I just gave him a wary smile, blinking against the heat shimmer between us, and turned.Henric'svoice echoed in my head, sharp as ever.Smile big. Look pretty. Be bold. Give the media what they want, and you'll be a star.
Right. I could play the game.
So I did.
The flashes went off like fireworks, cameras capturing a momentthe world would analyze for weeks. This year’s grid, with three world champions, a rookie, and sixteen other experienced drivers. But I wasn't here to be watched. I was here to drive and make a legacy for myself.
They would all see that very, very soon.
Pre-seasontesting was routine.It was where engineers worked their magic, where drivers shook the rust off, and where journalists speculated about every tweak, adjustment, and rumor. But for me, it was all noise. This wasn't the stage for champions. It was a dress rehearsal.
I stood at the edge of theStratosGP garage, arms crossed, watching the pit lane come alive under theBahrainisun. My team, Vanguard Racing, was already in rhythm, setting up the car that would hopefully take me to my fifth consecutive world championships. I should have been focused. I should've cared.
Instead, my gaze drifted to theLuminisGP garage.
The mystery. The unknown.
Luminishad kept their cards close, refusing to reveal who would fillÉtienneDubois'sseat. The media frenzy was relentless—names tossed around like confetti, each theory more ridiculous than the last. I didn't care much for rumors, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't curious.Étiennehad been good. A real contender. Whoever they'd chosen to replace him had big shoes to fill.
“Who do you think it'll be?” Marco asked, breaking me out of my thoughts. My teammate leaned casually against the wall, tracking the same garage.
“Does it matter?” I replied, keeping my tone indifferent. “They'll be midfield at best.”
Hiroshisnorted. “You're not even a little curious?”
I was, I just wasn't going to say it.Luminiswasn't a threat—not yet. Yet something aboutLuminis'ssilence felt intentional. Calculated. Either a bold move or a desperate one.
And then they stepped out.
My breath stilled. Not in shock. Something deeper.Recognition.
KimiBertolli,I recognized immediately—tall, confident, that stupidly easy grin spread across his tanned face. Half-Italian but born and raised in Finland, he was a driver with a lot of potential in a mediocre car. But the figure beside him?—
The first thing I noticed was the way she walked, hips swaying gently, confidence set in her shoulders.
It was like she already belonged here. Like the cameras, the desert weather, the weight of it all didn't touch her. Helmet dangling from one hand, chin held high against the scrutiny, sunlight catching on her golden blonde braids as they swished against her back.
My pulse fucking jumped.
A hundred moments flickered through my mind like an old reel of film.F2podiums. Post-race interviews. A stolen glance across the paddock when our leagues shared track weekends. Her name etched beside mine on championship trophies.
Aurélie Dubois.
It didn't feel like a realization. It felt like confirmation—like my brain was just now catching up to what my gut had figured out years ago.
“What the hell?” Marco muttered.
I said nothing. Just stared.
“Guess that answers the mystery,” I finally murmured, keeping my voice even, but inside I felt a fuck ton of turmoil. It felt surreal to have herright fucking in front of meafter all this time.
Marco turned to me, eyebrows raised. “You knew?”
“No,” I said. “But I should have.”
The words tasted wrong. Because Ihadknown, just not in the way Marco meant.
I'd followed her career for years. Watched every win, every loss, every brutal comeback. No favors. No shortcuts. I watched because I respected her. Because she was really fucking good. Because she'd fought her way to the top.
