Yeah. I knew.
The circuit loomed ahead,the early morning fog lifting to reveal the infamous figure-eight layout. Something about this track felt heavier. more consequential. My chest tightened as I glanced at the telemetry fromFP1. The data was solid—my lap times competitive—but the unease wouldn't go away.
Last night, Irewatchedonboard footage of Ayrton Senna's laps here, watching how he danced between precision and chaos. I admired that kind of fearlessness. But today, my nerves wouldn't cooperate. I'd gripped the wheel so hard duringFP2that my knuckles ached, and by the time I climbed out of the car, my arms felt like jelly.
P6. Not terrible, but far from where I wanted to be.Callumhad finishedinP2, his Vanguard car hooked up through the corners like it was built for this circuit. Watching his clean laps through the hairpin and Spoon Curve left me equal parts envious and determined.
During qualifying, the nerves won. A poorly timed lock-up in Sector 2 cost me tenths that I couldn't claw back. I'd be startingP8.KimilandedP10. AndCallum, of course, locked in the front row.
By the time the checkered flag waved on race day, I'd managed to fight my way back toP6. My worst finish in Formula 1 yet—and it stung.Kimiwas beaming over hisP8, but I couldn't even muster a smile. I bailed straight after weigh-ins, dodging media, ducking out of the paddock, and locking myself in themotorhome.
I stared at my phone, scrolling through the influx of messages. Most were congratulatory, but a few were biting. Dismissive.
Overrated. A one-hit wonder. WannabeÉtienne.
I set my phone down, exhaling slowly. This wasn't new. It wouldn't be the last time. But that didn't make it suck less.
I reached for the phone again, thumb hovering over the power button—ready to shut it off—when another notification lit up the screen.
A name I hadn't expected.
Callum
Tough day, Auri. But don’t let it get to you. Everyone has them.
My stomach tumbled. Callum Fraser didn’tdocheck-ins.
I stared at the message longer than I should have. It felt too easy, as if he saw right through the front I was barely holding together. Like he knew.
And I hated that. Or maybe I didn’t.
I could ignore it, leave him on read, pretend it didn’t affect me the way it did….Don’t be stupid,Aurélie.
You’re annoyingly perceptive.
Callum
Comes with being a four-time champ. Now go rest. Bahrain’s coming up.
I let out a soft breath, shaking my head. I wasn't sure what this was—what we were—though I knew one thing. Suzuka had humbled me. But I wasn't done yet. Bahrain would be different.
The desert air was deceptive,carrying a chill that clashed with the heat radiating from the track. Night races always felt different—more dangerous, more charged. The floodlights cast a surreal glow over the circuit, amplifying every detail. Even the tension in the paddock felt sharper under their stark brilliance.
Auréliehad been unrelenting all weekend. Whatever fire had dulled afterSuzukawas blazing again, hotter than ever. Every lap she logged in practice was faster, every press conference answer sharper. Her confidence wasn't just back—it was feral, almost predatory. She had a point to prove, and everyone in the paddock knew it.
I couldn't stop tracking her every move.
She landedP6inqualifying—just behind me. Right there, breathing down my neck. A fuse already lit. As we lined up for the start, I glanced over, catching her gaze through our open visors for a fraction of a second. She met my eyes with an expression that could have been a smirk or a glare—it was impossible to tell. It didn't matter. I knew one thing for certain: she was coming for me.
The lights went out. Turn 1 was a battle zone, cars battling for position, inches away from catastrophe. I held my line, defending hard and pulling ahead two positions asAuréliedarted throughthe pack with the precision of a scalpel. By the end of the first lap, she'd gained a place. Her car now filled my mirrors.
She was unyielding.
Every lap was a game of chess at 300 kilometers per hour. She forced me to defend through Turn 3, switching lines at the last second to dive into Turn 4, narrowly missing my rear tire. I countered through the hairpin, reclaiming the inside line and forcing her to back off, but she was right back on my tail by the next sector.
Her car was everywhere—nose peeking into every gap, her presence a constant reminder that she waiting for the smallest mistake. She didn't race like a rookie. She raced like someone with nothing to lose.
Through Turn 10 a few laps later, she surged alongside me, our tires separated by mere inches. The crowd roared as sparks flew. Our engines vibrated in harmony. She was fearless, aggressive—a fucking nightmare to race against. And I couldn't get enough of it.
