Page 13 of Red Flagged
Somewhere beyond the rain and the ruin of two cars, a boom mic edged closer. I squared my shoulders and delivered the next line.
“I was defending my position.” I forced my voice to rise just enough, frustration bubbling but not venomous. “That’s racing! What part of that don’t you understand? You’re always pushingtoo hard, driving like you’ve got nothing to lose, and now look! We’re both out because of it.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re blaming this on me?” she shot back, her voice sharp. “You’re the one who warned me about sabotage. And yet you’re out here trying to box me out? You should’ve waited longer to come back. You’re not ready, and you proved that today.”
I took a step closer,my hands clenched at my sides. The rain blurred everything—the marshals, the cars, the world around us—but not her. She was the only thing I could see clearly, even as the words spilled out of me.
“Don’t turn this around on me. This is about you and that deathtrap of a car you keep throwing around like it’s invincible. You think you’re proving something by driving it on the edge every weekend? You’re not. You’re just proving how reckless you are. And coming from a four-time world champion, I’m not guessing.”
Fuck.I knew the moment the words left my mouth that I’d crossed a line. Because she flinched away from me, much like she had in Monaco when I’d shut down kissing her in public.
And I realized now, that look was something like betrayal. For a split second, I saw it in the way her eyes widened, her lips pressing together as if she was trying to hold something back. She dropped her helmet to her side, her free hand brushing low across her stomach for the briefest second before curling into a fist in a protective, instinctive gesture.
My pulse tripped over itself, but I buried it.
I could’ve stopped this whole argument now. I could’ve said something else, something to fix this instead of making it worse. But the frustration, the guilt, the goddamnhelplessnesswouldn’t let me.
I swallowed the apology, because the cameras were still on and the script wasn’t finished.
Reckless.
The word should have gutted me. For a split second, itdid, but IknewCallum Fraser. I knew the man behind these words. I knew he didn’t mean it. This was a performance.Ourperformance. And I refused to let racing take anything more from me. I wouldn’t let this own me. Not the circumstances, not that word, not this fight.
But when I climbed out of the car, a sharp cramp had twisted through my stomach. And I knew that if it was what I suspected, it would destroy Callum more than it would destroy me.
Another sharp pain pulled tight, making me shift my weight and press a palm against my abdomen for the briefest second. Callum’s eyes dropped to the movement, and it felt like he saw straight to my core. Guilt and heartache lanced through me, consuming me, but I swallowed it down, dropped my hand, and forced my chin high.
“You think I’m reckless?” My voice carried over the rain pounding the gravel around us. We were both soaked to the bone, and I fought a cold shiver as we faced off. I angled toward the cameras, deliberately feeding them the drama. “Racing 101, Callum! Commit to your line! That’s what I did!”
The muscles in his jaw feathered, his eyes—a brilliantly blue contrast against the grey weather surrounding us—narrowing just enough that I knew he heard the real message under my jab.We’re still on course, mon amour.
But for the crowd, I didn’t soften. Icouldn’tsoften, even though I wanted to call all this off and curl up in a warm bed with just him.
“Maybe I am reckless. Maybe I’m a mistake to the sport. Maybe I’m a liability. But the only thingyouknow how to be is a champion,” I hurled, my statement a dagger for the show. But in my chest, it rang with a different truth: reverence. Because that’s who he was, that’s who he would always be. Mon champion.
Just as I’d called him back in Barcelona before he chased me through the paddock like we were young and wild and free. When we couldn’t risk getting caught and then I marched into my magazine photoshoot with his handprints on my ass.
Nowthatwas reckless.
But it also gave me hope that we could handle anything together.
When Callum’s silence stretched, I shook my head vehemently, tears spilling as much for the audience as for myself, for the pain my body felt, for the toll this was all taking on me.
“I’m reckless?” I threw out one last time, for good measure, and much louder than necessary. Best to really hammer the point home. “What do you think happens when you study your idol for a decade? Maybe you shouldn’t be in the car either, Fraser. Becausemaybeyou’re just as reckless as me.”
I turned away before he could answer. Every camera followed me, eating up the storm I’d conjured. Exactly as planned. But the cramp still lingered low in my belly, enough to remind me I wasn’t invincible. I pressed my arm tighter across my middle as I strode on. A spectacle—that’s what this was meant to be. And yet even a spectacle left bruises, inside and out.
They guidedCallum and me toward the medical tent. The noise of the track dimmed to a muffled roar, replaced by the hiss of rain against canvas and the shuffle of our boots. Just as we were about to duck under the half-open flap, Callum got pulled into an interview. I glanced over my shoulder at him, eager for all of this to be over so we could talk, then slipped into the tent.
I sat down only because someone pushed a chair under me. My gloves were still wet, and I was trembling now from both the adrenaline and the chill clinging to my body. The medical staff bustled around me as I unzipped my race suit, then pulled the sleeves off to let it hang around my waist.
Just as I was stretching my arms over my head to loosen my sore muscles, another cramp rolled through. I clutched my stomach, biting back a gasp at the sharpness of it.Jesus, these were strong. The medic said something I didn’t hear over the hammering of my heart.
Why now? Whyme?
Through the flap of the tent, Callum was visible, speaking to the reporter, but he saw. He froze mid-answer, eyes locking on me, on the hand pressed against my stomach. Then he lookedover his shoulder, muttered something to the reporter, and sauntered into the tent. A medical staff member tried to motion toward a stool for him to sit, but he brushed them off.
His helmet still dangled in his hand and rain dripped from his strong, masculine jaw in a way that should have been illegal. The entire female population could go extinct just from watching that.
