Page 64 of Flat Out
“Say that again,” Callum growled, voice lethal quiet.
Marco straightened in his seat, lips curled. “Yeah, go on, Schreiber. Say it again so we can all hear you prove what a useless little prick you are.”
Kimi didn’t raise his voice, but the ice in it was colder than I’d ever heard him before. “Maybe what really scares all of you is the fact that the public isn’tlaughingat her. It’s that they’re listening because she’sright. You think it makes you strong to sneer at a woman for saying what none of you had the balls to say first? Pathetic.”
The room devolved into chaos. Shouts, overlapping arguments, the FIA board members pounding the table fororder. Every set of eyes ping-ponged around the chamber: from Callum, bristling with fury, to me, heart hammering but refusing to bow, to Marco and Kimi like wolves baring their teeth. Across from us, Morel and his posse were yelling, their faces all turning red.
Someone hissed “attention whore,” another snapped back with “coward.” The din swelled until Reinhardt finally raised a hand.
“ENOUGH.” His voice carried, a steel gavel slamming the room into silence. From all the rumors about him, I knew he rarely raised his voice because he didn’t need to. He was the kind of man whose silence felt louder than a scream. His gaze swept across us—me, Callum, Marco, Kimi. “So. This is your united front.” His clipped German accent made every word feel like a judgment.
I straightened, pulse steady now, fire licking at every nerve. “That’s right,” I said. “And we’re not going anywhere.”
A few drivers scoffed. One team principal muttered something about discipline, another about “circus politics.” Reinhardt let them grumble for a beat before speaking again.
“Very well,” he said, eyes narrowing on me. “If this is the hill you wish to die on, then answer me this: do you stand by that interview? Do you stand by weaponizing social media to drag this sport into the gutter?”
The words were meant to cut me down, to belittle me, force me to back down. Every gaze in the room landed on me, waiting to see if I’d flinch.
I didn’t. I simply let the moment stretch for a beat, then tilted my head. “Tell me, Mr. Reinhardt, do you prioritize entertainment and money over the safety of the very drivers who line your pockets? Because when I brought the stewards evidence of sabotage, they ignored me. When I begged forthem to take me seriously, to increase safety measures, they practically laughed me off. Why?”
A ripple of unease swept the room. Takeda leaned forward with a sneer. “Because you recorded us without permission?—”
“Christ, shut up,” Kowalski hissed, jabbing an elbow into his ribs. The room broke into a low chorus of mutters until Reinhardt raised a single hand, and silence fell again.
His expression didn’t waver, carved from stone. “You’re asking why we ignored you, Miss Dubois? Because this sport has rules. Protocol. Order. It cannot bend every time someone decides they don’t like the risks that come with it.”
“Risks are one thing,” I shot back, pulse pounding in my throat. “Negligence is another. Drivers understand the danger when they strap into the cockpit. What we should never accept—is the governing body turning its head while sabotage thrives under its watch. You let corruption run unchecked. You let a driver nearly die in a crash that should have beencompletely avoidable. That’s not order. That’s failure.”
A few gasps. Someone muttered “she’s right,” another immediately countered with “shut her up already.” My face warmed, but I persisted, my pulse steady now.
“So yes, Mr. Reinhardt. I stand by that interview–allthe interviews. I won’t apologize for the social media campaign, because if it takes embarrassing you in front of the entire world to force you to act, then so be it. I’d rather be loud and hated than quiet and complicit.” I sucked in a deep breath and licked my lips. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I broke protocol because protocol isbroken.”
Reinhardt’s jaw ticked once, but his expression stayed neutral, almost bored. “You paint this as negligence, Miss Dubois. I call it discipline. We did not ignore you because of your gender. We ignored you because you overstepped. There is a hierarchy here, and you are not in it.”
Heat scorched my chest. “Not in it,” I repeated through gritted teeth. “You mean because I don’t fit your mold. Because I’m not a man in a tailored suit, or a driver with a contract worth millions. Because I’m a woman, you thought I was easy to dismiss.”
Morel barked out a laugh. “Maybe because you behave more like a fangirl than a professional. First you play watchdog, then you play house with Fraser?—”
My blood boiled so hot I saw red. Callum’s chair scraped back sharply, his glare lethal. “Say one more word about her,” he said, voice calm enough to terrify, “and you’ll regret it.”
“Saint Callum,” Schreiber mocked under his breath, smirking. “Can’t separate his cock from his cause.”
That broke Marco’s composure. He shot forward, hands braced on the table, every line of his body screaming violence. “You shut your fucking mouth. She’s done more to protect this sport in four months than you have in your entire career.”
Kimi’s tone was quiet but lethal. “Insult her again, and I’ll make sure the whole world knows exactly how often you cut corners on track.”
The room erupted again, voices overlapping with snide comments from Morel’s side, growls of defense from ours. My heart thundered against my ribs, but I didn’t shrink. I straightened, fire in my throat.
“Thank you,” I said, loud enough to silence half the room. “Because right there—” I gestured to Schreiber, to Morel, to all of them who had laughed and shook their hads—“is the proof. You can call me attention-hungry, call me emotional, call me whatever the hell makes you feel bigger. But you can’t call me wrong. I was right about the sabotage. I was right about the danger. And the only reason it took this long for anyone to listen is because you couldn’t stand that a woman said it first.”
Reinhardt didn’t so much as blink. His expression stayed cold and surgical. “The FIA doesn’t legislate feelings, Miss Dubois. We legislate rules. If you feel slighted, that is regrettable, but the facts remain unchanged.”
The words were ice water. Clipped, calculated, and heartless. For a second, the silence in the room throbbed, every set of eyes on me.
Then Takeda leaned back in his chair, voice slick with condescension. “Perhaps the GPDA would be a more appropriate venue for your… activism.”
My jaw clenched, but before I could speak, Marco laughed. The kind of sound that made the air crackle. He leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, grin wolfish. “Careful,” he drawled. “She’s done more for safety than the entire GPDA has in years. If shedidtake it over, at least someone would be doing the damn job.”
