33. Aurélie
The Sharpie squeaked across glossy photos, my name curling into practiced loops.
Every fan wanted something different—caps, posters, shirts, books, a program from Monaco that still smelled faintly of sunscreen.
The line stretched across the paddock. Security waved more people through while cameras hovered like gnats, catching every smile, every tilt of my head.
I shifted in my chair, forcing a grin as a teenage girl slid a folded French flag across the table. “For luck,” she whispered shyly. “You’re my idol.”
My heart stuttered. She reminded me of myself at that age, dreaming big, daring to believe.
I blinked hard, willing the sting in my eyes to fade.
“Merci,” I said, scribbling my driver number beneath my signature before sliding it back.
The girl’s cheeks flushed scarlet, and she practically skipped away.
Another fan leaned in, voice trembling as she asked me to sign a ball cap. “You make me believe women really belong here.”
I smiled and handed it back, but inside I wanted to crawl into Callum’s arms and let myself unravel.
I missed him so much it felt like a piece of me was missing.
We’d gone from being tangled up in each other, body and soul, to this stiff silence with polite exchanges at dawn and hollow goodnights at dusk.
I was dying to tell him about my car, how wrong it still felt after FP1 and FP2, how much it scared me as we headed into FP3 and qualifying this afternoon. But conversation had shriveled to small talk, and I hated it.
We still needed to be a team. Even if we disagreed. Even if the space between us felt like miles. Especially then.
Beside me, Ivy leaned back in her chair like she owned the entire circuit, oversized sunglasses perched on her head.
She waved at the fans excitedly. Her outfit, black on black, screamed business, but the way she snapped dozens of photos told me she was having just as much fun as I was.
Here, she looked like an ordinary girl soaking in the glitz and glamour of this world.
“You’re kind of famous,” she murmured with a grin.
“You’re just now noticing this?” I shot back under my breath, nudging her with my elbow.
A ripple of laughter broke from the fans who’d overheard. Perfect. Hopefully the cameras would eat up two women being witty instead of weary. The more I could offset this villainous, naive rookie angle they seemed to be running with, the better.
My body, however, was a different story.
My shoulders screamed with every motion.
FP1 and FP2 had left me aching in places I didn’t want to think about—my neck sore from countering the rebound, my thighs tender from bracing through corners.
None of the adjustments I’d requested had been honored.
Not one. The car was fighting me at every turn.
I shoved it all down, compartmentalizing the pain.
Ivy’s hand brushed mine as she slid a stack of photos closer. To anyone watching, it looked casual. To me, it was deliberate. “GPDA dinner on Monday,” she said softly, never looking up from the photo she was signing. “Eight o’clock. I got the details.”
I blinked, pen pausing mid-loop. “How?”
Callum hadn’t told me there was a dinner after the race. He should’ve told me that after the FIA meeting. I tried not to let that show on my face.
“Because I know everything.” Ivy winked at a group of boys, who whooped and hollered. I refrained from rolling my eyes.
My pulse spiked. GPDA—the Grand Prix Drivers’ Association.
The place where the grid’s biggest decisions got whispered, argued, and fought.
The union of drivers, the one voice of power they had against the FIA and the teams. Callum was in.
Marco too. Every seasoned driver worth a damn was.
Rookie seats were earned through trust, respect, and persistence. They were not given.
And I wasn’t invited. Not until Ivy.
I forced another smile for the cameras, looping my name across a glossy poster. “What am I walking into?”
“Politics. Egos. Bad wine.” She said it so smoothly, she could’ve been reading off a menu.
“They’ll argue safety regulations one minute and be swapping stories about yachts the next.
It’s a total good ‘ole boys club. They’ll be watching you, Frenchie.
Half of them want to see if you’ll last. The other half already think you won’t. ”
“Great,” I muttered.
“Stay close to Marco and Callum, but don’t spend too much time engaging. They support you, obviously, but there, they have to be impartial. So do you.”
My lungs burned. A fan leaned forward, pushing a cap across the table, and I scribbled my name on the brim. He stammered a thank you, cheeks turning red before scurrying off.
“You don’t go there to blend in. Speak when you want to be remembered. And don’t flinch if they push.”
I glanced sideways at her, studying the gleam in her pale green eyes. A month. That’s all it had been. Thirty days, maybe less, since she’d swept into my life like she’d been designed to find me. And yet the pull between us felt older, deeper. Both loyal to the bone.
“I never do,” I told her matter-of-factly.
Another pen squeak, another flash of a camera. I scrawled my name on a flag, throat tightening as the girl who handed it over whispered, “You make us proud.”
God. Every sweet word tugged harder at my heart.
It reminded me of how I missed Callum so much I could taste it.
I wanted to tell him how every lap felt like a punishment.
I missed talking to him, missed curling against him without this heavy silence between us.
But no matter how tense things were, this mattered.
Maybe, finally, I’d have a chance to fight back.
Ivy’s phone clicked as she snapped another photo. “Smile, Frenchie. Cameras are rolling.”
I smirked, handing the flag back to its owner. “Then let’s give them something worth filming.”