And now, she was here.
She stopped to shakeHiroshi'shand, answering his and Max's questions with steady ease. Her voice was smooth, thick with a charming French accent. I should've looked away. Focused on my team. My car. Literally anything else but how gorgeous she was.
But I didn't, because when she finally turned, when her gaze lifted, when those golden-green eyes locked onto mine—my stomach clenched.
She looked different here. Sharper. Fierce. Ready to take on the world. I realized that now included me.
Marco pushed away from the wall to introduce himself, but I stayed put. I didn't trust myself to move. Not when all I could think about were all the post-race interviews she'd given, breathless and flushed.
Oh no. Not now, Fraser.
I think I did end up saying something to her, but I wasn't sure. I was distracted. By her.Fuck.
“Guess we'll see how she handles a real car,” Marco said, skeptical as ever, rejoining my side.
“She'll handle it,” I muttered before I could stop myself. He shot me a look, but I didn't elaborate. I knew she would. I knew it like the shape of every apex, the sound of my engine, the feel of the win.
And for the first time in years, I felt the thrill of something I hadn't experienced in a long time.
Not just competition.
Something else entirely.
The smellof hot asphalt and high-octane fuel filled the air—a heady mixture that grounded me in the moment. The distant roar of engines reverberated through the Bahrain paddock the next day, each throttle blip a reminder of the power I was about to harness.
I adjusted the collar of my race suit, the fireproof fabric snug against my skin. My heart hammered in my chest, but my hands were steady as I secured my blonde braids beneath the balaclava. Pulling on my helmet, I felt the world narrow to the visor's frame—a tunnel leading straight to my future.
The weight of expectation pressed heavily on my shoulders, but I welcomed it. This was what I had worked for—what I had dreamed of since the day I first gripped a steering wheel. Even so, doubt crept in. I'd always pictured making it to Formula 1 purely on merit. And while my accolades spoke for themselves, I knew luck had played its part too.
The whispers would follow me.Can she handle it? Does she deserve it?
“Ready for this,Aurélie?” a race engineer, Lucas, asked over the team radio, his French accent softened by years on international circuits.
“Born ready,” I replied, injecting confidenceinto my voice.
The garage buzzed around me, mechanics finishing their checks, engineers reviewing final telemetry. My fingers flexed at my sides, the urge to climb into the car clawing at me.Not yet. Almost.
Across the paddock, I could feel eyes on me. The other drivers were watching. Judging. Doubting.
Except for one.
CallumFraser stood near his car, arms crossed, gazeunmoving, assessing, calculating. That look made me feel like he already had his answer about me, long before I'd even turned a wheel in Formula 1.
My body reacted so viscerally that I nearly reared back. Blood heating and nipples tightening, I tore my gaze away, exhaling slowly. It didn't matter. He didn't matter. I didn't need the approval—or attention—of a four-time world champion.
I approached the polished silhouette of my car—the deep navy and gold livery calling to me like a siren. The car was a masterpiece of engineering—sleek, coiled with potential. My name,A.Dubois, gleamed above theLuminisinsignia, and a thrill sparked in my chest.
Gripping the halo for support, I executed the well-practiced maneuver of lowering myself into the cockpit, legs first. The carbon fiber seat molded to my body, tight and unforgiving, a custom fit crafted from scans and adjustments over the past weeks. The engineers began strapping me in, pulling the harnesses taut across my shoulders and hips. They moved quickly, securing my HANS device and ensuring my safety checks were complete. I flexed my fingers in my gloves, settling into the rhythm of preparation, the buzz of the garage fading into background noise.
“Steering wheel,” one of the mechanics said, handing it over.
I attached it to the column with a satisfying click, the array of buttons, dials, and paddles familiar yet daunting. The wheel was a nexus of control—brake bias adjustments, differential settings,ERSdeployment—all at my fingertips.
“Radio check,” Lucas's voice came through clearly.
“Clear,” I replied, eyes already scanning the wheel's display that I'd spent weeks memorizing.
“Telemetry is live. We'll start with an out lap to check systems. Take it easy, no need to push yet.”
