Page 12 of Overdrive (Speed Demons #1)

The engine growled beneath me like a caged beast, vibrating through my entire body as I sat on the grid after the formation lap.

My fireproof gloves creaked when I tightened my hold on the wheel. My pulse thundered, matching the roar of twenty engines. The heat of the Australian sun bore down through my visor, but I didn't feel it. All I could focus on was the track ahead.

This was it. My first GrandPrix. No simulations, no testing, nohypotheticals. Just me, the car, and the grid.

The lights above counted down, each one an exclamation point on the moment I'd been waiting for my entire life. Five lights. Four. Three.

“Understood,” I replied, my voice measured despite the storm brewing in my chest.

Ahead of me, the front rows glinted in the Australian sun. Fraser's black-and-red Vanguard car was inP3, his helmet tilted slightly as though he were looking back at me. My stomach twisted. Fraser wasn't my problem right now—the pack was.

Two lights. One.

The world held its breath.

And then— lights out and away we go .

My reflexes took over as I slammed the throttle, the tires gripping the tarmac with a squeal as I launched forward.

The thunder of engines around me was deafening, a symphony of chaos as the grid surged toward Turn 1.

Cars darted left and right, jostling for position, but I held my line, my eyes locked on the apex.

“Incredible reaction time,”Henricsaid, his voice sharp now, focused. “You've already gained two positions.”

I surged intoP4, side by side with Fraser as we approached Turn 2. My heart raced as we fought for position, with Fraser refusing to yield. For a brief, exhilarating moment, I matched him corner for corner, my car holding steady against one of the best on the grid.

But the midfield pack was relentless. As we exited the corner, I had to defend againstTomaszKowalski.

He dove toward the inside like a man with something to prove, forcing me to brake early or risk contact—a brutal move that cost me.

I could've been more aggressive, but at the risk of an unnecessary but likely penalty by theFIAif I wasn't careful, I maneuvered accordingly. By Turn 3, I'd fallen back toP6.

“Stay calm,”Henricreminded me. “You're in a good position. The race is long.”

By Lap 5, the chaos had settled into a tenuous order.

I'd heldP6, fending off a particularly aggressive move fromMax Schreiber.

Behind me, the pack was a swarm of predators seconds behind one another, waiting for the slightest mistake to, as they said the night before, “box me out.” Ahead, the gap toP5was shrinking with every sector.

“Pace looks good,”Henricsaid. “Tire temps are stable. Keep it consistent.”

“Copy,” I replied, my focus narrowing to the task at hand. Consistency. Precision. This was my race, not theirs.

Fraser had already pushed intoP2by Lap 8, his pace as unrelenting as his reputation promised. The cameras would be eating it up—him battling for the lead while I fought my way through the trenches.

His car danced through the chicane with the kind of fluidity I'd only dreamed of achieving. The bastard made it look effortless. For a brief, infuriating moment, I wondered if he was enjoying the difference in our races.

Meanwhile, two cars had already taken each other out and a virtual safety car was deployed for three laps.

Lap 15. I'd closed the gap toP5, only to find myself caught behindKowalski.

He was defensive, aggressive—and, frankly, a pain in the ass.

Every attempt I made to pass was blocked, every line I tried was covered.

The frustration built with every lap, my knuckles aching from gripping the wheel as I searched for an opening.

Lap 20.Kowalskiwent wide through Turn 9, leaving the inside line open just long enough for me to dive through. My tires screamed in protest, but I made it stick, and my car surged ahead as I claimedP5.

“Beautiful move,”Henricsaid, his voice warm with approval. “Now focus forward. Gap toP4is two seconds.”

I glanced at theleaderboard, barely seeing it at such high speed.Kimiwas inP9. My teammate was in the points, too, proving the car was capable. BothLuminiscars scoring today would send a message: we weren't just filling the grid. We were here to compete.

Lap 25. The race had settled into a rhythm, the gaps between cars fluctuating with pit stops and strategy calls.

I held ontoP5through sheer determination, but the real fight was still ahead.

Fraser and the leaders were untouchable today, their pace blistering.

AdrienMorel had edged intoP2behind Fraser, and I knew the podium would be out of reach this time, especially as I exited the pit lane in the middle of the pack again.

The final laps were a blur of adrenaline and exhaustion. My muscles ached, my vision tunneling as I pushed the car to its limits. Every corner, every straight, every sector was a battle, not just against the drivers around me, but against the clock, the tires, the heat.

When the checkered flag waved, I crossed the line inP4, my tires slipping dangerously.

P4. P. 4.

My hands trembled as I slowed the car, the realization crashing over me like a tidal wave.

I'd done it. My first GrandPrix, and I'd nearly reached the podium.

The chants of the crowd filled my ears as I pulled intoParcFermé, the cheers and applause a surreal backdrop to the storm of emotions swirling inside me.

I climbed out slowly, every limb buzzing, the world a blur of cheering and blinding sunlight. Pulling off my helmet, I looked up at the grandstands. For a moment, I allowed myself to bask in it, the validation, the triumph.

But it wasn't enough. Not yet. I thought of the lateAyrtonSenna's words: Being second is to be the first of the ones who lose. P4was good, but I wanted to be better.

After the weigh-ins, I offered Fraser a congratulatory handshake, studiously ignoring the drops of sweat that were dripping down his face like paid actors. “Congrats on the first win of the year.”

His hand was warm and firm, his piercing blue eyes meeting mine with a flicker of something I couldn't quite place. “You did exceptional,Dubois. You should be proud.”

I was too far in my own head to appreciate the sentiment, the proximity, the shared acknowledgment of our performance—it should have meant something. Instead, all I could think about was how much further I had to go.

A small smile formed on my lips, my PR training taking over as a good sport before I could react otherwise.

“See you in Shanghai.” I backed away before he could say anything else.

Which he was, judging by how he opened his mouth to respond.

But I left him so he could go to the cool-down room and enjoy his win.

There was hollering and raucous celebrating within our garage that momentarily swept me up in the moment. I thanked everyone, spoke to a few reporters, and then wandered down the pit lane to the team'smotorhome.

I leaned against the wall of themotorhome'sviewing area, arms crossed as I watched the podium ceremony unfold on a nearby screen.

Fraser stood front and center inP1, Morel andKowalskiflanking him on either side.

The champagne spray erupted, glistening in the Australian sun like some over-the-top shampoo commercial.

“ Merde ,” I muttered under my breath. “ Filsdepute. ” My frustration bubbled alongside a simmering admiration. They'd driven beautifully, but that didn't make the sting any less sharp .

P4was phenomenal. Deep down, I knew that. For a rookie, it was practically unheard of. I'll be Rookie of the Year ,I reminded myself. Just like some of the greatest drivers of all time.

Jealousy twisted in my gut. I was competitive by nature, and that competitive streak often made men wary of me. Relationships never worked out—most men didn't like how strong and fierce I was. They wanted “softer.”

Or at least, my ex did.

Which was just an excuse for having an affair.

But I couldn't change who I was at my core.

I'd always imagined I'd either spend my life sleeping my way through Europe or with someone deeply entrenched in this sport.

Someone who'd understand the brutal travel schedule, the grueling weeks, the razor-sharp edge it required to survive here.

Fame and fortune came at a cost, and not everyone could handle the weight of the limelight.

As the camera lingered on Fraser, his grin infectious and his championship points already mounting, I rolled my eyes and pushed off the wall. The fire that had been building between us dimmed under the weight of reality.

This wasn'tF2. This was a whole new world. My body ached in ways I hadn't expected, every muscle tender despite the best efforts of my physiotherapist, Jules. Exhaustion weighed on me, a heavy blanket that dulled even the thrill of finishingP4.

I shut off the screen mounted outside the Luminis motorhome, exhaling sharply as my reflection blinked back at me in the black glass. Then I pushed off the wall and made my way toward the media pen.

Across the paddock, the celebration was still in full swing—booming laughter from the Vanguard garage, the pop of another bottle of champagne. I knew I should have gone over, done the sportsmanlike thing and congratulated Fraser properly.

But I couldn't. Not when the sight of him on the podium still made my stomach burn.

What I didn't see, what I refused to see, was the way Fraser's eyes flicked toward the edge of the paddock after the ceremony—searching.

Nope. Not today. I pivoted so I didn't have to see him. The bright lights and the swarm of reporters made my head pound, but I pasted on a polite smile and slipped into autopilot.

“Yes, I'm very proud of the team's performance today,” I said for what felt like the hundredth time. “The car felt great, and I'm proud to have scored points in my first GrandPrix. Thank you to everyone who made this possible.”

The questions kept coming—some about strategy, some about the car itself. But it was only when I heard Fraser's voice from a couple meters away that my focus faltered.

“Callum, you andAuréliewere close in the opening laps. Did she surprise you at all today?”

I knew I should keep walking, get out of hearing range. I should ignore it. But I glanced at where he stood, still in his race suit, hair damp, easy grin already in place for the cameras.

“Not at all,” Fraser said, but there was something in his voice that made my breath hitch. Like he was daring me to listen. “She's quick. I've seen her drive before, and I expected her to be exactly where she was today.”

Exactly where she was today.

The words settled in my stomach in a way I didn't have time to analyze.

I turned before I could catch myself, and for a fraction of a second, his eyes caught mine. The camera flashes caught it, too, and just like that, the moment became something bigger.

“Fraboisis about to eat this up,” one of the reporters muttered, and I forced my feet to move, not letting Fraser see the way my fingers curled at my sides as I slipped away.

Not letting myself acknowledge that I had just let him get into my head.

Once the interviews were done, I retreated to the sanctuary of my room, packed my things, and caught the first flight home. For now, I needed space. Space to recover, to reflect, to plan.

But as I sat on the plane, scrolling through my phone, the internet had other ideas.

The video was already viral.

Fraser and I, caught in that moment in the media pen. The way his gaze lingered. The way I'd turned. The way my fingers twitched before I walked away.

@fastcarsandromancebooks: Okay but WHY did this feel like a slow burn moment??

@overtakeandobsess: The way Callum looked at her before she walked away. I feel SICK.

@gridwitch: Fraser really said "I expected her to be there" like he wasn’t fighting for his life on track. MY MAN IS DOWN BAD ALREADY.

My head hit the seat rest, an exhausted groan leaving my lips.

For fuck's sake.

I was already struggling to not replay every interaction with him in my head. I'd gotten off to fantasies of him. The last thing I needed was for the internet to plant more images of him in my mind.

I shut my phone off, shoved it deep into my hoodie, and closed my eyes. Let the world obsess over him. I had bigger things to chase. Because next time, I wouldn’t settle for P4.