” I piped up, desperate for distraction as I turned to Ivy.
Ivy shrugged, flicking the magazine against her palm.
“Had a meeting in Spielberg yesterday. Orion GP’s new owners.
Still no official name, but they’re planning something big.
Tech partnerships, new wave of investors, whispers of a fresh design for next year’s car.
Interesting times.” She slid her glasses back down, smirk never fading.
“And frankly? I wasn’t going to miss this little show. ”
Callum’s eyes narrowed, suspicion shadowing his face, but I perked up instantly. Orion gossip meant leverage, and leverage meant ammunition for the FIA.
By the time we boarded the jet, Marco and Kimi were still cracking jokes, Ivy was leafing through my article with wicked satisfaction, and I was trying to sink into the leather seat and vanish. Callum tugged me close, his lips brushing my temple.
“If this is what the French press thinks is empowerment,” I muttered, horrified, “we’re fucked.”
He kissed me, voice rough and thick against my ear. “They’re just jealous, mon c?ur. You’re mine. They’ll all know it now.”
I lifted my chin, determined to sound dignified. “Well. Good. Because I am… how you say…” My brain scrambled for the right words, but the exhaustion was heavy in my brain. “The big dick.”
Silence. Absolute silence.
Marco blinked once, then bent in half, laughter exploding out of him so violently he wheezed. “ What the fuck? ” he gasped between cackles. “Aurélie Dubois, the big dick! ” He practically announced it to the world.
Kimi nearly dropped his phone, grinning like a wolf. “Finally, honesty in motorsport. We should put it on your race suit, right beneath your name on the back.”
My face burned hot enough to light the bloody jet. “NON! That is not what I meant!” I flailed my hands. “Big deal! DEAL! Oh my God, you know what I mean!”
Marco was crying now, clutching his stomach. “Nope. No take-backs. You are forever le big dick! ”
Ivy sipped her coffee nonchalantly, somehow still unbothered. “Honestly? Kind of iconic. I can work with that.” Her eyes took on a faux faraway look and she waved her hand in the shape of a rainbow. “I can see the campaign now. Le Big Dick. Le Big Deal .”
Marco fell off his seat howling. Kimi muttered, “Perfect. Straight to the merch.” Ivy smirked. “Slap it on a t-shirt. We’ll add it to the Frenglish Fuck-Up collection right there with Les Twisty-est Virages . It’ll sell out in an hour.”
Callum buried his face in my shoulder, shaking with laughter. “Christ, baby. Your brain—” He broke off into a strangled laugh.
I grimaced. “I expected you of all people to be on my side, Fraser.”
Kimi leaned back, smirk widening. “I don’t know, Dubois. It has a nice ring. Better than world champion.”
I half-groaned, half-laughed, covering my face with both hands as Ivy flipped the magazine open again. “Well,” she said, deadpan, “France’s Most Impressive Women Under Thirty. Seems accurate.”
And that was how we left Austria—me red-faced, the boys doubled over, Ivy smirking like the devil, and Callum still holding me like I was the only thing worth laughing about.