Page 14 of Flat Out
Ava Richards, now a firebrand journalist, gave Aurélie a long, slow once-over. Not in judgment, but in awe.
Yeah. Me too.
Ava waited until the crew quieted, adjusting her earpiece. “Okay,” she said, crossing her legs with a grin, “before we dive in… I just want to say thank you for being here.”
Aurélie smiled, graceful and unbothered. “Thank you for having me so last minute. I’m just hoping my PR team doesn’t burst through the wall like a SWAT unit halfway through this.” The sound of her voice sent my heart soaring. I fucking missed her. Phone calls wouldn't cut it anymore. I'd blaze a trail to her straight through this season until my team physically pried me away from her.
The audience laughed. Ava did too. “If they do, we’re live, so they’ll look unhinged and you’ll look iconic.”
“Perfect,” Aurélie deadpanned. “That’s the goal.”
“She’s so casual about inciting a coup,” I muttered to myself, swallowing a smile. My body protested as I laughed softly to myself. She hadn’t even started and I already wanted to stand up and slow-clap.
Ava leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “You know, I was reviewing the list of everything you’ve done in the last… thirty-six hours?”
Aurélie raised one brow, her smile widening just slightly. “I don’t recommend that.”
“Oh, but I think the people need to see this,” Ava said, turning to the screen behind them. “Let’s go to the timeline.”
The room darkened just a little as the screen came to life with videos and pictures.
The pre-race kiss on the grid. Me in Vanguard black and red, her in Luminis navy and gold as I pressed my mouth to hers as if I couldn’t breathe without her.
The crash. Her screaming into her radio before running across the track and scaling the barrier as though nothing could keep her from me. Thrashing and fighting the marshals as they pulled her away from the wreckage. Her sprinting back to me after I woke up.
My chest tightened, a phantom echo of the nightmare I couldn’t shake–the one where Morel came screaming around the corner. Where she and the baby were gone, and I was left clawing at a bed that smelled like her but held no warmth. Watching her sprint toward my crumpled car now blurred the line between dream and memory.
Footage I hadn't seen yet before she continued the race. Her yelling at the cameras about a quote, how she warned the FIA. And then she went on to win the fucking race like she told me she would.
The victory hug on the podium with her, Marco, and Kimi grinning like maniacs. Drenched in champagne.
A post-race celebration of her and Kimi in the hotel bar in Montreal. Pink dress, exhaustion on her face. Just last night.
Airport photos of her in a messy bun, my hoodie engulfing her small frame, eyes rimmed red as she focused on her phone, the sky dark outside.
Paparazzi outside my flat. Hair more wild, makeup smudged but eyes cutting as she climbed the steps to my building.
Outside my flat hours later in the same outfit she wore now, poised and confident when she climbed into a black car.
Her in the Monaco airport a couple hours ago.
And now, there she was, legs crossed in front of her, fingers laced in her lap. She looked so goddamn polite like I didn't know just how bad she could be in bed.
Ava blinked at the screen, shook her head, and looked back at Aurélie. “Are you part Formula 1 driver, part international spy?”
Aurélie’s smile was all teeth. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
The audience laughed again.
Ava leaned in, half-whispering like it was a secret between friends. “Be honest. Are you running on caffeine, rage, or blackmail?”
Aurélie didn’t miss a beat. “Spite and a protein bar.”
That made Ava throw her head back and cackle. “God, I love you.”
I DO TOO.
“Don’t say that too loudly,” Aurélie said, mock serious. “I've got four drivers who want me out of the sport and another three already texting me their support. One of them is the man who tried to kiss me senseless on the grid.”
