Page 1 of Red Flagged
“Okay,I realize that’s a bit extreme,” I muttered in French, pacing the floor of our hotel suite. “I don’t mean I want to actually sue an entire international, multi-billion dollar organization. Perhaps just the stewards who didn’t want to listen to me.”
The storm slammed against the windows, rattling the glass like it wanted in. I watched the rain come down in crooked sheets, beading on the railings and pooling on the plush outdoor furniture. The concrete floor of the balcony shimmered under the muted grey morning light.
I reached out and pulled the sliding glass door open to feel the cool breeze across my heated skin. I stood just at the edge of the threshold, letting the damp wind sting my cheeks. Goosebumps broke out down my legs, the only flesh exposed as I adorned my newest favorite sleep shirt.
That silly long-sleeve that readLes Twisty-est Viragesacross the chest, gifted to me by Marco and Kimi.
This weather reminded me of home. Different, but the same. In the vineyard, storms would roll over the fields and turn the soil to mud, thunder rumbling low between the rolling hills of the estate. I used to watch from the shelter of the ornate wooden cellar doors while I corked bottles, hands busy with the repetitive work while the sky split open. I knew the vines would bend, then rise again once the skies cleared.
Here, though, the storm didn’t promise renewal. It pressed down on my shoulders, heavy and restless, like the sport itself. Formula 1 was glamorous, relentless, intoxicating—but never gentle. Every second of it was a wild ride.
Home had been lonely in its own way, all that silence between breathtaking rows of lavender and grapes, but at least the storms there had an ending. It was the nature of Southern France. But here… this one felt endless.
And maybe that’s what I was always chasing: some fragile moment of calm in the middle of the ferocity. Something to numb the ache long enough to breathe.
Basically, everything Callum Fraser was for me in our moments together.
But even as the storm beat down, I knew the truth: vines survived because they bent. If they resisted, they snapped. In this world, I wasn’t sure which I was becoming.
It was hard to describe the nostalgia of being at peace while simultaneously chasing that feeling because it numbed the pain.
Behind me, I heard the kettle click off. Callum’s arm wrapped around my waist from behind, his other appearing with a fresh cup of coffee. He pressed the warm mug into my free hand and pressed a tender kiss to my temple. His T-shirt was rumpled, his hair wild, and he looked at me like I was the most fascinating thing in the world.
Like he hadn't looked me in the eye and vowed he wanted me, no matter what future my body could or couldn’t carry. That I wasn’t ruined. That love wasn’t conditional. And then proved it with the kind of devotion that felt less like sex and more like worship, not even thirty minutes ago. I leaned back into his chest, and his stubbled chin dropped to my shoulder. My eyes closed, and I knew I was safe here.Wewere safe.
On the other end of the line, my attorney let out a long-suffering sigh. “Bonjour to you, too, Aurélie. I’ve been watching your interviews. That little social media crusade the last few weeks? I am impressed. Almost inspired to post something myself, if that tells you how serious it was.”
I snorted, clutching my mug tighter. Callum broke away to sit on the couch in the living space of our suite. “So you saw the chaos.”
“I saw conviction. And I assumed this call was about that.” A pause. “Then you opened with ‘I want to sue the FIA.’”
Callum made a strangled noise behind his cup of tea, trying not to laugh. I flicked a glare at him, but it only made his grin widen. Bastard. Then I spilled everything we knew to Alain—the crash, the assault, the tampering with my car, the FIA’s negligence.
Alain’s voice turned more serious. “Aurélie, ma chère, if you were going to sue the FIA, I’d rather you didn’t say so aloud where anyone could hear you.”
“I’m in a private suite in England. You’re in Paris. You think someone bugged my room?”
“I think the FIA has eyes and ears everywhere, and a long legal reach. So if we’re going to shake them down, we do it with precision, not bravado.”
I let out a slow breath and finally turned away from the rain-soaked balcony, eyeing Callum as he opened a box of pastrieshe’d just had delivered. Then he pulled out a pistachio-covered croissant like it was nothing.
It waseverything.
Biting my lip, I stared at the golden pastry, my stomach growling suddenly. I shouldn’t indulge, but honestly, we’d both been through enough to warrant a treat every once in a while. I crossed the room to sit beside him on the couch.
“Then tell me how to be precise, Alain,” I said. “Because I am so tired of playing nice. I tried to go through the right channels. I brought evidence, I went to the stewards, and they dismissed me like a hysterical child… awoman.And a man almost died. A forty-eight G impact, and they're calling it aracing incident.Then there’s the tampering with my car, the groping?—”
“What evidence, exactly?”
I glanced at Callum. He met my gaze, all silent encouragement and unwavering loyalty. My shoulders dropped, relief hitting me. Here he was, once again showing me that he would always be here for me.
“The audio recording,” I said at last. “From the hotel in Montreal. I overheard four drivers, Adrian Morel included, talking about taking Fraser out to get in my head. I recorded it. I took it to the stewards and reported it. They ignored me. I played it in a live interview in Austria.”
Silence met me on the other end of the line, and I could practically hear him scribbling notes.
“And then the crash,” Alain said. “You believe it was connected?”
“I know it was,” I whispered. “Morel forced Fraser wide. The data shows Fraser did everything right, down to his reaction time, and that Morel could've held his line. Besides, he fucking admitted it to me yesterday, along with the sabotage to my car, when he pushed me against a wall and copped a feel. Which we also have footage of.”
