#f1 driver!oc

Hungary, 2022

The voice of Alex Jacques echoes like the end of the world, circling the track as the cars scream into the final lap. Ausilia de Angelis, Ferrari’s young lioness, dances with destiny, carving her name into the air, leading the race like it was always hers. The past six races bow before her, and she’s hungry—hungry for the points she’s about to steal from Felipe Drugovich, the man who chases shadows in the championship.

And then it happens.

The world cracks open. She crosses the line, and the earth stands still. Seven. Seven times the victor. The Prema pit explodes, red and white and joyous. Theo Pourchaire—fourth to second—follows her ghost, and Ayumu Iwasa, eyes like fire, claims third.

The circuit breathes out. The race is over. Spa waits on the other side of summer.

"Oh my God, that was fun!" Ausilia’s voice is a storm, a whirlwind, as she crashes into her team, arms and laughter and victory all tangled up. She turns, the chaos in her chest finding its rhythm, and she leaps—into the arms of Lucrezia Cattaneo, the woman who believes in her like she’s gravity. "I’m so proud of you, tesoro mio," Lucrezia whispers, but it’s not really a whisper. It’s the sound of the sun setting on a perfect day.

Later, after the world has quieted and the night has taken over, they drive back to the hotel. The road is dark, but there’s light between them. “You’re going to Maranello this week?” Lucrezia asks, her eyes fixed ahead, searching for something only she can see. Ausilia, for once, doesn’t have the answer. She shrugs, letting the silence fill the car like water in a glass. “It’s the start of the summer break. I’d rather not see their faces, not yet. They haven’t called.” But she knows, somewhere deep, that the call is coming, and when it does come, it won’t be joyous.

Summer Break, 2022

Ausilia never expected a calm summer break, not after what she and Lucrezia had set into motion. The summer break was supposed to be a breath, a pause—but the first day, and already the phone rings, and the mood shatters like glass.

“Have you terminated your contract with Ferrari?” The voice on the other end is calm, too calm.

“Not yet,” Ausilia replies, her voice steady, though the storm inside her builds. “I haven’t been to Maranello since last Monday. Why?”

A chuckle from the other side, low and knowing. “You were right about them. I’m at the gala, and certain Italians are whispering in corners, telling potential sponsors that you’re only winning because Prema’s given you the faster car. They’re trying to sway me, push me toward Ferrari, and away from you.”

Ausilia’s eyes narrow, the fire beneath her cool words sparking. “Any team gives the faster car to the better driver. If they’re saying that, it just proves they know I’m the better one.”

There’s a beat of silence, the tension thick even across the distance, then the question comes, sharp and decisive. “Should we contact your future team for the sponsorship deal?”

She lets the question hang in the air, measuring it against the chaos she knows is coming. “Not yet,” she finally says, each word a deliberate step. “There’s going to be drama this summer. Let’s not tip our hand too soon.”

As she’s about to end the call, another ring cuts through the quiet, the name on the screen making her groan. Marco Matassa (FDA Head). Of course. The devil always knows when to appear. “Looks like I’ll be heading to Maranello sooner than I thought.”

She cuts the call, lets the phone ring unanswered until it stops. A message pops up, cold as a command: “Drive to Maranello tomorrow. The team wants to discuss your future. Bring your manager.”

And just like that, the storm begins.

Ausilia woke early the next morning, shedding the Ferrari red for something that spoke in whispers rather than shouts—something fashionable, defiant in its simplicity. The day held a certain weight, and she dressed for the part, not as a driver but as something else, something more.

She left her apartment and picked up Lucy, who was waiting with a smile that knew too much. “Excuse they’ll use. Just one. Closest guess gets an extra slice of pizza tonight,” Lucy offered, a game to pass the time, to cut through the tension that hung between them. Ausilia laughed, the sound sharp and bright in the morning light.

As the engine roared to life, Ausilia waved her hand with mock drama, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “There’s just no seats in F1.”

Lucy turned serious, eyes narrowing as she thought it through. “I don’t think they’ll use something so blatant. They’re not that stupid, are they? My guess—something about how F2 and F1 are worlds apart, and just because you dominated F2 doesn’t mean you’ll succeed in F1.”

Ausilia’s laugh came again, this time darker, edged with something bitter. “If they go with that, they’d be proving just how stupid they are.”

The drive from Modena to Maranello was only half an hour, but it felt longer, like the road itself was stretching out, trying to delay the inevitable. When she finally pulled into Ferrari’s parking lot, she did it in a Porsche, not a Ferrari, each moment of defiance deliberate, each choice a statement. No team polo, no red, no shield. Just a rival’s car gleaming in the enemy’s territory.

She knew what she was doing, knew the risks. But if this was the end, she would go out on her own terms. What better way to say goodbye than to flaunt a rival's machine when she had spent her time as a Ferrari Driver Academy member refusing to touch any of their own?

As Ausilia slid into her seat at the head of the table, Marco Matassa, the head of FDA, and Mattia Binotto, Scuderia Ferrari’s Team Principal, rose in a slow, deliberate dance of formality.

The room crackled with tension. The Porsche in the parking lot was an unwelcome guest in a sea of Ferraris, a silent proclamation of defiance. Everyone knew who it belonged to.

Ausilia, draped in dramatic anticipation, knew exactly what was coming. But drama was her craft; she was here to see how they would script this act.

“Apologies for the Porsche. Lucy’s car is in the shop.” She offered a smile, disarmingly serene, as if it might soften the blows to come. If these men weren’t bracing for the conversation ahead, they might have laughed, dismissed it as a trivial matter.

“You can sit down, you know,” Lucy’s voice was a gentle chime, the kind of sound that seemed to make the air around them a little lighter.

Marco gestured to Mattia, urging him to take a seat while he remained standing, his eyes locked onto Ausilia. “You are an incredible talent for Ferrari.” The words were like a well-rehearsed lie, and Ausilia almost laughed, because of course she was a talent—but not for them, not anymore. She smiled back, wide-eyed and innocent.

“Unfortunately,” Mattia cut in, his impatience a jagged edge, “we don’t have any seats in Formula One. Carlos and Charles are locked in until the end of 2024.”

“The pizza’s mine,” Ausilia whispered to Lucrezia, the words a secret promise as she turned her attention back to Marco and Mattia. “Haas have a seat, don’t they?”

An uneasy silence settled over the room, the kind that lingers after a question too sharp. Marco finally responded, his voice carrying a tone of practiced indifference. “Haas won’t take another FDA driver. They don’t want to be seen as Ferrari’s junior team.”

Lucy’s eyes sharpened, her voice cutting through the pretense. “So despite Ausilia’s domination of F2 and F3, she’s to remain grounded? What kind of academy can’t even pave the way for its own drivers?”

Marco took a breath, as if steadying himself. “It might be better for her career if she’s not branded with Ferrari. Let’s terminate the contract—it will make it easier for her to find a seat elsewhere.”

Lucy winced, her patience fraying. Did these men really think they could pull the wool over their eyes? Getting an F1 seat without an F1 team backing her was going to be a fight, especially as a woman.

But Lucy mirrored Ausilia’s façade of ignorance, agreeing with the men with a tone that dripped with feigned logic. “Well, at least you’re being practical.”

Ausilia walked into Ferrari headquarters as an FDA driver and left as just another driver. The weight of the label lifted from her shoulders, but a shadow of sadness lingered. Despite her plans for a Formula One career, a part of her—the part that had dreamed of driving for Scuderia—felt the sting of loss.

Summer Break, 2022

Word must have travelled fast through the walls of the factory in Maranello, because Ausilia had gotten a call from Charles that night.

They had met first during karting, Charles several levels above her, but got acquainted with each other when Ausilia joined the FDA in 2020.

Ausilia was convinced that Charles sacrifice himself at the altar if it meant that Ferrari would be champions again. She also knew that she would be right next to him.

Ausilia loved the team too, but it seemed the feeling was unreciprocated, not in any way she could grasp.

“So what’s next for you?” Charles’s voice was laced with curiosity. Ausilia hadn’t planned to spill the news just yet, but she knew it was only a matter of time. Sharing it with one more person was hardly a risk.

“I signed a contract.” She said it with a casual shrug, as if she were discussing the weather. But beneath that veneer was the weight of her future, the career she’d poured her heart into.

“With another F1 team? Or are you moving to another series?” Charles’s questions were endless, but Ausilia indulged him. Ferrari was branching out into WEC, and he suggested, “You could always go into endurance.”

The mention of Ferrari made Ausilia bristle, a flicker of irritation she couldn’t quite place. His suggestion was practical, but it stung. It was a reminder that even as the Scuderia opened new doors, they had slammed shut on her. Marco and Mattia hadn’t even hinted at a reserve or development role.

“Endurance isn’t really my thing. Besides, the dream’s always been Formula One,” she said, her voice trailing off as if weighed down by the words. She cleared her throat, a reminder of the ache she tried to mask.

“Don’t you want to wait and see if Ferrari comes through with a contract? Is it really final?” Charles knew about her deep-rooted affection for the team; Maranello had been her home for the past two years.

He offered a sliver of hope, “Maybe ask Lucy to help you get a seat in endurance? There’s going to be seats for 2024, and ‘25 is even more open. Don’t leave Ferrari behind—maybe you’ll get your chance. It’s always been your dream.”

His optimism grated on her nerves now. She understood his perspective, but he didn’t see the whole picture. Even if every seat on the team was open, she knew she still wouldn’t get a contract.

Her voice turned icy as she replied, “I can’t afford to waste my career waiting for this team, Charles. Not every dream is worth dying for.”

The chill evaporated quickly as she added, “Listen, I’ve got to go. Bye.”

She ended the call, the weight of her words lingering like a shadow. What she’d said was true, but a part of her still yearned for that dream—the dream of driving for Ferrari, the dream that had ignited her passion and fueled her ambition.

A Few Days Later

The day had started like any other. Quiet, uneventful. But Ausilia knew what was coming, could feel the shift in the air. She was sitting in a small café in her neighborhood when her phone buzzed. Lucy. “They’re posting it in 15 minutes.”

Fifteen minutes. The countdown began, a hum of adrenaline beneath her skin. This wasn’t the dream, not exactly how she’d pictured launching her Formula One career, but a seat—any seat—was a foothold. And a seat in Formula One was still everything.

She sipped her coffee, eyes on the screen, the seconds ticking away like a heartbeat. Fifteen minutes, sharp. Right on time, the announcement lit up her phone. Haas posted the words that would tether her name to the 2023 grid: “We are pleased to announce that Formula 2’s current championship leader, Ausilia de Angelis, will be driving with Haas F1 in 2023.”

Somewhere in Carolina, Gene Haas' phone buzzes, slicing through the quiet. He picks up, hears the voice on the other end, tight with disbelief, suspicion. “You signed Ausilia for 2023?”

The question hangs there, heavy, like it’s trying to unravel the logic, make sense of the decision. Gene stays silent, lets them spin the thread a little longer. The voice sharpens. “Why would you give her the seat, Gene? She’s not an FDA driver anymore.”

There it is. Not an FDA driver. The words that were supposed to mean something. A mark of belonging, or lack of it, now. But Gene knows better. He leans back in his chair, partially annoyed, partially pleased, listening as the voice continues, as if trying to claw back some sense of order. “The plan was 2025, when Sainz leaves, de Angelis gets the seat at Ferrari. That’s what they told me.”

“Well, they obviously lied,” Gene cuts in, a little sharper than intended. But the truth is, the lie doesn’t matter now. Ferrari’s plan, their red-tinted dreams—they’re not his concern. Ausilia isn’t tethered to them anymore, and that’s what pleases him most. No strings attached, no waiting for her moment in red.

She’s his driver now. And she’s a good driver. It’s no secret. If she stays longer than they expected, if she builds something here, grows into a name that’s theirs, not Ferrari’s—that only works in his favor. No FDA label. No promises of a future that’s always dangling just out of reach. Just her, in his car, pushing the limits.

He smiles to himself, the voice still droning on in the background. But it’s clear now. They were never in control. Not of her, not of this.

The news of her F1 seat ignites chaos, like a match dropped into gasoline. Headlines spiral, opinions crash into each other, and the world of Formula One is set ablaze. A woman back on the grid. Thirty years. That’s how long it’s been since Desiree Wilson in '92, and now it’s Ausilia—taking that seat, that space, that history. She knows what this means. She’s not just racing for herself. She’s racing for every girl who ever looked at a track and wondered if she could belong there.

But even before her first lap, the obituaries are already being written. They’re carving her failure into stone, like it’s inevitable, like her victory in Formula 3, her dominance in Formula 2, were all just footnotes leading to this “mistake.” The media says she should’ve gone elsewhere, waited for something safer, something more respectable. They think she’s already burned out before she’s even had the chance to start.

And here’s the hypocrisy: they’ll cheer for her when she wins everything leading up to this, but now, at the edge of the real dream, they’re holding her back. As if she hasn’t earned it. As if the seat in Formula One isn’t hers, and hers alone. But Ausilia knows better. She’s going to show them, all of them, that she—and every other girl who’s ever been told no—belongs exactly where she wants to be.

Gene called Ausilia later that day, his voice flat, cutting through the static. "So you and your manager lied about the FDA plan."

Ausilia didn’t flinch, didn’t miss a beat. “When we signed the contract, I was still an FDA driver,” she replied, calm but sharp. "I was only dropped at the start of the summer break."

But Gene wasn’t in the mood for details. He was serious, his voice like gravel, dragging across the line. “You’re a great driver, that’s why I’m letting you keep the seat,” he said, and for a moment, there was something heavier, something weightier in the silence that followed.

“Prove me right,” he added, his words slower now, deliberate. “And prove all those money-grabbing journalists wrong, de Angelis.”