Chapter 142 Aurélie
aurélie
Possession isn’t the point. Protecting her is. –Callum
Iglared at the tub of ice water before me, knowing I needed to get it over with. My body needed it. Every joint and muscle protested each movement I made, making me grit my teeth and breathe through the pain.
“Fais-le c'est tout,” Jules, my physio, muttered as he gestured to the tub. Just do it.
My glare shifted to him. He’d been my physio since I was in Formula 3, and I was grateful for his loyalty and discretion, but right now, I really fucking hated him.
“Tu sais que je déteste ca,” I snapped. You know I hate this.
“Yes, I’m aware,” he said in English, chuckling. “You’ve been doing the same thing for over a decade, Aurélie. Stop acting like a little bitch and get in the goddamn bath. You’re walking like a ninety year-old woman.”
I blinked, then burst into laughter. “Jules, what the fuck? I am not! I’m just a little sore is all.”
“I’ve never seen you like this. Your cars in the past never gave you this kind of pain.” I averted my gaze, to which he sighed. “You think I haven’t noticed? Come on, I know when your muscles are resisting a post-session massage and when you’re trying to hide it.”
Rolling my eyes and grumbling the whole walk over to the tub, I adjusted my sports bra straps, and then swung a leg over the edge.
The plunge stole my breath. Ice gnawed at my skin, my spine snapped straight like a live wire electrocuting me the instant I sank into the tub.
I hissed through clenched teeth, jaw tensed, the shock ripping through my nervous system like an electric current.
The cold wasn’t pain-resistant. No, the cold amplified it, magnified it, sharpened it until there was no pretending.
Every vibration from the car still rattled through me. My spine ached like a column of fire, every vertebra spasming with phantom echoes of curbs. My shoulders and neck were tight, stiff, throbbing from hours of correction. My legs… God, they felt half numb, buzzing like static from the vibrations.
This was the worst it had ever been.
I tipped my head back against the wall, eyes squeezed shut, and thought of Callum. His voice replayed in my mind, sharp and careful. That’s not setup preference. That’s either incompetence or sabotage.
The word tasted metallic. Sabotage.
Physically taking him out in Montreal hadn’t been enough for Morel and his crew. Then the FIA brushed me off when I demanded more safety. Now someone was tampering with the one thing keeping me tethered to this sport.
My goddamn car.
It was subtle, insidious. Brake balance forward one run, rebound too fast the next. Little things. Just enough to break me down piece by piece until I made a mistake big enough to either kill me, or force me to hand them my resignation.
My stomach knotted. The pieces were horrifying, but they fit.
The ice cleared my mind, gave me something to focus on that wasn’t the chattering of my teeth. The sabotage wasn’t loud, wasn’t obvious. It was slow, creeping, like rot in the foundation.
What if they made these tweaks every race? What if they kept pushing until the car couldn’t handle it anymore—or worse, I couldn’t?
I opened my eyes, shivering violently. “Jules,” I called, my voice hoarse.
He appeared in the doorway with a tablet tucked under his arm, looking at me expectantly. “Oui?”
“I need Kimi.”
His brow furrowed but he didn’t ask why. He disappeared, and a few minutes later Kimi slipped inside, damp brown hair pushed back, hoodie half-zipped like he’d just come straight from the showers. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.
“You rang,” he said in an exaggerated deep voice like Lurch from The Addams Family. The impression with his Finnish accent made me crack a smile.
I sat straighter in the tub, water lapping against my collarbones, the cold biting harder with every breath. “I need you to get me something. Quietly.”
His golden eyes flicked to mine, assessing. “What kind of something?”
“Setup sheets for our cars.” I hesitated before adding, “And the FIA submission copies.”
He blinked once. Then twice before barking out a single laugh. “Are you crazy? Those don’t leave the garage.”
“I know.”
He pinned me with a narrowed gaze, clearly trying to figure out what I was up to. “So why—”
I cut him off with a pointed look, the kind that said don’t push me, not now, not here, then couldn’t resist the jab. “Don’t pretend you can’t pull it off. Everyone knows you’ve got a crush on that brunette mechanic. Or was it the blonde you were flirting with last week? Maybe both.”
The ghost of a smirk tugged at his lip, the faintest hint of guilt—or amusement—but he didn’t deny it. Which told me enough.
My fingers twitched against the rim of the tub. “I’ll explain later. But I need them. Can you do it?”
For a long moment, he just looked at me. Unreadable. Then, finally, he nodded once. “You’ll explain later.”
“Yes.”
“Fine.” He turned, tugging his hood up as he left, as if that were that.
When the door clicked shut, I sank lower into the ice, teeth chattering so hard my jaw ached.
I couldn’t tell if my labored breathing was from the bath or from the terrifying realization that someone–or someones–genuinely wanted to take me out.
Because this wasn’t paranoia anymore. It was evidence waiting to be collected, truth ready to surface, a goddamn noose tightening around my throat.
By the time I dragged myself out of the bath, skin blotchy red, towel wrapped around my shoulders as I shivered violently, my phone buzzed on the counter.
A text from Kimi.
Kimi
It’s in your suite. Expecting full debrief later. Don’t make me regret this.
I stared at it, pulse spiking so hard I swore I could feel it in my fingertips.
If I was right—if those sheets proved what Callum and I suspected—this wasn’t just my fight anymore.
This was corruption in a whole new light, danger and destruction waiting to happen, and the kind of scandal that could either save Formula 1 or tear it to pieces.
And it was about to burn the whole damn paddock.
Ishut the door to my suite quickly, frantically searching the small space until my eyes landed on a plain manila envelope on the tan couch, almost unnoticeable.
My hands shook as I snatched it up, not even bothering to dry off properly. My towel was twisted around me and my damp hair dripped down my back.
I ripped the flap open and the setup sheets spilled out, crisp white pages covered in neat black text and an engineer’s blocky handwriting. I spread them across the coffee table, my pulse hammering like it wanted to crack my ribs.
I scanned the pages quickly before I paused and lifted a sheet of data.
My hand trembled when I saw that the brake migration curve was flattened exactly like Callum had said.
Brake migration is how the balance shifts from front to rear as I slow.
It was supposed to be gradual, a curve that let the car settle smoothly.
Flatten it, and every stop feels like slamming into a wall.
My forward bias was pushed absurdly far, logged as though I’d asked for it. Bias was where the braking power leaned. Too much on the front, and the nose dove like a battering ram, every correction ripping through my shoulders and neck.
And then there were the suspension settings.
The packers were too aggressive, rebound rates so fast it practically screamed intentional.
Packers were meant to control the travel of the suspension and then rebound its return.
Too stiff, too quick, and the car didn’t absorb the hit—it punched it straight into my spine.
All of it, neat as you please, noted in the “driver preference” column.
Only, I hadn’t asked for it. Not once.
Bias and brake migration together were already bad enough. The nose would bite, the rear would let go, and in the wrong corner, that was a spin into a barrier waiting to happen.
Turn 5 flashed in my mind, the wheel jerking under my hands, the rebound rattling straight up my spine until my legs tingled.
Turn 9, where the rear stepped out, the correction so violent I thought my wrists might snap.
The endless adjustments in Sector 2, twitch after twitch, every lap stealing another fraction of my strength.
Add in the suspension—packers too aggressive, rebound so fast the car, as Callum described, pogoed like a springboard—and it wasn’t just uncomfortable.
It was a goddamn death trap.
My mouth went dry.
I traced the lines with my fingertip, and phantom pain rippled through my body.
The pounding in my shoulders, the numb tingle in my legs after every session, the fire crawling up my back with every violent bounce.
I thought it was just me, thought I wasn’t strong enough.
But this… this was proof that it wasn’t me.
It was them.
But who was them? Morel and his posse of bitch boys? The FIA wanting to end my career before it could take off? Luminis punishing me for breaking out of their mold as the picture-perfect female rookie?
My breath hitched. My knees nearly gave out, so I sank down onto the sofa, papers fluttering under my damp fingers.
I needed Callum.
Not just because I wanted him—though God, I did—but because he’d know. He’d see these numbers and know I wasn’t crazy, that this wasn’t paranoia. That it was real.
That someone was trying to end me, and clearly didn’t care if it was my career or my life.
Panic spiked hot and sharp, sending me scrambling for my phone.
I snapped photo after photo, every page, every line.
My thumb trembled on the screen, taking multiple pictures of some pages as I shivered.
Front, back, margins, signatures, anything that could later vanish if these papers were stolen back or “lost” in some mysterious FIA filing mishap.
Click. Click. Click.
I didn’t stop until the entire envelope was cataloged in my camera roll. Until the proof was mine, safe in my pocket.
The knock at my suite door nearly stopped my heart.
I spun, shoving the pages back into the envelope and sliding it under the desk just as the door creaked open. Jules stepped in, hoodie zipped halfway, hair still damp from his shower. His eyes flicked to me—bare legs, towel slipping, chest heaving like I’d been caught red-handed.
And I almost was. Fuck, I needed to get out of here.
“You okay?” he asked, tone cautious.
I forced my lips into something that might pass as a smile. “Fine. Just… cold bath hangover.”
His gaze lingered a beat too long, like he knew I was lying, before he nodded. “All right. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The door clicked shut again, and I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, sagging against the wall. My pulse thrashed in my throat. If he’d seen the papers… if anyone knew I had them…
I pressed the phone to my chest, eyes burning.
This definitely wasn’t paranoia anymore. This wasn’t noise. This was criminal intent. And suddenly, the only person I wanted with me was Callum Fraser.
Somewhere quiet, somewhere no one could overhear. The paddock after dark, or our hotel room with the curtains drawn.
Meet me at the east end of the hospitality lounge. Fifteen minutes. Don’t be late.
I hit send before I could second-guess it.
It was too risky to do it here, and I didn’t want to wait until later tonight to talk to him.
The hospitality lounges were tucked into the corners of the paddock, white cabanas draped in sponsor logos, glass walls half-frosted for privacy.
They weren’t off-limits—teams used them for press or for guests—but if we slipped into the far booth behind the partition, it would be quiet enough to talk without raising alarms.
The papers were shoved deep into my gear bag. I stripped out of my spandex and sports bra and put them into a garment bag to not destroy the evidence. Leggings, a team polo, and trainers went on over damp skin in frantic, clumsy motions. I didn’t care. I had to move.
I slipped into the hallway, heart hammering, the fluorescent lights overhead too bright, too exposing. Every footstep echoed like a countdown. Out past the bustle of the garage, I wove through media crews and mechanics keeping my chin down, ignoring every flicker of a camera lens.
A few dozen fan signatures and quick answers to reporters in passing, and I was far enough away from the clusters of microphones and fans. I pulled out my phone again, thumb hovering before pressing Ivy’s name.
It rang twice before I heard her voice, warm and teasing even through the static: “Frenchie? To what do I owe the honor?”
I ducked into the shadow of the catering tent, the lounge’s cabanas already in sight down the row. “Ivy. It’s bad. I need to tell you what I found.”