I kept pushing, but the stutter came again, more pronounced this time. The power delivery felt uneven, the car sluggish in places where it should have been sharp. My grip on the wheel tightened as I wrestled with the growing realization that something was seriously wrong.
“Torque’s dropping,” the engineer confirmed moments later, his voice clipped. “Looks like a power unit issue.”
“Can we manage it?” I asked, desperation creeping into my tone.Why now?
“We’ll try,” he said, but there was no conviction behind the words.
By lap 20, it was clear there was no saving it. The car was losing speed on the straights when it should’ve been gaining, and then the stutter turned into a full-blown misfire. My heart pounded as the call came over the radio.
“Dubois, we need to retire the car. Box this lap.”
“No,” I snapped, my voice cracking when I realized that I was about to do my first everDNFinF1. “I can keep going.”
“Aurélie, thedata’sclear. If you push, you risk total engine failure. We have to stop.”
The pit wall came into view, and every fiber of my being screamed at me to keep going, to fight through it. But the car didn’t respond, its protests louder than my determination. I veered into the pit lane.
Climbing out of the car felt like swallowing defeatwhole—total, undeniable, crushing. The crew avoided my gaze as I pulled off my helmet, my breaths coming in sharp, uneven gasps.
“Fuck!” I snapped. I wanted to scream like a child, to rip off thecommsheadphones and hurl them across the garage, but I forced myself to stay composed.
“We’ll look into it,” my engineer offered quietly, his tone gentle. I couldn’t bring myself to respond, couldn’t even look at him as he placed a hand on my shoulder before retreating.
From the screens in the garage, I watched the rest of the race unfold, my blood simmering in anger and frustration. The rain had begun falling, turning the track slick and unforgiving. Cars skidded through corners, some drivers thriving in the chaos while others floundered and crashed.Kimihad worked his way fromP7toP4, which was a miracle with how everyone was driving out there today.
Rain did have a tendency to level the playing field, though.
I should be out there. A glance over my shoulder showed the crew looking over my car and discussing.Dammit.
Callumand Marco dominated the race despite the rain, their Vanguard cars flawless as they flew through the laps, alternating fastest lap times. Morel was aggressive as ever, clawing his way back intoP3. Marco held him at bay with clinical precision.
WhenCallumcrossed the line inP1, his victory was undeniable. The Vanguard garage exploded in celebration, drowning out even the cheers forKimi’sP4—his best finish this season. And still, it felt hollow. Even though for a midfield team, we were kicking ass.
But my solemn mood hung over me like a too-tight helmet—pressing, suffocating, and impossible to ignore. I couldn’t bring myself to leave, even as the Vanguard team of mechanics raced out into the pit lane to celebrate. I should be a good sport and go congratulateCallumand Marco, but I remained where I was.
My gaze lingered on the screen televisingCallumclimbing out of his car, his arms raised in triumph. The joy on his face was evident by the look in his eyes.
He was surrounded by his team, drowning in the chaos of victory—their hands slapping against his shoulders, cheers echoing aroundhim. His helmet hung loose in one hand, his breathing still heavy from the race.
And yet, for a fraction of a second, he hesitated. His body turned—not toward Marco, not toward the cameras—but toward theLuminisgarage. Toward me.
I stepped out of the garage, my eyes falling to him to confirm what I’d seen on-screen. I gave him a small congratulatory smile, then he took a half a step toward my part of the pit lane. I didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge it.
Then his attention was pulled elsewhere to celebrate his victory, and the absence of it was a reminder of the gulf between us, both on and off the track.
I thought of how I’d felt when he called me his, bit my inner thigh, touched me like he’d die if he didn’t. I’d spent all this time convincing myself it was nothing, but the way he looked at me now? It wasn’t nothing. And for the first time, I wasn’t focused on the driver I wanted to beat. I was thinking about the man who looked at me, like I mattered, like he was waiting.
This may not have been how I imagined my first race inF1atImola, but if there was one thing I knew, it was how to fight back.
Tomorrow would be a new story for me as a driver.
But today? In my personal life, hope was on the horizon, and it all came from that one look from him. It wasn’t fleeting or casual. It wasn’t some accidental glance through the crowd.It was deliberate. He was looking for me.
Forme.
I let myself wonder… if I went to him, right now, would he welcome me with open arms?
Theafter partywas loud,as usual. I stood near the bar, drink in hand, though I hadn’t touched it. Marco was at my side, still radiating excitement from our 1-2 finish. Typically I was the same way, but my pent-up post-race adrenaline came off as pure broodiness.
