Page 4 of Overdrive (Speed Demons #1)

The smell of hot asphalt and high-octane fuel filled the air—a heady mixture that grounded me in the moment. The distant roar of engines reverberated through the Bahrain paddock the next day, each throttle blip a reminder of the power I was about to harness.

I adjusted the collar of my race suit, the fireproof fabric snug against my skin. My heart hammered in my chest, but my hands were steady as I secured my blonde braids beneath the balaclava. Pulling on my helmet, I felt the world narrow to the visor's frame—a tunnel leading straight to my future.

The whispers would follow me. Can she handle it? Does she deserve it?

“Ready for this,Aurélie?” a race engineer, Lucas, asked over the team radio, his French accent softened by years on international circuits.

“Born ready,” I replied, injecting confidence into my voice.

The garage buzzed around me, mechanics finishing their checks, engineers reviewing final telemetry. My fingers flexed at my sides, the urge to climb into the car clawing at me. Not yet. Almost.

Across the paddock, I could feel eyes on me. The other drivers were watching. Judging. Doubting.

Except for one.

CallumFraser stood near his car, arms crossed, gazeunmoving, assessing, calculating. That look made me feel like he already had his answer about me, long before I'd even turned a wheel in Formula 1.

My body reacted so viscerally that I nearly reared back. Blood heating and nipples tightening, I tore my gaze away, exhaling slowly. It didn't matter. He didn't matter. I didn't need the approval—or attention—of a four-time world champion.

I approached the polished silhouette of my car—the deep navy and gold livery calling to me like a siren. The car was a masterpiece of engineering—sleek, coiled with potential. My name, A.Dubois , gleamed above theLuminisinsignia, and a thrill sparked in my chest.

Gripping the halo for support, I executed the well-practiced maneuver of lowering myself into the cockpit, legs first. The carbon fiber seat molded to my body, tight and unforgiving, a custom fit crafted from scans and adjustments over the past weeks.

The engineers began strapping me in, pulling the harnesses taut across my shoulders and hips.

They moved quickly, securing my HANS device and ensuring my safety checks were complete.

I flexed my fingers in my gloves, settling into the rhythm of preparation, the buzz of the garage fading into background noise.

“Steering wheel,” one of the mechanics said, handing it over.

I attached it to the column with a satisfying click, the array of buttons, dials, and paddles familiar yet daunting. The wheel was a nexus of control—brake bias adjustments, differential settings,ERSdeployment—all at my fingertips.

“Radio check,” Lucas's voice came through clearly.

“Clear,” I replied, eyes already scanning the wheel's display that I'd spent weeks memorizing.

“Telemetry is live. We'll start with an out lap to check systems. Take it easy, no need to push yet. ”

“Understood.”

I glanced at the digital display on the wheel—engine modes, tire temperatures, fuel levels—all within optimal parameters. The cockpit was stifling, but I welcomed it. It was part of the ritual.

“Fire up,” Lucas commanded.

I pressed the ignition button, and the engine roared to life behind me—pure mechanical power. The vibrations coursed through the chassis and settled into my bones. I felt connected to the vehicle, part of a larger entity built for speed.

Mechanics signaled that the path was clear. I released the clutch paddle gently and applied a touch of throttle, the car rolling forward smoothly. Navigating the tight confines of the garage, I emerged into the pit lane, the sun blinding for a moment before my visor adjusted.

“Pit limiter on,” Lucas reminded.

“Engaged,” I replied, ensuring I didn't exceed 60 kilometers per hour.

As I drove down the pit lane, teams and crew members turned to look—a mix of curiosity and skepticism evident even through their visors and headsets. I kept my focus ahead, my mind clear.

“Pit exit is clear. Track temperature is high—watch for reduced grip in the first few corners,” Lucas advised. It was unseasonably hot.

“Copy.”

Crossing the pit exit line, I deactivated the limiter and pressed the throttle. The car surged forward, theV6hybrid engine delivering instantaneous power. The G-force slammed me back into the seat as I shifted up through the gears.

Entering Turn 1, I braked early, feeling out the car's response. The brake-by-wire system was sensitive, the slightest pressure translating into deceleration. I navigated the apex smoothly, applying throttle on exit.

“How does she feel?” Lucas asked.

“Responsive. Balance feels good. Slightundersteerin low-speed corners,” I reported.

“Understood. We'll make note of it.”

I continued the lap, gradually increasing speed, the tires warming up and providing more grip. The Bahrain International Circuit unfolded before me—sweeping corners, tight hairpins, and long straights that begged for full throttle.

Approaching theDRSdetection zone before Turn 10, I tested the drag reduction system, feeling the decrease indownforceas the rear wing flap opened. The car floated, hungry for speed.

“DRS functional,” I confirmed.

“Copy that.”

Ahead, the unmistakable black-and-red livery of the Vanguard car came into view.

Fraser. Even from this distance, I could see the aggression in his driving—the precision of a man who knew the machine as well as he knew his own body.

He was everythingF1expected from a champion: ruthless, calculated, dominant.

“Fraser up ahead,” Lucas noted. “Gap at two seconds.”

“Permission to close the gap?” I asked, unable to keep the eagerness from my voice.

A brief pause. “Go ahead. Let's see what you can do, but keep it clean. Test the limits safely.”

“Understood.”

I shifted into a higher engine mode, feeling the extra power surge. The gap began to shrink as I pushed harder, braking later into corners, maximizing traction on exit. The tires gripped the tarmac confidently, in their optimal temperature range.

Approaching Turn 1, I was within a second of Fraser’s car—DRSdetection triggered. Exiting Turn 3, I activatedDRS, the car lunging forward as I closed in onCallum. He held the racing line—either unaware of me, or unbothered.

At Turn 4, I seized the opportunity. Late on the brakes, I dove to the inside, executing a textbook overtake. For a heartbeat, we were side by side, but I had the advantage into the corner. Clearing the turn ahead of him, a grin broke across my face.

Today, I hadn't just driven an F1 car—I had arrived .