Page 17 of Red Flagged
Holy fuck.
The World Motor Sport Council. The governing body above the FIA itself. The one that wrote the safety regulations, that could strip licenses, dissolve contracts, and burn entire teams to ash if they found corruption. That level of exposure could shake the sport at its foundation. Ripple effects could be felt across every garage, every paddock, every boardroom.
This wasn’t just about us anymore. It wasn’t even about Silverstone. It was about forcing the world to look.
It was about systematicchange.
Reinhardt’s jaw worked, torn between fury and fear. He gave a stiff nod. “Fine. You’ll have it. But if either of you,” he jabbed a finger toward me and Callum, “leak another word of this to the press, your careers are over. Actually, I’ll ensure your goddamn licenses are pulled. Are we clear?”
“Crystal,” Callum said, tone glacial.
Reinhardt stormed out, Henric following with his pride in tatters, Dom and Silvio close behind, still muttering about negligence and cowards.
The flap fell shut.
For a moment, the only sound was the rain and my breath stuttering through the ache still twisting low in my belly.
Callum turned to me, his voice a whisper meant only for me. “You really are reckless.”
I gave a watery laugh. “You love me for it.”
He brushed a knuckle down my cheek, the faintest ghost of a smile touching his lips, eyes glowing with pride and adoration. “You have no idea.”
Our fingers brushed again, the secret signal we’d built together. One we’d both yearned for over all these months when we needed to sneak a singular touch.
We did it.
Phase one: complete.
The plan held. My body didn’t.
Deep inside, beneath the adrenaline and victory, something else throbbed—a quiet, primal warning my body refused to ignore.
I feared something had already begun.
Arguably one ofthe worst parts of this sport is the obligation to do approximately sixteen thousand interviews, regardless of the outcome of the race. And the more popular a driver was, the bigger the scandal, the better it is for screen time. It all equates to more interviews.
By the time I made it back to my driver’s suite, Callum reluctantly letting me out of his sight, the rain had eased to a light patter. The race had ended, and currently the podium celebration was happening. I didn’t even know who placed, let alone who won.
I was too fucking tired.
The adrenaline that had carried me through the last few hours was gone, leaving only a bone-deep, exhausted tremor beneath my skin. The moment the door clicked shut, I pressed my back against it and exhaled. The quiet around me felt too heavy, but I couldn’t escape it.
My stomach cramped again. I clutched the counter until it passed—starting sharp before dulling and fading. It wasn’t as bad as earlier, and it wasn’t constant. They’d been further apart since I left the medical tent after being cleared. That had to be a good sign.
Probably just an endometriosis flare. They got bad a few times a year, so it wasn’t like this was abnormal for me. I forgot how awful it could get because it wasn’t every cycle, so this made sense because I was due for my period anyway. This could easily have been from the extreme stress I’d been under, the impact, dehydration, and hormone changes.
I’d experienced worse before. There had been many cycles through my adolescence into early adulthood that had me vomiting and spending days in bed for the pain to pass.
I peeled out of my race suit until it pooled around my ankles, skin tacky with sweat and rain under my fire proofs, and caught sight of myself in the cheap mirror above the counter. Tear-stained cheeks, pale, eyes too wide and vacant. As if I’d been hollowed out and left on display. I turned on the sink, splashed cold water over my face, and told the woman in my reflection to get it together.
“Ça va,” I whispered. “Ça va.”
I wasn’t even sure who I was trying to convince. Sure as fuck couldn’t be me.
I picked my phone up from the counter, where I’d left it before the race, and unlocked it. I swiped until I found my doctor’s contact. My thumb hovered. She’d been nudging me toward surgery since last summer—a laparoscopic procedure. A few weeks of recovery, maybe less.
There had never been time, though. I never had a gap between contracts. My off-season was never long enough because I jam-packed my schedule with training and work to pay my way through my career. And somewhere deep down, I’d toldmyself that enduring the pain was a sign of strength. That being the woman who could take it made me untouchable. But now, staring at the name on the screen, I couldn’t help wondering if I’d been wrong.
