Page 117 of Red Flagged
But I didn’t need to say any of that. She already knew.
“I’ll see you after?” I murmured.
She smiled. “Try not to crash, Fraser.”
I pressed a kiss to her cheek, then to her lips. “Try not to distract me too much. Love you.”
“Love you, mon champion.” She winked and then walked away without another word, hips swaying, knowing full fucking well that she already had distracted me.
I had never felt morein control behind the wheel.
My body was healed. My mind was clear. The contract was signed, the future mine to dictate. The weight I’d been carrying since Montreal had finally lifted, and with it came the kind of calm I hadn’t felt in years.
It landed me pole position. Then from the moment the lights went out, I was untouchable. My launch was perfect. The first sector was flawless. Each lap, I widened the gap with clean lines, calculated precision. Spa demanded respect, especially with the clouds threatening above Eau Rouge and the mist rising through the trees. But I didn’t flinch.
This wasmytrack. My race. My actual return from injury. And this year, for reasons I couldn’t fully explain, it felt different.More sacred. Like I was returning to something I didn’t know I’d lost.
By Lap 32, I was nearly eighteen seconds clear of P2. The checkered flag waved, and I crossed the line with ice in my veins and fire in my chest.
Eighteen fucking seconds.
And P2 was… Aurélie.
She’d started mid-pack after a rough qualifying, but clawed her way through the field like a woman possessed. Her overtakes were clinical. Her defense was impressive. When she took Turn 9 three-wide and came out ahead, the entire crowd lost its mind. And shestillfinished eight seconds ahead of Marco in P3.
That finish bumped her to third in the Drivers’ Championship.
One point ahead of Morel.
A perfect podium.
The three of us—the ones they tried to silence, to control, to bury under scandal and sabotage—standing together, shoulder to shoulder, on the steps they never wanted us to climb.
And Morel? DNF. The FIA had allowed him to race up to the summer break under “active investigation,” some political bullshit to save face while the evidence stacked higher each day. But karma, apparently, had a schedule of her own.
He spun out on Lap 12. No one was sorry.
I didn’t even bother hiding my smirk as I stood on the top step of the podium, Scotland anthem playing behind me. The cameras caught everything—the subtle nods between us, the grin tugging at Aurélie’s lips, the way Marco hooked his arm around both our shoulders like we’d just rewritten the script.
Because we had.
Weownedthis grid.
I pulled Aurélie in for a champagne-soaked kiss, uncaring of the world watching. She kissed me back like she didn’t give adamn who saw, then promptly turned and sprayed me full blast with her bottle.
We burst into laughter.
And then, drenched in victory and defiance, we walked off the stage hand in hand.
The carfinally felt like mine again.
In Silverstone, it had taken everything I had just to keep it on the track. Every bump rattled something loose, both inside the chassis and inside me. But in Spa, it came back to me. Not just the car, but the rhythm, the edge, theknowing.
And now, Hungary felt like the proof.
The balance was dialed, the steering perfectly responsive. My setup tweaks—lower diff entry, slightly softer rear suspension, adjusted dampers—actually stuck this time, and the difference was night and day. I’d qualified P3, clean, controlled, and confident the entire time. No second-guessing. No compensating for invisible sabotage. I wasn’t fighting the car anymore. I was commanding it.
And Callum… God. We were better than ever.
