A TALE OF FAME
pairing ꪆৎ charles leclerc x ahaana patel ᥫ᭡. f1 driver x bollywood actress au
chapter ꪆৎ 6
summary ꪆৎ she's everything, and he just drives.
note ꪆৎ no hate to any characters used in the story, none of what i write reflects on how they actually are. all my love, happy reading.
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Monaco, 3:47 AM
The city that never truly slept had fallen into an eerie stillness, a hush settling over the winding streets of Monte Carlo as if the world itself had exhaled after holding its breath for too long. The neon lights flickered faintly against the rain-slicked pavement, the ocean beyond whispering secrets only the waves could understand, and yet, Charles Leclerc felt none of it.
The usual hum of the world—the comforting rhythm of engines revving in the distance, the quiet murmur of conversations slipping from late-night bars, the occasional hum of an expensive car rolling down the empty streets—felt muted, as though reality had blurred at the edges, leaving him stranded in the echo of something unfinished.
His hands remained deep in the pockets of his hoodie, fingers curled into tense fists as he walked with no real destination, feet carrying him away from the alleyway where he had kissed her, where she had let him in—just for a moment—before she had torn herself away like it meant nothing at all.
He had tasted hesitation on her lips, felt the unspoken weight in the way her body had leaned into his before she pulled back, seen the ghost of something in her eyes that had almost convinced him she didn’t want to leave. And yet, she had still walked away. She had still chosen distance over whatever this was, still left him standing there, heart pounding in his throat as she disappeared into the night like a passing storm—fierce, consuming, and gone before he could hold onto her.
It shouldn’t have bothered him as much as it did.
He barely knew her.
That was the part he kept telling himself, the rational voice that tried to shove sense back into his head, reminding him that she wasn’t some great love story, not some part of him that had been missing. She was just a woman.
Just Ahaana Patel—brilliant and impossible, sharp edges softened only by rare flickers of something she didn’t let the world see. Just a Bollywood starlet with secrets tucked so deep inside her that they had turned her into a fortress, someone who smiled and bantered and let the world believe she was invincible while something haunted lived behind her eyes.
Just someone he had met by chance, by accident.
And yet, somehow, she had burrowed into his mind like she belonged there.
Charles exhaled harshly, jaw clenching as he stopped at the edge of the waterfront, gaze fixed on the endless stretch of dark waves. The sea had always been an anchor for him, something that steadied his thoughts when they threatened to spiral, but tonight, it felt restless, shifting beneath the glow of the moon, reflecting back at him the same frustration tightening in his chest.
She was gone.
And she hadn’t looked back.
The realization twisted something in his gut, the kind of unsettled feeling he wasn’t sure he had ever felt before—not like this, not this sharp, not this visceral. He wasn’t the type to dwell on what he couldn’t control, but this—**her—**felt like something he should have fought harder for, like something that should have meant more than just a passing moment.
And yet, what had he done?
Nothing.
He had let her leave, let her convince herself that whatever had happened between them was something insignificant, something that didn’t deserve a place in her life.
And for the first time in a long time, Charles felt like he had lost something he didn’t even know he needed.
Mumbai, 8:55 AM
The makeup room smelled of rosewater toner, setting powder, and the faint bitterness of coffee left untouched for too long. The bulbs lining the mirror cast a golden glow, painting everything in warm, honeyed light, but the illusion of comfort was just that—an illusion. The space felt hollow, filled only by the steady hum of the AC and the quiet rasp of Ahaana’s own breathing.
She sat in front of the vanity, staring at her own reflection as if she were looking at a stranger. The woman in the mirror looked like her—same dark hair tumbling over her shoulders, same sharp jawline softened by the gentle curve of her lips, same kohl-lined eyes that had learned long ago how to mask what they weren’t supposed to reveal. And yet, something was missing. Something felt wrong.
Her fingers curled into her lap, nails pressing crescent moons into the flesh of her palm, but the sting wasn’t enough to ground her.
She had spent the entire flight back to Mumbai convincing herself that she had done the right thing. That walking away from Charles was what was best. That she couldn’t afford another mistake, another misstep that could drag someone else into the wreckage of her past.
And yet, no matter how many times she repeated it to herself, the weight in her chest hadn’t lifted. If anything, it had only grown heavier, settling beneath her ribcage, curling around her lungs like a vice that made it impossible to take a full breath.
He had kissed her like he wanted to unravel her.
Like he had already seen through the walls she had built around herself, like he knew exactly what she was trying to run from and was daring her to stop.
And she had let him.
For a moment, she had let herself forget—let herself feel the warmth of his hands on her skin, the way he had held her like she was something precious rather than something broken, the way he had looked at her, as if he wanted to memorize every detail before she could slip away.
And then she had remembered.
She had remembered who she was.
What she carried.
What would happen if his name ever became tangled with hers.
Ahaana let out a slow, shuddering breath, forcing herself to shake off the memory before it swallowed her whole. Her gaze flickered to the half-finished coffee on the table, to the neatly stacked script pages she had yet to go through, to the soundless buzz of her phone lighting up with messages she wasn’t ready to read.
She was here, back in Mumbai, back in the industry she had fought so hard to reclaim, back in the world where she had once been powerful, untouchable—before she had seen too much, before the truth had nearly cost her everything.
The room had not changed. The air was still heavy with the scent of rosewater and setting powder, the bulbs around the mirror still cast their artificial glow, their warmth trying to convince her that everything was fine.
The untouched coffee beside her remained a stagnant pool of bitterness, its surface undisturbed, the steam long since faded. Nothing in this space had shifted, not the arrangement of brushes meticulously laid out before her, not the faint hum of conversation filtering in from beyond the closed door. Nothing—except her.
Ahaana sat motionless, hands gripping the edges of the vanity as if it were the only thing tethering her to the present. The tension in her jaw was sharp, the tightness in her chest suffocating, and no matter how many times she blinked, the image in the mirror refused to align with who she was supposed to be. Her reflection felt foreign, like something sculpted rather than real, a carefully curated illusion bathed in soft lighting.
Her stomach twisted, a slow, sinking feeling crawling up her spine. It was happening again. The pull. The unraveling. The ghosts creeping in through the cracks.
She had spent so long convincing herself that it was behind her, that she had left it in the past, that it no longer had its claws in her. But monsters do not live in the past. They live in the quiet moments, in the space between breaths, in the solitude of a makeup room where no one is watching. They wait for the silence, for the stillness, for the precise moment when there is nowhere left to run.
And then—just like that—the past was no longer the past.
FLASH.
The hallway had been dimly lit, the golden sconces casting flickering shadows along the polished floors, stretching long and thin, curling against the walls like unseen eyes watching her move. The door at the end of the corridor had been left ajar, just enough for the faintest sliver of light to bleed through, a subtle invitation, a whispered warning.
She should have left. She should have turned back. Every instinct had screamed at her to do so, had coiled tight in her chest, urging her to walk away, to pretend she had never stepped foot in this place. But curiosity had always been a dangerous thing, and before she could talk herself out of it, she was already inside.
The air hit her first. The thick, unmistakable scent of aged whiskey, its sharpness mixing with the tang of burning tobacco and something else—something more illicit. It soaked into the furniture, into the expensive carpet, into the very foundation of this place. The room itself was an exhibition of quiet, unassuming luxury.
Polished mahogany, gold-trimmed glasses resting on the bar, a decanter half-emptied beside them. Smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling, exhaled from cigarettes perched between fingers that had never known desperation.
And then, at the center of it all—him.
Reclined against the deep leather couch, legs spread apart in an easy sprawl, one arm resting lazily over the backrest, his fingers poised around the cigarette in his hand.
His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to hint at the sharp cut of his collarbone, the sleeves of his tailored suit pushed back slightly, revealing the gleam of an expensive watch against his wrist. He looked effortlessly composed, a man who never felt out of control. A man who owned every space he stepped into.
She had walked in on something she was never meant to see.
The stacks of cash sat in neat piles along the coffee table, crisp and untouched, half-counted but never hidden. A fine dusting of white powder clung to the glass, its presence as casual as the low murmurs of conversation filtering in from the other side of the room. The men in pressed suits did not stop speaking. The transaction did not pause.
Her presence had not disrupted the world moving around her, because in this room, in his world—she did not matter. Not yet.
And then—he looked up.
His gaze met hers, sharp and assessing, but void of any real surprise. His cigarette lingered at his lips, the ember burning faintly in the dim light as he took another slow drag before exhaling, the smoke curling around him in delicate tendrils. He let the silence stretch between them, unbothered, amused, as if he had been expecting her all along.
"You shouldn’t be here."
The words were smooth, casual, as if they carried no real weight. But the way his eyes held hers, the way the men around him didn’t react, didn’t even acknowledge her presence, made it clear—this wasn’t a suggestion. It wasn’t even a warning. It was a fact. A truth that had already been decided for her.
She had swallowed, her pulse hammering against her ribs, the sharp edge of fear sinking its claws into her throat.
This wasn’t indulgence.
This wasn’t just wealth.
This was something else.
Something irreversible.
And she had just stepped right into it.
Ahaana sucked in a breath too fast, too shallow, her body jolting as if she had just resurfaced from deep water, lungs desperate for air. Her nails dug into the smooth wood of the vanity, grounding herself in the present, reminding herself of where she was. But the echoes of the past still lingered, wrapping around her ribs, refusing to let go.
She squeezed her eyes shut, breathe, just breathe, but the memory was still right there.
FLASH.
The glass had shattered against the floor, the whiskey spilling in slow-moving rivers, soaking into the Persian rug beneath his feet. The sound had sliced through the heavy silence, a sharp contrast to the otherwise measured stillness of the space.
She had flinched.
He had not.
He only watched.
Unblinking. Unmoved. Unbothered.
Then—he stood.
She barely had time to take a step back before he was in front of her, his presence filling every inch of the space between them. His fingers found her chin, tilting her face up, forcing her to look at him, his touch deceptively soft, his lips curling into something that wasn’t a smile.
"You saw something you weren’t supposed to see, jaan."
The endearment dripped from his tongue like silk, smooth and practiced, but it was a lie. He was not speaking to her like a lover. He was speaking to her like something to be handled.
She tried to speak, to deny, to lie, but his thumb brushed against her lower lip before she could, silencing her before the words had a chance to form. His touch was light, calculated, a quiet reminder that control was no longer hers to claim.
"You think you can just walk away from this?" His voice was velvet and venom, each syllable wrapping around her like a noose. And then, lower, quieter, final—
"I’m going to ruin you."
A sharp knock at the door sent a jolt through her chest.
"Ahaana!"
Karan Johar’s voice, warm and familiar, real, cut through the suffocating weight of the memory, pulling her back.
"You’re not dead in there, are you? Vedang is already on set, and Vasan is running out of patience. Move it, superstar!"
Ahaana exhaled, her fingers still trembling, the weight in her chest still heavy. The past had tried to pull her under, but she had clawed her way back to the surface. By the time she reached for the door handle, the ghosts had been locked away, hidden behind the mask the world had never seen slip.
Ahaana Patel—the woman the world knew, the one who did not break—had returned.
And she was ready to pretend again.
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ᝰ.ᐟ sixth part! hope you guys like it!
so sorry for the wait, but ive been dealing with some health issues and slightly difficult for me to update. so thankful to anyone who reads this, i love you <3
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tags @seonghwaexile @bookishprophecy @justadesirebel @peterholland04 @bakingpiastries @ricciardosheart @mikefaistgf @sp1rl @charlesgirl16 @leila-030304 @uhcalli @blahblechblah @phobiccneel @blushmimi
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© weekendlusting
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