Lap 25. The race had settled into a rhythm, the gaps between cars fluctuating with pit stops and strategy calls. I held ontoP5through sheer determination, but the real fight was still ahead. Fraser and the leaders were untouchable today, their pace blistering.AdrienMorel had edged intoP2behind Fraser, and I knew the podium would be out of reach this time, especially as I exited the pit lane in the middle of the pack again.
The final laps were a blur of adrenaline and exhaustion. My muscles ached, my vision tunneling as I pushed the car to its limits. Every corner, every straight, every sector was a battle, not just against the drivers around me, but against the clock, the tires, the heat.
When the checkered flag waved, I crossed the line inP4, my tires slipping dangerously.
P4. P. 4.
My hands trembled as I slowed the car, the realization crashing over me like a tidal wave. I'd done it. My first GrandPrix, and I'd nearly reached the podium. The chants of the crowd filled my ears as Ipulled intoParcFermé, the cheers and applause a surreal backdrop to the storm of emotions swirling inside me.
I climbed out slowly, every limb buzzing, the world a blur of cheering and blinding sunlight. Pulling off my helmet, I looked up at the grandstands. For a moment, I allowed myself to bask in it, the validation, the triumph.
But it wasn't enough. Not yet. I thought of the lateAyrtonSenna's words:Being second is to be the first of the ones who lose.P4was good, but I wanted to be better.
After the weigh-ins, I offered Fraser a congratulatory handshake, studiously ignoring the drops of sweat that were dripping down his face like paid actors. “Congrats on the first win of the year.”
His hand was warm and firm, his piercing blue eyes meeting mine with a flicker of something I couldn't quite place. “You did exceptional,Dubois. You should be proud.”
I was too far in my own head to appreciate the sentiment, the proximity, the shared acknowledgment of our performance—it should have meant something. Instead, all I could think about was how much further I had to go.
A small smile formed on my lips, my PR training taking over as a good sport before I could react otherwise. “See you in Shanghai.” I backed away before he could say anything else. Which he was, judging by how he opened his mouth to respond. But I left him so he could go to the cool-down room and enjoy his win.
There was hollering and raucous celebrating within our garage that momentarily swept me up in the moment. I thanked everyone, spoke to a few reporters, and then wandered down the pit lane to the team'smotorhome.
I leaned against the wall of themotorhome'sviewing area, arms crossed as I watched the podium ceremony unfold on a nearby screen. Fraser stood front and center inP1, Morel andKowalskiflanking him on either side. The champagne spray erupted, glistening in the Australian sun like some over-the-top shampoo commercial.
“Merde,” I muttered under my breath. “Filsdepute.” My frustration bubbled alongside a simmering admiration. They'd driven beautifully, but that didn't make the sting any less sharp.
P4was phenomenal. Deep down, I knew that. For a rookie, it was practically unheard of.I'll be Rookie of the Year,I reminded myself. Just like some of the greatest drivers of all time.
Jealousy twisted in my gut. I was competitive by nature, and that competitive streak often made men wary of me. Relationships never worked out—most men didn't like how strong and fierce I was. They wanted “softer.”
Or at least, my ex did.
Which was just an excuse for having an affair.
But I couldn't change who I was at my core.
I'd always imagined I'd either spend my life sleeping my way through Europe or with someone deeply entrenched in this sport. Someone who'd understand the brutal travel schedule, the grueling weeks, the razor-sharp edge it required to survive here. Fame and fortune came at a cost, and not everyone could handle the weight of the limelight.
As the camera lingered on Fraser, his grin infectious and his championship points already mounting, I rolled my eyes and pushed off the wall. The fire that had been building between us dimmed under the weight of reality.
This wasn'tF2. This was a whole new world. My body ached in ways I hadn't expected, every muscle tender despite the best efforts of my physiotherapist, Jules. Exhaustion weighed on me, a heavy blanket that dulled even the thrill of finishingP4.
I shut off the screen mounted outside the Luminis motorhome, exhaling sharply as my reflection blinked back at me in the black glass. Then I pushed off the wall and made my way toward the media pen.
Across the paddock, the celebration was still in full swing—booming laughter from the Vanguard garage, the pop of another bottle of champagne. I knew I should have gone over, done the sportsmanlike thing and congratulated Fraser properly.
But I couldn't. Not when the sight of him on the podium still made my stomach burn.
What I didn't see, what I refused to see, was the way Fraser's eyes flicked toward the edge of the paddock after the ceremony—searching.
Nope. Not today. I pivoted so I didn't have to see him. The brightlights and the swarm of reporters made my head pound, but I pasted on a polite smile and slipped into autopilot.
“Yes, I'm very proud of the team's performance today,” I said for what felt like the hundredth time. “The car felt great, and I'm proud to have scored points in my first GrandPrix. Thank you to everyone who made this possible.”
The questions kept coming—some about strategy, some about the car itself. But it was only when I heard Fraser's voice from a couple meters away that my focus faltered.
“Callum, you andAuréliewere close in the opening laps. Did she surprise you at all today?”
