Page 15 of Overdrive (Speed Demons #1)

The estate was silent when I arrived home late the next night, the soft glow of the lanterns lining the cobblestone drive guiding my way.

The familiar sight of the sprawlingDuboisVineyard, with its rolling hills of grapevines and the faint lavender haze in the distance, brought a wave of nostalgia and calm.

I parked the car and stepped out, the crisp French air enveloping me, carrying the faintest hints of grapes and lavender.

I didn’t announce my arrival. It wasn’t necessary. My family would be asleep at this hour, their faith in my independence and routines unshakable. They didn’t even know I’d be home tonight. It was an impulsive decision to come back this quickly.

I slipped into the house, the comforting creak of the grand oak door welcoming me back. The quiet hum of the estate at night wrapped around me like a blanket.

The wine cellar beckoned as I made my way downstairs.

TheDuboisVineyard’s pride and joy lay neatly displayed: bottles ofPinotNoir, Chardonnay, and the estate’s signature blend,Soleild’Or, a sparkling wine with a hint of lavender.

Alongside them sat collaborations with local creameries—wine-infused cheeses, lavender brie—and lavender honey produced by neighboring beekeepers.

The family’s influence extended beyond wine; theDuboisname was synonymous withartisanalluxury.

I selected a bottle ofSoleild’Or, the chilled glass smooth against my palm, and grabbed a crystal wine glass. Pouring myself a generous amount, I carried it to the east terrace.

The large terrace overlooked the lavender fields, their silvery-purple hue glowing faintly under the starlight. This had always been my favorite spot—a place where time seemed to stand still. It was magical, enchanting, dreamy.

I sank into one of the cozy outdoor chairs, wrapping a blanket around my shoulders, and flicked on the gas heater. Its soft warmth pushed away the cool night air, letting me finally relax.

The stars were impossibly clear tonight, scattered across the dark canvas of the sky, and for the first time since the race, I let myself breathe.

The exhaustion I’d ignored all week threatened to pull me under, but I fought it off, savoring the peace this moment offered.

I snapped a quick picture of the wine bottle and glass against the backdrop of the terrace and posted it to my personal Instagram with a simple caption: Home .

A notification buzzed almost immediately. A like. Then a comment.

@cal_fraser19.96: Beautiful view.

I stared at the notification, my lips twitching into a small smile despite myself. Of course he’d comment. And of course I didn’t know what to make of it. Maybe he meant the vineyard. Maybe he meant something else.

My thumb hovered over the screen. Respond? Ignore it? Say something flirty? I typed a reply—just a simple, cheeky emoji—but then deleted it. I set my phone on the table beside me and took another sip of wine instead.

Inside, the house remained quiet as I made my way upstairs, the soft groan of the wooden floors the only sound accompanying me.

My childhood bedroom was unchanged, a time capsule of the girl I used to be before I became the woman standing on the Formula 1 grid.

Old trophies lined the shelves, framed pictures ofétienne’sand mykartingdays hanging alongside posters of racing legends.

And then—him.

I stopped in my tracks, staring at that goddamn Vanguard GP promo poster on the wall with him sweaty and a few years younger. The cruel joke that he was on my wall, watching me in the rare moments I made it home.

The stupid poster wasn’t new—I’d had it for years, back when he was just another name on the grid, another world champion to admire. But now? Now it felt dangerous, especially since this was the second time I’d gotten hung up on it.

My pulse kicked up. My whole body felt restless. It wasn’t just the adrenaline leftover from the race. It was the way my mind wouldn’t shut up. The way his comment sat there, unanswered.

I bit my lip as I sank onto the bed after showering and brushing my teeth. I knew I shouldn’t. I knew.

But I clicked his profile anyway.

His last post was from yesterday. A podium picture, champagne dripping down his race suit, hair damp with sweat and victory. And the caption? No better way to start the season.

I should look away. But I didn’t.

Instead, I found myself in the comment section. I could say something flirty. Something harmless.

Or maybe… I could just send him a message.

I inhaled sharply, rolling onto my side and gripping my phone tighter. I was alone, in my childhood bed, jet-lagged, two glasses of wine deep, staring at a poster of him. My body was too warm, too tense, too needy.

I shouldn’t.

But I wanted to. I really, really wanted to.

Instead of a text, I snapped a quick picture of my wine glass against the backdrop of my window and sent it to my close friends’ story.

Within minutes, the notification popped up.

Seen by: cal_fraser19.96.

I stared at the screen, my heart pounding.

Then—

cal_fraser19.96 replied to your story.

I swallowed, heat licking up my spine. My finger hesitated over the message before opening it.

Callum

Can’t say I blame you for celebrating (a day late).

My breath caught. A slow, traitorous smirk curled my lips. I tapped out a response before I could think better of it.

Celebrating? I don’t think P4 calls for that.

The dots appeared immediately.

Callum

Maybe not. But you still look like you’re enjoying yourself.

My stomach dropped.

I reread his message three times before pressing my lips together, warmth curling deep in my belly. This was dangerous.

So, naturally, I doubled down.

I never was good at following the rules everyone expected me to, so this wouldn’t be the first time I got myself into trouble.

You watching me, Fraser ?

His reply came instantly. My pulse skittered at knowing he was waiting for my responses the way I was waiting for his.

Callum

You have no idea.

Oh. Oh, Jesus.

A quiet, shaky exhale left me. My heart pounded against my ribs, something molten unfurling inside me.

I was alone.

I was horny.

And the only thing in my head was him.

My skin felt too sensitive against the sheets, tightening my nipples and sending little waves of desire through me.

Maybe I do.

I tossed my phone onto the nightstand before I could embarrass myself further, before I could see his response. But it didn’t change anything.

Not the tension in my limbs. Not the heat in my core. And certainly not the fact that, for the second time that week, I was falling asleep thinking about Callum Fraser.

Shanghai was going to be an absolute disaster.

The next morning, the estate came alive. The scent of fresh bread and strong French roast coffee drifted through the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of the vineyard waking up to a new day.

I should have felt at home, but I didn’t.

My father’s booming congratulations, my younger sister’s excited chatter about how proud she was, and finallyétienne—pulling me into a careful hug, his brace pressing lightly against my back—felt like a scene I was watching from the outside .

“You were incredible,Ari,”étiennesaid, his voice full of pride. “P-fucking-4 on your debut weekend? I’m in awe.”

I forced a small smile. “Thanks,étienne. But it’s not the podium.”

I expected him to argue, but instead, his brows furrowed. “Still. You did what no one thought you would.”

What no one thought I would. I wasn’t sure if that was meant to be comforting, but it wasn’t.

I’d spent my whole life proving myself, pushing, climbing, fighting. I wasn’t just his sister. I wasn’t just the replacement . And yet—this was what they saw. They were proud, but they weren’t worried the way I was. They weren’t dissecting every turn, every pit stop, every second.

Because they had never had to fight to be taken seriously in this sport.

The day passed in a blur of encouragement and back-pats, but my mind remained elsewhere. I’d fallen asleep the night before watching the race replay, analyzing every single second, pinpointing where I could have shaved off time, where I should have defended harder, where I should have taken a risk.

If I didn’t do better in Shanghai, it wouldn’t matter. OneP4didn’t mean job security.

Later that afternoon, my mother found me on the terrace, her presence as calming as the lavender fields below us. She handed me a cup of coffee and motioned for me to join her for a walk through the vineyard.

I exhaled slowly, following her. The long golden waves of her hair swayed against her lower back, brushing my arm every so often, and for the first time in months, I felt like her daughter instead of a driver.

We walked in comfortable silence for a while, the grapevines stretching toward the horizon, shadows long in the late afternoon sun.

Then, she spoke. “You’re not happy, are you?”

I sighed, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. “P4is fine, but it’s not good enough. I wanted a podium,Maman. I wanted to prove I belonged.”

She stopped, turning to face me. Her hands rested gently on my shoulders, grounding me. “Aurélie, do you know how many drivers—seasoned drivers—never make the podium in their entire careers? This sport is about more than just standing on the steps with a trophy.”

I sighed, looking away. The grape leaves rustled in the gentle breeze. “That’s easy to say when you’re not the one fighting for a contract.”

She was quiet for a moment, but she didn’t let me run from the conversation. “You’ve already proven you belong. You’re doing it right now. Every team principal saw you hold your own. You’re making a midfield car competitive,Auri. That’s not something to dismiss.”

My jaw clenched. I knew she was right. But the hunger for more—it wouldn’t go away.

“What if it’s not enough?” I whispered. “What if I don’t get another chance?”

“You will,” she said, no hesitation. “Because you’re stronger than this. Bolder than this. You’ve already proven that to the world, and you’ll keep proving it. But you have to allow yourself the space to grow, to make mistakes, and to learn. That’s what makes a great driver.”

Her words settled deep in my chest, unwinding something I hadn’t realized had been pulled so tight.

“And what if I don’t get to stay withLuminis?” I asked quietly.

A knowing smile curved her lips. “Then another team will notice. Silly season is unpredictable for a reason. Just focus on what you can control, and the rest will follow.”

We walked in silence for a while longer, her words threading through my thoughts. By the time we returned to the house, I felt a renewed sense of determination.

The nerves, the frustrations, the emotions of my debut weekend were still there, but they no longer held me captive. I was ready to return to Shanghai. I was ready to fight.

And I wasn’t going to let anyone—including myself—stand in my way.