Summary: you’re Princess Diana’s niece, and the world won’t let you forget it. They want the ghost, not the girl. Then a Ferrari driver sends a terrified intern to “kidnap” you from Mercedes with the worst excuse in motorsport history, and suddenly you’re stealing go-karts, breaking protocol, and falling in love on moonlit hillsides. Two lives. One for the cameras, one for keeps. Both of them yours.
The Côte d’Azur sun is a warm, heavy blanket, smelling of salt, lavender, and scorched rubber. It’s a dizzying cocktail of scents, one you’re becoming intimately familiar with.
You stand on a raised platform, a polite smile fixed on your face as you watch miniature race cars, driven by children no older than ten, zip around the track below. The noise is a high-pitched, incessant whine, like a swarm of very determined, very expensive bees.
“A brilliant turnout, wouldn’t you say?” Hugh, your private secretary, murmurs beside you. His voice is as dry as the crisp white wine the other VIPs are sipping. “The foundation will be exceptionally pleased.”
You nod, your smile feeling a little brittle at the edges. “It’s wonderful. The children are having the time of their lives.”
“Indeed. And you are behaving impeccably.”
You turn to look at him, raising a single eyebrow. Hugh is a good man, loyal to a fault, but he possesses the soul of a nervous accountant. He’s dressed in a linen suit that is already starting to wilt in the southern French heat. “Was there ever any doubt, Hugh?”
“With you, my lady,” he says, his gaze flicking to the hem of your seafoam green sundress, which is currently dancing a little too enthusiastically in the breeze, “there is always a flicker of doubt. It’s what keeps me employed and perpetually on the verge of a cardiac event.”
You laugh, a genuine sound that makes a few nearby heads turn. The cameras, of course, flash in response. They are always there, a chorus of clicks and whirs that has been the soundtrack to your entire life. You are Lady Y/N Spencer, and the world has been fascinated by you since the day you were born.
Not just because of the title, but because of the ghost you live with. The aunt you never met. They say you have her eyes, her smile, her impossible-to-define and yet universally understood warmth. They say you are Diana’s girl, more so than any other. It’s a heavy crown to wear, heavier than any tiara the monarchy could ever place on your head.
“Relax,” you tell him, patting his arm. “I’m just here to smile, shake hands, and remind people to donate. I’m not planning on staging a coup.”
“It’s not a coup I’m worried about. It’s an ‘incident.’ You have a penchant for them.”
“I have a penchant for living,” you correct him gently. “People just aren’t used to seeing it up close.”
Down on the track, a small girl with bright red pigtails spins out, her kart coming to a gentle stop in the grassy runoff area. She doesn’t cry. She just slumps over the steering wheel in dramatic, world-ending defeat. Your heart gives a little pang.
Charles arrives with the quiet efficiency of someone who is used to making an entrance without needing to make a scene. He moves through the crowd with a fluid grace, a kind word here, a brief handshake there. He is in his element, the local hero at a charity event just a stone’s throw from his home. He’s wearing a simple white shirt and dark trousers, looking less like a Formula 1 superstar and more like the boy next door, if the boy next door happened to have the reflexes of a fighter pilot and the face of a Renaissance sculpture.
His friend and trainer, Andrea, is with him. “Okay, so you talk to the organizers, you take a photo with the mayor, and you present the trophy to the winner. Thirty minutes, maybe forty-five.”
Charles nods, his eyes scanning the crowd. “And the kids?”
“You can say hello to the kids, Charles. Just don’t promise them all a Ferrari contract.”
“I would never,” Charles says, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “Maybe a karting sponsorship.” His gaze sweeps over the viewing platform and stops. On you. It’s just a momentary pause, a flicker of recognition, but it feels longer.
He’s seen you in magazines, on the news. Lady Y/N Spencer. The English rose transplanted to the French Riviera for a good cause. He registers the seafoam dress, the way the sun catches the highlights in your hair, the slightly weary but genuine smile. Then he’s pulled away by an eager organizer, and the moment is gone.
You, however, are no longer watching the race. Your attention is fixed on the little girl with the red pigtails, who is now being helped out of her kart by a marshal. She’s dragging her helmet on the ground, the very picture of dejection.
And that’s when the idea, a wild and thoroughly inappropriate one, sparks in your mind. It’s the kind of idea that makes Hugh’s hair turn prematurely grey.
“Oh, no,” he says, seeing the look in your eyes. He knows that look. It’s the same look you had before you decided to wade into the Serpentine in Hyde Park to rescue a corgi.
“She’s heartbroken,” you say, your voice soft.
“She’s a child. They are heartbroken every five minutes. It’s their default state. It will pass once she has a Fanta.”
“But I could cheer her up,” you insist, a real smile — a mischievous one — finally breaking through.
“Y/N, please. Don’t.” His use of your name, not your title, is a clear sign of his desperation. “Think of the press. Think of the dress. It’s Chloé, for heaven’s sake. Think of the protocol.”
“Aunt Diana never cared much for protocol,” you say, the words slipping out before you can stop them. It’s your trump card, and it’s a low blow. Hugh’s face softens instantly. He had worked, in a very junior capacity, for her. He understood.
“That,” he sighs, defeated, “is an understatement.”
You give his hand a final squeeze. “Keep the photographers at a manageable distance, will you? And try not to faint.”
You make your way down from the platform, a ripple of whispers and turning heads following you. The seafoam dress floats around your knees. You’re wearing simple, elegant white espadrilles, which are, you decide, perfectly suitable for what you’re about to do.
The little girl, whose name is Manon, is now sitting on a hay bale, her lower lip trembling. You kneel in front of her, ignoring the sudden flurry of camera flashes from the press line.
“That was a very impressive spin,” you say in careful, gentle French.
Manon looks up, her big blue eyes wide with surprise. “You are the lady from the TV.”
“Sometimes,” you smile. “And you are the driver from the track. I think your cornering was very brave.”
“I lost,” she whispers, a single tear tracing a path through the grime on her cheek.
“Losing is just practice for winning later,” you tell her, an adage your own father had repeated to you countless times. “Besides, the most important thing is to have fun. Did you have fun before the spin?”
She nods sullenly.
“Well then,” you say, standing up and brushing a stray piece of grass from your dress. “The fun doesn’t have to stop.”
You walk over to the marshal who is rolling the tiny kart back towards the paddock. “Excuse me,” you say, still in French. “Is this one still working?”
The marshal, a young man with a severe sunburn, stares at you as if you’ve just sprouted a second head. “Oui, madame … My Lady. Yes. It is fine.”
“Excellent.” You turn back to Manon. “How would you feel about a co-pilot?”
The look on the little girl’s face is a sunrise of pure joy. Hugh, watching from the edge of the track, puts his head in his hands.
Charles is in the middle of a stilted conversation with the deputy mayor about municipal drainage projects when the commotion starts. A buzz runs through the crowd, a collective gasp followed by a roar of laughter and applause. The press photographers are behaving like a pack of starving wolves, clambering over each other for a better angle.
“What is going on?” Andrea asks, craning his neck.
Charles follows his gaze and his jaw goes slack.
There you are, folding your decidedly not ten-year-old frame into a go-kart designed for a ten-year-old. The seafoam dress is bunched up around your thighs, and you’re laughing as you try to work your espadrille-clad feet onto the tiny pedals. The marshal, looking completely bewildered, is attempting to show you how to work the brake. A tiny, red-pigtaled co-pilot is being strapped into a makeshift seat beside you.
“Merde,” Charles breathes, but it’s a sound of awe, not profanity.
You somehow get the helmet on over your carefully styled hair, and with a sputtering roar, the tiny engine comes to life. You give a thumbs-up to a cheering Manon, and then you’re off, wobbling down the track with a distinct lack of grace but an abundance of enthusiasm.
You are, objectively, a terrible driver. You take the corners too wide, your braking is erratic, and you nearly spin out on the same turn that defeated Manon. But you are also a vision of pure, unadulterated joy. Your laughter carries over the whine of the engine, a bright, musical sound. The crowd is on its feet, roaring you on. The other children, their own races forgotten, line the barriers, chanting your name.
Charles finds he can’t look away. He has spent his life surrounded by the polished, media-trained perfection of motorsport. Everything is about precision, control, and image. And here you are, a member of the most image-conscious family on the planet, throwing protocol to the wind in a five-horsepower kart, all to make a little girl smile.
“She’s unbelievable,” Andrea says, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Yes,” Charles agrees, his voice barely a whisper. “She is.”
He watches you complete a lap, your path wobbly but triumphant. You pull into the makeshift pit lane, and a dozen hands reach out to help you untangle yourself from the kart. You pull the helmet off, your hair a mess, your face flushed and streaked with a bit of dirt. And you are, he thinks, the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.
The deputy mayor and his drainage projects are completely forgotten. Charles starts walking towards you, moving on an instinct he doesn’t bother to question.
You’re handing your helmet back to the marshal, still breathless from laughter, when you see him approaching. He cuts a clear path through the chaos, his focus entirely on you. Your heart does a funny little stutter-step in your chest.
“That,” Charles says, his voice a low, melodic baritone with that charming hint of a Monégasque accent, “was the most impressive display of … creative driving I have seen all season.”
You laugh, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. Your cheeks feel impossibly hot. “Is that a polite way of saying I was awful?”
“No, no. Not at all,” he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles. “It was … committed. You were very committed to your line. Even if it was not always the fastest one.”
“Well, thank you,” you say, feigning a dramatic bow that makes your dress swirl. “I was taught by the best. Mostly by watching cartoons as a child.”
The little girl, Manon, tugs on your hand. “Again! Let’s go again!”
“I think,” you tell her gently, “that the other children might like a turn. And besides, I think I have probably broken about seventeen rules. If I break any more, my secretary might actually combust.”
You glance over and see Hugh looking pale and drinking a bottle of water with grim determination.
Charles chuckles. “Rules are sometimes suggestions, no?”
“That’s what I’ve always thought,” you agree, your eyes meeting his. His are a startlingly warm shade of green, flecked with brown and gold. They are kind eyes. “It’s a philosophy that gets me into a great deal of trouble.”
“I can imagine,” he says softly. His gaze is intense, and for a moment, the noise of the crowd, the cameras, the whining engines, it all just fades away into a dull hum. There is only the two of you, standing on a patch of sun-drenched asphalt.
“Charles, we need you for the presentation,” Andrea says, appearing at his side like a magic trick. He gives you a polite, apologetic nod.
“One moment,” Charles says, not taking his eyes off you. “I am Charles, by the way.”
You smile. “I know.”
A faint blush colors his cheeks. “Of course. And you are …”
“A menace, according to my security detail. A disaster, according to my secretary. And Y/N, to my friends.”
“Y/N,” he repeats, and your name sounds different in his mouth. Softer. “It is a real pleasure to meet you. The real you, not just the … the lady from the TV.”
“And you, Charles,” you say. “It’s nice to meet the man who thinks my driving is ‘committed’.”
The pull of your respective duties is too strong. He is guided towards the podium, you are swarmed by a small army of well-wishers and foundation organizers. Hugh finally reaches your side, armed with a bottle of water and a look of profound resignation.
“Well,” he says, handing you the bottle. “That was certainly a thing that happened.”
“Wasn’t it wonderful?” You ask, taking a long drink. You can’t stop smiling.
“The press office’s phone has already started ringing. Althorp House will be issuing a statement about your ‘spontaneous and heartfelt engagement with the community’ by the end of the hour,” he says, his voice flat. “Which is code for ‘she’s gone off-script again, but the public loves it, so we’ll lean in’.”
“See? Everything worked out.” You steal a glance at the podium, where Charles is now handing a ridiculously large trophy to a beaming little boy. He catches your eye across the crowd and gives you a small, almost imperceptible smile. Your stomach does a little flip.
The rest of the event passes in a blur. More handshakes, more photos, more polite conversation. You move through it all on autopilot, your thoughts constantly drifting back to a pair of warm green eyes and a voice that made your name sound like poetry.
As the afternoon begins to wane and the guests start to disperse, Hugh materializes again. “The car is ready, my lady. We have a flight to catch.”
“Of course,” you say, taking one last look around. You can’t see him. A sharp, absurd pang of disappointment hits you. It’s ridiculous. You just met the man.
Meanwhile, Charles is being debriefed by Andrea as they walk towards their own car.
“That went well. Good press, lots of money raised. And you got to see some … interesting driving,” Andrea says with a smirk.
“Where is she?” Charles asks, his eyes scanning the thinning crowd.
“Who? Oh, Lady Y/N? I think I saw her leaving with her people a few minutes ago. They run a tight ship, that lot. Very scheduled.”
Charles stops walking. “Leaving? But I didn’t … I wanted to talk to her again.”
“Charles, you have a flight to catch too. To Maranello, remember? Simulator session at eight in the morning.”
“Right,” he says, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Right. The simulator.” He feels a profound sense of a missed opportunity, a door that had opened for a tantalizing second only to be slammed shut. He hadn’t asked for your number. He hadn’t even thought to ask. In the whirlwind of his life, you simply didn’t ask a member of the British nobility for her phone number like she was a girl you met at a bar. But in that moment, by the track, covered in dirt and laughing, you weren’t Lady Y/N Spencer. You were just Y/N. And he’d let the moment slip away.
“Stupid,” he mutters to himself.
“What was that?” Andrea asks.
“Nothing. I am stupid,” Charles clarifies. He pulls out his phone, scrolling through his contacts with no real purpose. He doesn’t have anyone who would just have your number. He couldn’t exactly ask the head of the charity, could he? ‘Excuse me, Madame Mercier, could I have the personal phone number of Princess Diana’s niece? Our conversation about her terrible karting skills was life-altering.’ He winces at the thought.
In the cool, quiet interior of your black sedan, you are scrolling through your own phone. The first news articles are already online, complete with pictures. There you are, grinning like a fool in a go-kart, your dress hiked up, hair everywhere. The headlines are universally adoring. ‘The People’s Princess? No, The People’s Racer! Lady Y/N Spencer Shows Her Playful Side’ and ‘A Royal Rebel With a Cause: Y/N Spencer Steals the Show in France’.
Hugh clears his throat from the front seat. “I suppose it could have been worse.”
“It was fun, Hugh,” you say, your voice soft. “For a moment, it was just … fun.”
You lock your phone and watch the sun-dappled landscape of the Riviera slide by. You think about the weight of your name, the legacy you carry, the endless protocol and expectations. And then you think of a man with kind eyes and a gentle smile, who didn’t look at you like a symbol or a headline, but like a woman who was endearingly terrible at driving a go-kart.
And you realize, with a sinking feeling in your stomach, that you have no idea how you would ever see him again. The worlds you both inhabit are structured, scheduled, and insulated. They might brush up against each other at a charity event in the South of France, but the chances of them colliding again seem astronomically small.
He never got your number. And you, you realize, never got his.
Back at the track, Charles is standing by his car, the door open, making no move to get in.
“Charles?” Andrea prompts gently.
Charles looks back at the now-empty paddock, the silence punctuated only by the distant cry of gulls.
“I have to see her again,” he says, not to Andrea, but to the air itself. A statement of intent. A promise.
He just has absolutely no idea how.
***
Three months. Ninety-four days, to be precise. Ninety-four days since the sun-drenched chaos of that charity race in France. Ninety-four days of replaying a single, fleeting conversation in your mind.
It has become a strange, private film reel, one you watch in the quiet moments: the scent of burnt rubber and lavender, the sound of his voice saying your name, the warmth in his eyes that seemed to cut through the noise of the world. You told yourself it was a silly, momentary crush, a brief intersection of two very strange lives. But the memory has lingered, stubborn and luminous.
Now, the air smells of damp English grass, high-octane fuel, and frying onions from a nearby food stall. This is Silverstone. It’s not the gentle, sun-baked glamour of the Côte d'Azur; it’s the loud, passionate, beating heart of British motorsport. The sky is a moody canvas of bruised purple and grey, threatening a rain that never quite seems to commit.
“At least it’s not actively pouring,” Hugh says, his voice tight with anxiety. He navigates the churning sea of the paddock with the grim determination of a man wading through shark-infested waters. “Small mercies.”
You smile, pulling the collar of your trench coat a little tighter. You’ve dressed for the English summer, which is to say, for all four seasons at once. A simple cream-colored knit dress under the coat, sensible but elegant leather boots on your feet. Practicality with a whisper of prestige. It’s your signature.
“You worry too much, Hugh. It’s just a race.”
“It is never ‘just a race’,” he counters, deftly steering you around a television crew walking backwards. “This is a logistical and sociological minefield. Every handshake is a potential headline. Every photo is a front page. And you,” he lowers his voice, “have been invited as a guest of the British teams. Plural. We must be seen to be impeccably, almost painfully, neutral.”
“I’m here to support our drivers, Hugh. It’s not a political summit.”
“Isn’t it?” He mutters. “First stop, McLaren. Zak Brown is expecting us. Try to look fascinated by the … gear ratios.”
The McLaren garage is a clinical, beautiful thing of chrome and papaya orange. It’s a hive of activity, calm and focused. You are greeted with a deference that always makes you slightly uncomfortable. You listen intently as you are talked through the complexities of the steering wheel, you laugh at a joke with Lando Norris, and you wish them luck with a sincerity that is impossible to fake. You are good at this. You can find the human connection in even the most technical, high-pressure environments. It’s the gift, they say, you inherited from her.
Next is Williams, a team steeped in a history that feels woven into the very fabric of the place. You spend time talking to the junior mechanics, the ones whose names don’t make it into the papers, asking about their families and where they’re from. Hugh watches, a familiar mix of pride and apprehension on his face. You are doing exactly what you should be doing. You are being the perfect ambassador. You are sticking to the plan.
And in the blood-red heart of the paddock, in the Scuderia Ferrari garage, Charles Leclerc does not know the plan is about to be spectacularly derailed.
He is in the zone. Or, he is trying to be. He sits on a small stool in the quiet of his driver’s room, visualizing the track. Turn one, Copse, flat out. Then Maggotts and Becketts, a high-speed symphony of precision. He can feel the g-force in his neck, the vibration of the car through the soles of his feet.
Andrea pops his head in. “Five minutes until FP3, Charles. Bryan wants to go over the strategy change one last time.”
“Okay,” Charles says, not opening his eyes. “Tell him I’m coming.”
But his focus is fractured. For ninety-four days, it has been fractured. He’d left France kicking himself. He’d returned to Monaco and asked friends, contacts, anyone who might discreetly know, but your world was sealed tight. You don’t just find a number for Lady Y/N Spencer. It finds you, or it doesn’t. And it hadn’t. He’d resigned himself to the fact that it was a perfect, impossible moment, destined to live only in his memory.
He stands, zipping up his race suit, and walks into the main garage. The atmosphere is electric. Engineers are hunched over laptops, their faces illuminated by screens of flowing data. The car is poised like a predator, waiting to be unleashed. He’s halfway to the engineer’s stand when he glances at one of the TV monitors mounted on the wall. It’s showing a live feed from the paddock, a roving camera capturing the pre-session buzz.
And then he sees you.
It’s just a glimpse. You’re turning away from the camera, smiling at someone from the Williams team. The trench coat, the effortless elegance, the way you tilt your head when you listen. It’s unmistakably you. Here. Not a hundred metres from where he is standing.
The world tilts on its axis. The roar of the garage fades to a dull buzz.
“Charles?” Bryan is talking to him. “Did you hear what I said about the tire warm-up?”
Charles blinks, tearing his eyes away from the screen. “Sorry, Bryan. What? Yes. The tires.”
But his mind is racing faster than his car ever could. You’re here. You’re here. And you’re in the Williams garage. You’ll be going to Mercedes next, then Aston Martin. You’re doing the rounds of the British teams. You would have no reason, none at all, to come to Ferrari. He is trapped. The session is about to start. He is on the tightest of schedules. He can’t just leave. He can’t just walk over there.
A specific kind of panic, one he hasn’t felt since his first F2 race, grips him. It’s the feeling of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity about to vaporize before his eyes.
He scans the garage, his eyes landing on a young man in a red Ferrari polo shirt who is nervously arranging water bottles. Gio. He’s new, from the hospitality team in Maranello. Eager, terrified of doing anything wrong, and he speaks passable English. Perfect.
“Gio!” Charles calls out, his voice sharper than he intends.
Gio jumps, dropping a bottle, which clatters onto the floor. “Sì, Carlo?” He scrambles to pick it up.
Charles strides over to him, lowering his voice. “Gio, listen to me. I need you to do something for me. It is very, very important.”
Gio looks at him with the wide, frightened eyes of a man who has just been asked to defuse a bomb. “Anything, Charles. Of course.”
“I need you to go into the paddock. I need you to find someone.” Charles runs a hand through his hair, trying to figure out how to phrase this without sounding completely insane. “Her name is Lady Y/N Spencer.”
Gio’s face blanks, then pales. “The … the English … principessa?”
“She’s not a princess, exactly, but yes. Her. She is here. I saw her on the TV. She is probably at Mercedes now. You must go and find her.”
The poor man looks as if he’s about to faint. “Find her? And then … what do I do?”
This is the hard part. Charles improvises, terribly. “You tell her … you tell her that I need to speak with her. Urgently. That there is a … an aerodynamic detail on the car I must show her. A very … critical one. That only she can … appreciate.” The lie feels clumsy and ridiculous on his tongue.
Gio stares at him. “An aerodynamic detail? For the niece of Princess Diana?”
“Yes,” Charles says with a firm nod, trying to project a confidence he absolutely does not feel. “It is … a matter of Anglo-Italian cooperation. It’s very important. Now go. Quickly. Before she leaves.”
“But her security! The other teams! They will not let me just-”
“Gio,” Charles says, placing a hand on the young man’s shoulder, his expression deadly serious. “Find her. Bring her here. Do not fail.”
Gio swallows hard, nods, and then practically sprints out of the garage, a man on the most terrifying mission of his life.
Charles watches him go, his heart pounding against his ribs. He has just sent a junior hospitality coordinator to effectively abduct a member of the British nobility from the clutches of his fiercest rival. This could end his career. Or, much, much worse, it could fail.
You are standing inside the Mercedes garage, a stunning temple of silver and teal, listening to Toto Wolff explain the delicate dance of a pit stop. He is charming, intelligent, and speaks with a captivating intensity. Hugh is hovering nearby, looking smug. Everything is going perfectly.
“The coordination is quite extraordinary,” you say, genuinely impressed. “It’s like watching a ballet, but with air guns and a hundred-million-pound car.”
Toto laughs, a deep, booming sound. “A very expensive ballet, yes. But when it works, it is a thing of beauty.”
It’s at that moment that a breathless, frantic young man in a bright red Ferrari shirt skids to a halt just outside the garage entrance. He looks wildly around, his eyes locking on your group. He is sweating, despite the cool English air.
He approaches, hesitantly at first, before seeming to remember the orders of his commander. He marches up to your group. Hugh immediately steps forward, positioning himself between you and the intruder.
“Can I help you?” Hugh asks, his voice dripping with ice.
The young man ignores him, his panicked eyes fixed on you. “My Lady Spencer?” He gasps, his Italian accent thick and charming.
“Yes?” You say, a flicker of amused curiosity lighting inside you.
“I am Gio. From Scuderia Ferrari.” He gestures to his shirt as if it might be a bomb vest. “I have a message. From Charles. Leclerc. Charles Leclerc.”
Your heart gives a distinct jolt, a physical reaction that surprises you with its intensity. Toto Wolff raises an eyebrow, his interest piqued.
Hugh cuts in. “If Mr. Leclerc wishes to communicate with Her Ladyship, he may do so through the appropriate channels. Her schedule is full for the remainder of the day.”
Gio looks at Hugh as if he’s just a piece of furniture. His orders were from Charles, and that was all that mattered. “No, no, you do not understand,” he says, turning back to you, his words tumbling over each other. “It is urgent. It is about the car. The … arrow … arrow-dynamics.” He butchers the word, but his earnestness is palpable. “He says he must show you. A detail. A very important detail. It is a matter of … international cooperation.”
You have to physically bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. An aerodynamic detail. It’s the most gloriously, transparently terrible excuse you have ever heard. And it is, without a doubt, the most romantic thing that has happened to you all year.
“I see,” you say, your voice carefully neutral, though your eyes are dancing.
“You will do no such thing,” Hugh hisses, grabbing your elbow gently. “We are guests of Mercedes. Going to the Ferrari garage is a diplomatic incident waiting to happen. It is entirely inappropriate.”
“On the contrary,” Toto says smoothly, a sly grin playing on his lips. He has clearly assessed the situation and is enjoying the drama immensely. “I am fascinated by Ferrari’s new spirit of cross-team collaboration. Please, Lady Y/N, don’t let us keep you from your … technical briefing.”
You shoot him a grateful smile. The decision is made. You are going. The spark of rebellion that Hugh so fears has been well and truly lit.
“It seems I am needed,” you say to Hugh, your tone leaving no room for argument. “It would be rude to refuse such a generous offer of Anglo-Italian cooperation.”
Hugh looks like he wants to lie down on the cold garage floor and never get up again. “This is a mistake,” he mutters.
“Come, Gio,” you say, turning to the still-panting Ferrari messenger. “Lead the way to this aerodynamic marvel. I am all anticipation.”
Gio looks from you, to Hugh, to the smiling head of the Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula 1 team, and then back to you. A wave of relief washes over his face. He has not failed. He gestures with a shaky hand. “This way, My Lady. Please.”
The walk from the Mercedes garage to the Ferrari one is perhaps the longest hundred metres of your life. It’s a gauntlet. Every head in the paddock turns. Whispers follow you like a cloud of insects. A McLaren mechanic openly gawks, nudging his colleague. A journalist from Sky Sports raises her camera, a look of pure glee on her face. You, Lady Y/N Spencer, the nation’s sweetheart, being escorted through the Silverstone paddock by a flustered Ferrari staffer, with your apoplectic secretary trailing behind you like a storm cloud. You are crossing enemy lines, and you are doing it in broad daylight.
“I hope you’re pleased with yourself,” Hugh grumbles behind you.
“Immensely,” you reply, without looking back.
Gio leads you to the entrance of the scarlet garage. It feels different from the others. More intense, more passionate, steeped in a history that is almost religious in its fervor. The famous prancing horse shield gleams above the door. Gio speaks in rapid, hushed Italian to the security guard, who looks at you, then at Gio, then back at you, and finally steps aside.
You step inside.
The world changes. The air is thick with the smell of hot metal and tension. It’s a symphony of controlled chaos. And there, in the middle of it all, is him.
He’s standing by the car, talking to an engineer, trying with every fiber of his being to look casual, as if he wasn’t just watching your approach on the live feed with his heart in his throat. He’s in his red race suit, unzipped to the sternum, revealing the white fireproofs underneath. He turns as you enter, and his carefully constructed composure evaporates.
Your eyes meet across the garage floor, and for the second time in your life, the entire world just … stops.
He walks towards you, wiping his hands on a rag that isn’t dirty. “Y/N,” he says, his voice a little rough. “You came.”
“You sent an armed guard,” you reply, a slow smile spreading across your face. “I didn’t feel I had much of a choice.”
Gio, standing nearby, looks horrified. “He was not armed! I am not armed!”
Charles gives a soft laugh, his gaze never leaving yours. “Gio, thank you. You can … go and get some water. A lot of water.”
Gio nods and flees, his duty done. Hugh, meanwhile, has been intercepted at the entrance by a formidably glamorous Ferrari press officer who is engaging him in a conversation he clearly does not want to be having. You are, for a moment, alone in your own little bubble.
“So,” you say, gesturing with a sweep of your hand at the magnificent machine behind him. “This is it. The aerodynamic detail that required my immediate and personal attention.”
A faint blush creeps up his neck. “Yes. It is … very detailed.” He gestures vaguely towards the front wing, a masterpiece of carbon fibre complexity. “You see all of this? It helps the car … go fast. It is a secret, of course. I cannot tell you more. But I thought you would, uh, appreciate its … shape.”
You laugh, a full, genuine laugh that echoes slightly in the cavernous space. “Its shape is very … aerodynamic, I’m sure.”
“Exactly,” he says, relief flooding his features. He loves the sound of your laugh. “You understand.”
“I understand,” you say, your voice becoming softer, “that you went to a rather extraordinary amount of trouble for a terrible excuse.”
He has the grace to look a little sheepish. “I saw you on the television. I thought you would be gone before I had the chance. I did not get your number, in France.” The admission hangs in the air between you, simple and direct.
“No,” you agree. “You didn’t.”
“And I could not … find it. I tried.”
The honesty of that statement touches you more than any grand gesture could. In his world of fame and access, he’d tried and failed to reach you. It made him seem profoundly, wonderfully normal.
“Well,” you say, taking a small step closer. The smell of fuel is stronger here, mixed with the faint, clean scent of his cologne. “Here I am.”
“Here you are,” he echoes, his eyes searching yours. “In the enemy camp.”
“It feels rather exciting, to be a traitor.”
“It suits you,” he says, and the way he’s looking at you makes your pulse quicken. “I am sorry to pull you away from your duties.”
“Don’t be,” you say. “My duties mostly involved nodding and trying to look like I understood what a differential is. Your version is much more interesting.”
A bell rings, a harsh, metallic sound that shatters the moment. An engineer calls his name. “Charles! Three minutes!”
The reality of where you are crashes back in. This isn’t a quiet café. It’s the crucible of his profession. The focus in his eyes shifts, just for a second, to a place of intense, competitive fire.
“I have to go,” he says, his voice laced with regret.
“I know.”
Panic flickers in his eyes again. The same panic from before. He can’t let you leave. Not again. He looks around wildly, his eyes landing on a small, grease-stained notepad on an engineer’s workbench. He snatches it up, along with a pen.
He turns to you, his movements urgent now. “I cannot lose this chance again.”
He quickly scribbles a series of numbers on the page, tears it off, and presses it into your hand. The paper is warm from his grip.
“For any future aerodynamic emergencies,” he says, a ghost of a smile on his lips. His fingers brush against yours, and a jolt of pure electricity shoots up your arm.
“Charles! The car is ready!”
He has to go. He takes one last look at you, his eyes conveying everything he doesn’t have time to say. The hope, the frustration, the sheer, unadulterated thrill of seeing you again.
“I hope you use it,” he says, his voice low and intense.
Then he turns, zipping up his suit with practiced efficiency. He pulls on his balaclava, then his helmet, the brightly colored piece of equipment that transforms him from Charles into Charles Leclerc, the driver. The man disappears, and the icon emerges. But just before he slides the visor down, his eyes find yours one last time.
And then he’s gone, climbing into the cockpit, where he is strapped into his carbon fiber missile.
The Ferrari press officer releases Hugh, who hurries to your side as the car is lowered from its stands. “Are you ready to leave?” He asks, his voice still stiff with disapproval.
You don’t answer. You’re just watching as the engine roars to life, a deafening, soul-shaking scream of power. You watch as he is wheeled out of the garage, as he follows the pit lane speed limiter, and then as he explodes onto the track.
You look down at the piece of paper in your hand. A phone number, scrawled in a hasty, slightly messy script. It feels like the most valuable object in the world.
You curl your fingers around it, protecting it.
“Yes, Hugh,” you say, a slow, triumphant smile spreading across your face. “I think we’re done here.”
As you walk out of the Ferrari garage and back into the grey English daylight, the sound of his engine screaming around the historic circuit is the only thing you can hear.
In the cockpit, surrounded by a maelstrom of noise and vibration, Charles l navigates the first corner. His heart is hammering, but for the first time all weekend, his mind is completely clear. He’d done it. He’d taken the shot.
He presses the throttle, and as he flies down the Wellington Straight, a smile that no one in the world can see spreads across his face beneath his helmet. The lap that follows is, by all accounts, breathtakingly, impossibly fast.
***
The piece of paper lives in the front pocket of your jeans for two days. Then, fearing it will be destroyed in the wash, you move it to the small, mother-of-pearl box on your dressing table where you keep odds and ends of sentimental value. A single earring you lost the match to, a ticket stub from a concert you went to with your brother, a dried wildflower from the gardens at Althorp. The note, with its hastily scrawled number, feels both profoundly out of place and perfectly at home there.
Three days pass. A lifetime. An eternity.
The silence is a choice. A very deliberate, very difficult one. Every time you pick up your phone, your thumb hovers over the keypad. What do you even say? ‘Hi, it’s Y/N. The girl who committed several diplomatic incidents and drove a go-kart very badly. Fancy a chat?’ It all seems so … pedestrian. So normal. And your life is anything but.
“You’ve been quiet since Silverstone,” Hugh observes on the third day. You are in the back of a car, gliding through the rain-slicked streets of London on your way to a hospital patronage visit. He doesn’t look up from his briefing notes.
“Just tired,” you lie. “It was a busy weekend.”
“Indeed,” he says, a dry edge to his voice. “The press office has been fielding calls from outlets in seventeen countries. It seems your foray into Italian engineering was the talk of the paddock. Toto Wolff apparently found it hilarious. He sent a case of wine.”
“That was nice of him,” you murmur, watching the city lights blur through the window.
“It was a power move,” Hugh corrects. “He knows that a happy, distracted Ferrari driver is good for his championship hopes.” He finally puts his papers down and looks at you, his expression uncharacteristically gentle. “Are you going to call him?”
The directness of the question surprises you. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Please,” he scoffs, but there’s no malice in it. “I may be your secretary, not your keeper, but I’m not blind. I saw the way you looked at each other. And I saw him give you that note. I’ve already run a threat assessment on the potential media fallout should you choose to … pursue a line of communication.”
You stare at him, half-appalled, half-impressed. “A threat assessment?”
“Of course. It’s my job. Level of intrusion: severe. Nickname potential: high, and likely terrible. ‘Lady and the Champ,’ ‘Racy Royals,’ something dreadful like that. Public interest: stratospheric. Overall headache for me: apocalyptic.” He pauses, adjusting his tie. “But … I also saw that you haven’t looked that genuinely happy since, well, since you were driving that ridiculous go-kart.”
The admission, coming from him, is a quiet earthquake. He is the voice of protocol, the guardian of your public image. And he is, in his own way, giving you permission.
“It’s complicated, Hugh.”
“My dear lady,” he says, his voice soft. “Your entire life is complicated. That has never stopped you before.”
***
For Charles, the three days of silence are a special kind of torture. He is a man who deals in milliseconds. He makes decisions at 200 miles per hour. This slow, agonizing waiting is a foreign language he cannot speak.
He is back in Monaco, the post-race adrenaline faded, leaving only a hollow echo. He won the race at Silverstone. He should be ecstatic. He stood on the top step of the podium, champagne spraying, the cheers of the crowd washing over him. But the victory felt incomplete. The most thrilling moment of his weekend hadn’t happened on the track, it had happened in his garage.
“You are going to wear a hole in the floor,” Andrea says, watching him pace the length of his apartment’s living room. The space is minimalist and modern, with a vast window overlooking the harbor. It’s a beautiful, sterile cage.
“She’s not going to text,” Charles says, for what feels like the hundredth time. He runs a hand through his already messy hair. “It was stupid. I was stupid. I put her in a terrible position.”
“You gave a beautiful woman your phone number,” Andrea reasons, scrolling idly through his own phone. “This is not a crime against the state. It is how things work. For normal people.”
“But she is not a normal person! And I am not a normal person!” Charles throws himself onto the sofa, the soft leather groaning in protest. “I sent a terrified boy to kidnap her from Mercedes. Her secretary looked at me like he wanted to have me deported. Her whole life is … rules. And I made her break all of them.”
“Maybe she likes breaking the rules,” Andrea suggests without looking up.
“Or maybe she went home and was told by the King of England himself that she is forbidden from communicating with the boy from Monaco who drives the fast car.”
Andrea finally puts his phone down and gives Charles his full attention. “You are spiraling. You need to calm down. Go to the gym. Go in the simulator. Focus on Hungary. If she texts, she texts. If she does not … then it is a good story, eh? The time you almost dated a princess.”
“She’s not a princess,” Charles mutters, staring at his phone where it sits, silent and mocking, on the glass coffee table.
He tries to take Andrea’s advice. He goes for a run along the sea wall, pushing himself until his lungs burn, but his thoughts still race. He sits in his personal simulator, the hundreds-of-thousands-euro tech in his spare room, but he keeps missing braking points, his focus shot.
He is in the middle of a particularly uninspired virtual lap of the Hungaroring when his actual phone, connected to the rig’s bluetooth, buzzes. A notification flashes on the screen. He ignores it. It’s probably just an email from the team.
It buzzes again. A message. He still ignores it, forcing himself to focus on the next corner.
Then he crashes. A stupid, clumsy mistake, sending his virtual Ferrari spinning into a virtual wall.
“Merde!” He curses, pulling off the headset in frustration. He picks up his phone to reset the session, and that’s when he sees it.
An unknown number.
And a message.
Hello, Charles. It’s Y/N. I seem to have an aerodynamic emergency. I was told you were the man to call.
Charles stops breathing. He reads the message once. Twice. A third time. A slow, incredulous smile spreads across his face, lighting up his entire being. It’s a smile of pure, unadulterated relief. He lets out a laugh, a loud, joyful sound that echoes in the quiet room.
He fumbles with the phone, his fingers suddenly clumsy. He needs to reply. Now. What does he say? He can’t seem to think.
Andrea, drawn by the noise, appears in the doorway. “Did you break it? Those things cost more than my house.” He sees the look on Charles’s face. “What is it?”
Charles just holds up the phone, his grin so wide it must look ridiculous. Andrea squints to read the screen.
“Ah,” he says, a matching smile appearing on his own face. “The princess.”
“She’s not a princess,” Charles says, but this time, the words are filled with airy, giddy happiness.
“Well,” Andrea claps him on the shoulder. “Go. Fix her emergency. I will cancel the rest of your session.”
***
Your text exchange is a dance of wit and tentative planning.
Charles: An emergency? This sounds serious. I am on standby. What seems to be the problem?
You: It’s a matter of Anglo-Italian cooperation. I have a bottle of Chianti, but it appears to have no one to share it with. A critical design flaw.
Charles: A catastrophic failure. I have seen this before. It requires immediate, in-person diagnostics.
You: I thought it might. The question is, where does such a highly sensitive operation take place?
This is the real question. The logistics are a nightmare. His schedule is a dizzying tour of the globe. Your schedule is a carefully curated public diary. A date in London would be a media circus. A date in Paris, the same.
Charles: I have an idea. But it might be a little crazy.
You: I have a penchant for crazy. My secretary can attest to that.
Charles: I am home, in Monaco, for four days before I leave for Budapest. There are places here. Quiet places. Where no one would look.
You: Monaco, huh? A bit of a commute for a bottle of wine.
Charles: I will make it worth the travel. I promise.
And that’s how you find yourself, two days later, standing on the balcony of a hotel suite in Monte Carlo, the afternoon sun warming your face. The trip was arranged with the quiet, terrifying efficiency of your office. A private jet. A discreet arrival. Hugh handled it all with a resigned sigh, booking himself a separate, adjoining suite “for security and logistical oversight,” which you know is code for “to manage the inevitable fallout.”
You’re nervous. More nervous than you’ve been before any state dinner or public address. You’ve changed your outfit three times, finally settling on a simple, navy blue slip dress and flat leather sandals. Elegant, but not trying too hard. You hope.
Your phone buzzes.
Charles: I am downstairs. Are you ready for your technical briefing?
Your heart does a little leap.
You: Ready.
You meet him in a quiet, private lobby at the back of the hotel. He’s not in a red Ferrari. He’s leaning against a vintage, dark green Alfa Romeo Spider, a car so beautiful it almost hurts to look at. He’s wearing a simple white linen shirt, dark trousers, and a smile that makes your knees feel weak.
“Wow,” you say, your voice a little breathless as you take in the car. “That’s … aerodynamic.”
He laughs, pushing away from the car and walking towards you. “She is a classic. Less downforce than my usual car, but much more romantic, no?” He stops in front of you, and the playful energy from your texts dissolves into something softer, more real. “Hello, Y/N.”
“Hello, Charles,” you say softly.
The air crackles with a nervous energy. He opens the passenger door for you, and you slide into the low leather seat. It smells of old leather and sunshine. He gets in beside you, the small cockpit of the car making you feel very close.
He starts the engine, a throaty, satisfying burble that’s a world away from the shriek of a Formula 1 car, and pulls out into the manicured streets of Monaco.
“Where are you taking me?” You ask, lifting your face to the breeze as he lowers the convertible top.
“It’s a secret,” he says, glancing at you, his eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. “But the first rule of a secret date is that you do not stay in the city.”
He navigates the winding streets with an easy, innate precision, before starting the climb up the Grande Corniche, the famous, dramatic road carved into the cliffs above the sea. The view is breathtaking. The turquoise water glitters below, dotted with superyachts that look like toys from this height. The higher you climb, the more the opulent glitz of Monaco gives way to the rugged, wild beauty of the mountains, fragrant with pine and wild herbs.
You find yourselves talking easily, the nervousness melting away with every hairpin turn. You talk about the race, about the ridiculousness of your meeting.
“I have to know,” you say, turning in your seat to face him. “What did you actually tell Gio to say to me?”
He groans, a slight blush creeping up his neck. “Please, do not make me repeat it. It was the most embarrassing moment of my life. I think I told him it was a matter of national security.”
“He said it was about Anglo-Italian cooperation,” you laugh. “He was very convincing. And very brave. You should give him a raise.”
“I gave him the day off and a signed steering wheel,” Charles says. “He is a hero of the Republic.”
He pulls the car off the main road and onto a narrow, unmarked track that winds up through a grove of olive trees. You come to a stop in a small, secluded clearing at the very top of a hill. The view is panoramic, staggering. The entire coastline is laid out before you, the Alps a hazy purple silhouette in the distance. There is no one else here. The only sound is the chirping of cicadas and the gentle rustle of the wind.
He gets out of the car and opens the trunk. He pulls out a simple woven blanket and a wicker basket.
“You brought a picnic,” you say, a warm feeling spreading through your chest.
“I told you I would make it worth the travel,” he says, his expression sincere. “I thought a fancy restaurant is not us. Not for the first time. It is too much … noise.”
“This is perfect,” you say, and you mean it.
He spreads the blanket on a patch of soft grass overlooking the view. You sit down, the fabric of your dress pooling around you. He unpacks the basket. There’s no champagne or caviar. Instead, there’s a crusty baguette, a selection of local cheeses, ripe, fragrant tomatoes, fat olives, and a bottle of red wine. The Chianti you mentioned.
He opens the wine with a corkscrew and pours it into two simple glasses. He hands one to you, his fingers brushing yours. The spark is still there, a quiet hum of electricity.
“To,” he says, raising his glass, “catastrophic failures.”
“And to the brave engineers who fix them,” you add, clinking your glass against his.
The wine is rich and warm. The food is simple and perfect. But mostly, you talk. You talk for what feels like hours. You tell him about the strangling weight of your legacy, the constant, unspoken pressure to be a reincarnation of an aunt you never met.
“Sometimes I feel like a ghost,” you admit, swirling the wine in your glass. “Like I’m just a reflection of someone else. People don’t see me. They see her. They see what they want to see.”
He listens, his focus entirely on you. He doesn’t interrupt. He just lets you speak.
“For me,” he says, when you’re done, “it is the opposite, in a way. People see only me. The driver. The brand. They see the helmet, the car, the flag. They do not see the person inside. The boy who grew up on these streets.” He gestures vaguely towards the city glittering below. “They do not see the failures, the fear. They only see the result on Sunday.”
You look at each other, a silent understanding passing between you. You are from different worlds, but your cages are gilded with the same gold.
“What do you do,” you ask, “when you’re not being Charles Leclerc, the racing driver?”
He smiles, a real, unguarded smile. “I play the piano. Not so badly. I play video games with my brothers. I take my boat out and just … float. I try to be quiet. My life is so loud. What about you? When you’re not … you know.”
“Being a national monument?” You say with a wry grin. “I read. I paint. Mostly terrible landscapes. I have two dogs who think I am their personal staff. And I have a terrible addiction to true crime podcasts. It horrifies Hugh.”
He laughs, a deep, happy sound. “So you are not always so … perfect.”
“God, no,” you say. “I’m a mess. I’m clumsy, I’m terrible at remembering names, and I once set off a fire alarm at Windsor Castle trying to make toast.”
“Okay,” he says, his eyes dancing. “Now I am really in love with you.”
The words hang in the air, light and teasing, but with an undercurrent of something real. The cicadas seem to buzz louder. You feel a blush rise to your cheeks.
He realizes what he’s said, and for the first time all evening, he looks flustered. “I mean … that is a joke. Of course. It is just … you are not what I expected.”
“And what did you expect?” You ask softly, leaning a little closer.
“I do not know. Someone more … formal. More fragile. I did not expect someone who would make fun of my terrible excuse to get her number. I did not expect someone who would set off a fire alarm with toast.” He shakes his head, a look of wonder on his face. “You are real.”
The sun begins to dip towards the horizon, painting the sky in strokes of fiery orange and soft pink. The light catches in his eyes, turning them the color of warm honey. The easy conversation dwindles into a comfortable, charged silence.
He reaches out, his hand covering yours where it rests on the blanket. His touch is warm and gentle.
“I was so afraid you would not text me,” he confesses, his voice barely a whisper. “These last few days … they were very long.”
“They were for me, too,” you admit. “I just … I had to make sure I was brave enough.”
“Brave enough for a picnic?” He asks, a small smile on his lips.
“Brave enough for this,” you say, your gaze flicking down to his lips, and then back to his eyes. “For something real.”
He leans in, slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. You don’t. You lean in to meet him.
His lips are softer than you imagined. The kiss is gentle, tentative at first, a question. Then, as you respond, it deepens, becoming something sure and certain. It’s a kiss that tastes of red wine and sunshine and the relief of a long-held breath finally being released. It is quiet, and private, and it happens on a lonely hilltop, far away from the noise and the cameras and the weight of your names.
When you finally break apart, the first stars are beginning to prick the velvety twilight sky. He rests his forehead against yours, his thumb gently stroking the back of your hand.
“So,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “The aerodynamic emergency. Is it … is it fixed?”
You smile, a slow, happy, secret smile. “I think,” you whisper back, “that the diagnostics are going very well. But it might require further testing.”
He laughs softly, a puff of warm air against your skin. “I am available for testing. Any time.”
The drive back down the mountain is quiet, but it’s a different kind of quiet. An easy, intimate silence filled with unspoken promises. He holds your hand the entire way.
He walks you to the door of your hotel suite. The hallway is empty and silent.
“I had …” you start to say.
“It was …” he begins at the same time.
You both laugh.
“Thank you,” you say. “For the most perfect, un-aerodynamic date I’ve ever had.”
“Thank you,” he says, his eyes full of a warmth that makes your heart ache. “For texting me. For being brave.”
He doesn’t kiss you again. Instead, he just lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to your knuckles. A gesture so old-fashioned and courtly it makes you melt.
“I will text you,” he says.
“I know,” you reply.
And then he’s gone. You slip into your suite, closing the door softly behind you. Hugh is nowhere to be seen. You walk out onto the balcony, the lights of Monaco a diamond necklace scattered on black velvet below.
You touch your fingers to your lips. They still feel warm. You look out at the beautiful, impossible city, and for the first time, you don’t feel like you’re in a cage. You feel like you’re at the beginning of the most wonderful, terrifying, real adventure of your life. And you can’t wait to see what happens next.
***
The months that follow are a blur of whispered phone calls across time zones and stolen weekends that feel like entire lifetimes. Your world, once a predictable orbit of charitable duties and formal engagements, is knocked into a new, exhilarating trajectory. His world, a relentless cycle of tarmac and telemetry, finds a new focal point, a new center of gravity.
You learn the language of his life. You learn the difference between intermediates and full wets. You learn the names of the corners at Spa-Francorchamps by heart. You learn to read the tension in his shoulders before a qualifying lap and the relief in his eyes after a podium finish.
He learns the language of yours. He learns the intricate politics of your family tree. He learns the names of the charities you champion. He learns to navigate the silent, suffocating protocols of your public appearances and understands, with an empathy that still astounds you, the crushing weight of the ghost you live with.
The press, of course, goes into a frenzy. Hugh’s apocalyptic predictions come true. They christen you with a dozen terrible nicknames. ‘The Lady and the Champ.’ ‘Charlie’s Angel.’ You and Charles turn it into a game, reading the most ridiculous headlines aloud to each other over FaceTime, your laughter a shield against the absurdity of it all. The world wants a fairytale, a story to consume, but you are quietly, stubbornly building something real, brick by brick, in the small, private spaces you carve out for yourselves.
One such space is his apartment in Monaco. It’s a Tuesday morning in mid autumn. The sky over the harbor is a soft, pearlescent grey. You’re padding around his kitchen, barefoot, wearing one of his old racing t-shirts that hangs to your mid-thigh. The scent of coffee fills the air. From the living room comes the sound of the piano, a soft, melancholic melody he’s picking out by ear.
You walk in, two mugs in hand, and lean against the doorway, just watching him. He’s completely absorbed, his brow furrowed in concentration. He is not Charles Leclerc, the Formula 1 superstar. He is just Charles, a man in sweatpants, trying to find the right chord. This, you think, is what it feels like to be home.
He senses you and stops playing, turning on the piano bench with a smile that melts you. “Good morning.”
“Morning,” you say, walking over and handing him a mug. “I was letting you have your artistic moment.”
“It is not a moment,” he says, taking a sip of coffee. “It is a struggle. This chord … it is not right.”
“It sounded beautiful to me.” You settle onto the bench beside him, your leg pressing against his.
He puts his arm around you, pulling you close. You rest your head on his shoulder, breathing in his familiar scent. “I have to go to the factory tomorrow. For the simulator. Then it is Austin, then Mexico, then Brazil.” He lists the cities like stations on a map of impending loneliness.
“I know,” you whisper.
“I do not like it,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. “These small pieces of time we have. It is not enough.” He turns to face you, his green eyes serious. “When I am not with you, it feels like I am holding my breath. I am tired of holding my breath, Y/N.”
“Me too,” you admit. Your own schedule is mapped out for months in advance, a litany of plaque unveilings and gala dinners.
“So,” he says, taking your hand and lacing his fingers through yours. “What are we doing? This … us. It is not just for fun, is it? For me, it is not.”
“No,” you say, your heart swelling. “It’s not just for fun.”
“Good,” he says, a wave of relief washing over his face. “Because I am falling in love with you. And I want to do it properly. I want to meet your family. Your father. Everyone. I want them to see that … that this is real.”
The words hang in the air, simple, honest, and terrifying. Meeting your family isn’t a casual affair. It’s an event. Especially the first man he mentioned.
***
Althorp in the autumn is a masterpiece of melancholic beauty. The ancient trees that line the drive are ablaze in shades of copper and gold. The air is crisp and smells of woodsmoke and damp earth. As the car crunches up the gravel drive towards the grand, honey-stoned house, you feel a familiar tightening in your chest. This is not just a house, it’s a repository of memories, of history, of ghosts.
Charles is silent in the seat beside you, his hands clasped in his lap. He’s wearing a beautifully tailored tweed jacket you helped him pick out. He looks impossibly handsome, and impossibly nervous.
“You’re very quiet,” you say, reaching over and placing your hand on his.
“I am about to meet your father. The Earl Spencer. In your ancestral home,” he says, his voice a low thrum of anxiety. “In my world, this is more frightening than taking Eau Rouge flat out in the rain.”
You squeeze his hand. “He’s just my dad. He’ll love you.”
“He is the brother of Princess Diana,” Charles continues, as if you were unaware. “He has seen what happens when the world gets too close. He will look at me and see a complication.”
“He will look at you,” you say firmly, “and see the man who makes his daughter happy. Just breathe.”
Your father greets you at the door. He is tall and distinguished, with your family’s eyes and an air of quiet authority. The two Charleses shake hands, a moment so laden with unspoken significance that you feel the need to fill the silence.
“Dad, this is Charles Leclerc. Charles, this is my father, Charles.”
Your father raises an eyebrow. “Well. This shouldn’t be confusing at all. A pleasure to meet you, Charles. Welcome to Althorp.”
The initial conversation over lunch is polite, formal. Your father asks Charles about the racing season, about the mechanics of the car, his questions precise and intelligent. Charles answers with a quiet confidence, his passion for his sport evident. But you know this is just the prelude. This is the warm-up lap.
After lunch, your father stands. “Charles, would you care for a walk? The grounds are particularly lovely this time of year.”
It’s not a question. It’s a summons.
You watch them from the library window as they walk across the vast lawn, two dark figures against the autumn landscape, their heads inclined towards each other. You pour yourself a cup of tea with a hand that is not entirely steady.
They walk towards the Oval Lake, its surface a serene, reflective mirror. It is here, on the small island in the center, that your aunt is buried. The heart of this house. The heart of your family.
“She loved this place,” your father says, his voice softer now. “She felt safe here. Away from the noise.” He turns to look at Charles, his gaze direct and piercing. “Y/N has lived her entire life in the shadow of that noise. She handles it with a grace that is, frankly, astonishing. But it is a burden. I have seen what that kind of scrutiny can do to a person. It can break them.”
“I know, sir,” Charles says, his voice steady.
“Do you?” Your father asks, a hint of challenge in his tone. “You have fame, yes. But you can take off your helmet. She can never take off her face. Her name. Do you understand the world you are stepping into? The history you are becoming a part of?”
“I understand that I am in love with your daughter,” Charles replies, his honesty cutting through the formality. “I do not know all of the rules of your world. I do not understand the history the way you do. But I know what it is like to live under pressure. To have every success and every failure broadcast to the world. And I know that when I am with her, none of that matters. We have … a quiet place. Together. My only intention, sir, is to protect that. To protect her.”
Your father is silent for a long moment, studying the young man before him. He sees no arrogance, only a deep, unwavering sincerity. He sees the way Charles had looked at you during lunch, as if you were the only person in the room.
“She has her aunt’s strength,” your father says finally, his gaze drifting back towards the island. “But she also has her heart. It’s a fragile thing, a heart like that. It requires a great deal of care.”
“It is the most important thing in the world to me,” Charles says simply.
When they return to the house an hour later, the atmosphere has changed. The tension has dissipated, replaced by a comfortable warmth. Your father is laughing at a story Charles is telling about Leo and an unsuspecting squirrel. Later, he pours them both a whiskey, and they stand by the fire, talking as equals.
As you’re leaving, your father pulls you into a hug. “He’s a good man,” he whispers in your ear. “He sees you. Don’t let him go.”
***
The next test is of a different sort. It is less a test and more of a summit. A double date with the Prince and Princess of Wales. William and Kate. Your cousin, who has always felt more like a protective older brother, and his wife, who has navigated the treacherous waters of royal life with a preternatural calm.
The dinner is at Anmer Hall, their country home in Norfolk. A sprawling, comfortable Georgian house that feels more like a home than a palace. There are children’s toys tucked into a corner of the living room and muddy wellingtons lined up by the back door. It’s a world away from the gilded formality of London.
William greets Charles with a firm handshake and a surprisingly warm smile. “Charles. It’s good to finally meet you. I must confess, I’ve been watching your races. The move you pulled in Singapore was …” He launches into an enthusiastic, surprisingly technical breakdown of a recent overtake.
Kate envelops you in a hug. “You look happy,” she says, her voice low and kind. It’s a statement, not a question.
The four of you sit around a large wooden table in the kitchen, sharing a bottle of wine while William and Kate finish preparing dinner. The conversation is easy, normal. You talk about the children, about a school play George was in. Charles talks about the challenges of the new car regulations. It feels, for a blissful hour, like any other dinner party.
But beneath the surface, there is a deeper current. William watches you and Charles, the easy way you touch, the private smiles you exchange. You see a flicker of something in his eyes — a memory, a sadness, but mostly, a fierce, protective hope.
Later, while the men are clearing the plates, Kate tops up your wine glass. “He seems wonderful, Y/N.”
“He is,” you say, your voice soft.
“It’s not an easy life,” she says, her gaze knowing. “The scrutiny is … relentless. Especially for you. You carry so much of her with you.” She doesn’t need to say Diana’s name. “You need a partner who is a rock. Someone who is your teammate.”
“He is,” you affirm. “He makes me feel … normal.”
“Normal is the hardest thing to find,” Kate agrees with a small, wise smile. “Hold onto it.”
After dinner, the four of you are sitting in the living room when William turns to Charles. “My grandmother used to say, ‘Grief is the price we pay for love.’ My mother … she was loved by the world. And the world has been grieving her ever since. Y/N bears the brunt of that. They look at her and they want to see a second chance. It’s an impossible thing to ask of anyone.” He looks from Charles to you, his expression deeply serious. “Just make her happy. The rest is just noise.”
Charles meets his gaze. “That is the only thing I plan to do.”
Driving away from Anmer Hall that night, under a vast, star-dusted Norfolk sky, you lay your head on Charles’s shoulder. You have navigated the treacherous waters of your family, and you have come out the other side, not just intact, but stronger. Welcomed. Understood.
***
Monaco becomes your sanctuary. With every visit, you weave yourself more deeply into the fabric of his life, and into the life of the city itself. You discover that, paradoxically, the most glamorous place on earth is the one place you can feel anonymous. Here, fame is the norm. The woman at the next table in the café is a supermodel, the man walking his dog is a retired tennis champion. Your presence is a novelty for a week, and then you are just … Charles’s girlfriend. Part of the scenery.
You spend less time in the glittering casinos and more time in the old town, exploring the narrow, winding streets. You find a favorite bakery, a small fromagerie. You go with Charles to the Marché de la Condamine on Saturday mornings, where he greets vendors who have known him since before he could walk. They smile at you kindly, and after a few visits, they start saving you the best tomatoes.
You spend evenings at his family home with his mother and brothers. They welcome you with a chaotic, loving warmth that is intoxicating. You help his mother in the kitchen. You play fiercely competitive video games with Arthur and Lorenzo. You are not Lady Y/N Spencer here. You are just Y/N.
“I can breathe here,” you tell Charles one evening. You are walking along the sea wall, the lights of the harbor twinkling. A superyacht is throwing a lavish party, the sound of music and laughter drifting across the water, but it feels a world away.
“I know,” he says, slipping his arm around your waist. “That is why I never want to leave.”
“I’ve been thinking,” you say, the words coming out before you can stop them. “About spending more time here. Maybe … finding a place.”
He stops walking and turns to you, his expression unreadable in the twilight. “A place?”
“Not to—I mean, London will always be home. My work is there. My family. But … a base. Here. With you.”
A slow, brilliant smile spreads across his face. “I have a better idea,” he says. “My place is big enough for two. For your terrible paintings and your true crime podcasts. There is a room with a perfect view of the sea that would make a wonderful studio.” He brushes a stray strand of hair from your face. “Move in with me, Y/N.”
And so you do. It’s a quiet migration. A few boxes at a time. Your favorite books appear on his shelves. Your trench coat hangs next to his race suits in the closet. The apartment, once a sleek, minimalist bachelor pad, slowly transforms into a home, filled with warmth and laughter and the sound of two lives intertwining.
***
It’s been over a year since your first date. A year of love and travel and family and learning to build a life in the glare of the public eye.
Charles tells you he has a surprise. He drives you, not in the classic Alfa, but in his everyday Ferrari, up the same winding Grande Corniche. He parks in the same secluded clearing. The view is just as breathtaking as it was that first day.
He’s packed a picnic. The same simple fare: baguette, cheese, tomatoes, olives. And the same Chianti.
“A celebration,” he says, pouring the wine.
“Of what?” You ask, settling onto the blanket.
“Of a year,” he says, his voice soft. “A year since my very clever, very ridiculous aerodynamic excuse actually worked.”
You laugh, the sound carried away on the breeze. “It was a terrible excuse.”
“But it brought you to me,” he says. He takes your hand. “I think about that day. I was so nervous. I had this idea of you in my head. Lady Y/N Spencer. An English rose. Something perfect and untouchable.”
“And instead you got a clumsy, toast-burning, true-crime addict,” you say with a smile.
“I got you,” he corrects, his voice thick with emotion. “I got everything I did not know I was missing. My life before you was black and white. It was about the next corner, the next race. You brought the color, Y/N.”
He reaches into the picnic basket, but instead of more food, he pulls out a small, dark blue velvet box.
Your breath catches in your throat. Your heart begins to hammer against your ribs.
He opens the box. Inside is a ring. It’s not a massive, ostentatious diamond. It’s a stunning, vintage-style cushion-cut sapphire, the color of a deep twilight sea, flanked by two simple, elegant diamonds on a platinum band. It’s impossibly, perfectly you.
“I know your life is in London,” he begins, his voice trembling slightly. “And I know my life is here, and on the road. And I would never ask you to give up who you are, or the important work you do. I just want to be the place you come home to. I want to be your sanctuary. Your quiet place.”
He gets down on one knee on the blanket, never taking his eyes off yours.
“My life truly started the moment I saw you laughing in that ridiculous go-kart. You were breaking all the rules, and you were shining. I want to spend the rest of my life watching you shine. Y/N Spencer, will you marry me?”
Tears are streaming down your face, but you are smiling, a wide, trembling, joyous smile. The world seems to fall away. There is only him, here, on this hilltop that has become your special place, offering you forever.
“Yes,” you whisper, the word a sob of pure happiness. “Yes. Of course, yes.”
He slides the ring onto your finger. It’s a perfect fit. He stands, pulling you up into his arms, and kisses you, a deep, passionate, promising kiss that seals the moment, that seals your future.
You cling to him, laughing and crying at the same time. You are Lady Y/N Spencer, the niece of a princess, the cousin of a king. He is Charles Leclerc, the golden boy of Monaco, the hope of the Tifosi. But here, on this mountain, under the vast, open sky, you are just a man and a woman who went to extraordinary lengths to find a perfectly ordinary, breathtaking love.
You look down at the glittering lights of Monaco, the city that has become your home. It’s not an ending. It’s the beginning of everything.
***
There is a theory that a person lives several different lives within one lifetime. You find this to be true. There is the life you were born into, and the life you have chosen. It seems only fitting that they each get their own wedding.
The first wedding is for the world.
It takes place under the soaring, fan-vaulted ceilings of St. George’s Chapel at Windsor. The air is heavy with the scent of a thousand white roses and five centuries of history. Every step you take down the aisle on your father’s arm is a negotiation with ghosts. The weight of your dress — a breathtakingly simple, elegant creation of silk crepe with long sleeves and a dramatic, lace-edged veil — feels like the weight of expectation. The roar of the crowd outside the ancient walls is a constant, muffled thunder.
But then you see him.
Charles is standing at the altar, flanked by his brothers. He’s in a perfectly tailored morning suit, looking more regal than any of the titled guests in the pews. He also looks like he’s about to either throw up or sprint from the chapel. His eyes find yours, and a jolt of pure, undiluted love passes between you, an invisible current that silences the noise and banishes the ghosts. The entire, cavernous chapel shrinks until it is only the two of you.
Your father kisses your cheek, his eyes suspiciously bright, and places your hand in Charles’s. His hand is trembling slightly, but his grip is firm. “Je t'aime,” he mouths, a silent promise.
From your vantage point at the altar, you have a perfect view of the beautiful, chaotic collision of your two worlds. On one side of the aisle sits the British aristocracy and a smattering of European royalty: a sea of pastel silks, intricate fascinators, and military uniforms. On the other side sits the principality of Monaco and the royal court of Formula 1.
The drivers, in their unaccustomed morning suits, look like a flock of gloriously handsome, exotic birds that have accidentally wandered into a formal garden. Lando Norris is staring at a particularly elaborate hat on a Duchess in front of him with a look of pure, anthropological fascination. Pierre Gasly looks elegant but deeply confused by the order of service. You watch Daniel Ricciardo, seated near the back, subtly trying to get a stoic-faced guard to crack a smile. He is, you note, spectacularly unsuccessful.
You catch Charles’s eye and give a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of your head. He squeezes your hand, a small smile playing on his lips. ‘I know,’ his eyes seem to say. ‘They are a disaster. But they are my disaster.’
The vows are the ancient, traditional words that have bound kings and queens, but as you speak them to each other, they feel new. They are your own secret language. When the Archbishop declares you husband and wife, the kiss you share is both tender and deeply relieved. The thunderous roar of the crowd outside becomes a sound of celebration.
The reception is at Althorp. Long tables are set on the lawn under a canopy of fairy lights. The speeches are a perfect blend of emotion and humor. Your father’s voice cracks as he speaks of the little girl who used to climb the trees on this very lawn. William toasts you both, speaking of the duty you both share to live a life of service, but also the right you have to a life of private joy.
Then Charles stands to speak. He clutches a piece of paper, but he barely looks at it. He thanks your family for welcoming him. He thanks his family for their love. He thanks his friends for flying across the world and for (mostly) behaving themselves.
Then he looks at you, and the rest of the world fades away.
“When I was a boy,” he says, his voice thick with emotion, “my life was only about speed. About being faster. About winning. I did not know how to be still.” He takes a deep breath. “And then I met Y/N. And for the first time, I understood. Love … it is not about the speed of the chase. It is about the stillness you find when you finally arrive home.” He raises his glass. “To my wife. My home.”
The night ends with the two of you, standing on the terrace, looking back at the party. The orchestra is playing, couples are dancing, and laughter rings out in the cool English air. It is perfect. It is beautiful. It is exactly what everyone expected.
“One down,” Charles whispers, wrapping his arms around you from behind and resting his chin on your shoulder.
You lean back against him, looking up at the familiar constellations in the English sky. “One to go,” you reply.
***
The second wedding is for the two of you.
There is no official announcement, no press release. The world only experiences it through a blizzard of social media posts, a chaotic, joyful mosaic of blurry photos and short video clips that appear and disappear like fireflies.
The scene is Monaco, but a version of it the tourists never see. The celebration is a three-day marathon of pure, unadulterated joy.
The first snippets appear on a Friday night. A picture posted by Arthur Leclerc: the two of you, standing on a stage at the Monte-Carlo Casino, which has been rented out for the night. You’re in a stunning, shimmering silver cocktail dress, Charles is in a white tuxedo jacket, looking like James Bond. You’re both laughing into a microphone, singing a karaoke duet of “Don’t Stop Me Now” spectacularly off-key. The caption reads simply The real Royal Wedding.
Saturday is the yacht party. The social media stories are a sun-drenched fever dream.
There’s a clip of Lando and Carlos attempting a synchronized dive off the top deck, a maneuver that ends with a painful-looking belly flop from Lando.
There’s a photo of your father, his tie loosened, locked in a surprisingly intense game of backgammon with Pascale, both of them looking fiercely competitive and thoroughly amused.
There’s a video of Kate in a simple sundress and sunglasses, engaged in a water-gun fight with Pierre. She is, by all accounts, winning.
The main event is Saturday night, at a sprawling private villa carved into the cliffs of Èze, overlooking the glittering sea. You wear a short, exquisitely beaded dress that feels made for dancing. Charles is in a simple linen shirt, his sleeves rolled up. There are no assigned seats, no formal speeches. There is a live band that plays everything from 70s funk to modern pop, there are food stations serving everything from pizza to paella, and there is an endless supply of champagne.
The night becomes a collection of stolen, perfect moments, captured and shared by your friends.
A clip, posted by your best friend from university, shows Charles pulling you into the center of the dance floor. He spins you around, dips you low, his laughter mixing with the music. It’s not the graceful, choreographed waltz from the English reception, it’s a joyful, slightly clumsy, utterly real dance.
Another story shows a group of the drivers, led by a triumphant Daniel, finally succeeding in getting Charles to do a shoey. He grimaces, chugs, and then raises the dress shoe in victory, to the roaring approval of his friends. You’re standing beside him, laughing so hard you have to hold onto his arm for support.
Sometime after midnight, the music softens. Charles slips behind the white grand piano on the terrace. His fingers find the keys, and he begins to play. It’s the simple, beautiful melody you heard him composing in his apartment all those months ago. A hush falls over the party. He looks right at you as he plays, and in his eyes, you see your entire story. The go-kart, the aerodynamic excuse, the hilltop picnic, the quiet mornings in his apartment.
Later, when the party is still raging, a distant, happy pulse of music and light, you slip away. Charles finds you, and you walk, hand in hand, down a stone path to the small, private cove at the bottom of the cliff. He has taken off his shoes, and you kick off your own heels, the cool sand a relief to your tired feet.
You stand at the water’s edge, the Mediterranean Sea gently lapping at the shore. The moon hangs low and heavy in the sky, a silver coin in the dark velvet. The chaos of the party is a faint, happy hum behind you. Here, there is only the sound of the waves and the beat of your own hearts.
He wraps his arms around you, and you rest your head against his chest. This is it. The stillness at the center of the beautiful storm you’ve created. This is the moment that matters. The first wedding was a vow to the world. This entire weekend has been a vow to each other, a promise to fill your life with this much laughter, this much freedom, this much joy.
“Are you happy, Mrs. Leclerc?” He whispers into your hair, his voice a low, contented rumble.
You tilt your head back to look at him. His face is illuminated by the moonlight, his eyes full of a love so deep and so real it takes your breath away.
You smile, a slow, certain, secret smile that is only for him.
max verstappen x stylist!reader
social media au.
summary: max verstappen is a fashion lost cause, which makes your job as his new stylist incredibly, frustratingly hard. however, as you convince him to change his wardrobe ways, a friendship (or maybe something more) blossoms.
contains: strangers to friends to lovers, curse words, some angst, cheesy ending as mine always are
author's note: second one whatttt i'll need to make a masterlist at this rate. also i think i ate with this one ngl
liked by georgerussell63 and 269,147 others
f1updates Red Bull Racing has hired stylist Y/N L/N to work with F1 driver Max Verstappen. The stylist will start working on the Red Bull team in the following weeks, and is known for styling famous sport professionals such as tennis-player Naomi Osaka and athlete Alica Schmidt.
username1 you guys did this on purpose he looks fucking awful in that picture
↳ username2 no this is just how he always dresses which is arguably much worse
georgerussell63 🙏🙏🙏
↳ username3 not george being a hater 😭😭😭
username4 nooo he'll be too powerful if he learns how to properly dress himself 😔😔😔
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liked by yourbestfriend and 123,654 others
f1updates Max Verstappen arriving for qualifying this weekend!
tagged: maxverstappen1, yourusername
username1 didn't they hire him a stylist?
↳ username2 yes she's tagged and everything...
↳↳ username1 oh...
username3 the cap makes it even worse idk how to explain this
↳ yourusername IT SO DOES I TOLD HIM
liked by redbullracing, georgerussell63 and 14,698 others
yourusername first weekend with @.redbullracing! very excited to work with you guys ❤️❤️❤️
redbullracing welcome to the team 🖤💙❤️
username1 okay but she pulled off the rb merch + jeans combo so why did he look so awful today
↳ username2 maybe they're still figuring out what his new style is gonna be?
yourbestfriend beautiful beautiful girl ❤️ ♡ liked by yourusername
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liked by yourusername, redbullracing and 378,258 others
f1updates Max Verstappen talking to media before the race today!
username1 i can't explain it but i totally see an improvement as small as it is
↳ username2 yeah i think his hair looks really nice? somehow the shirt seems to fit a bit better too
username3 i like the bracelet
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liked by yourusername, redbullracing and 822,674 others
maxverstappen1 😮💨 Tough race, but a solid result @.redbullracing 👊
username1 i'm not sure how she managed to keep him in his racing suit for most of the weekend but it kinda works somehow
↳ username2 different cap too
yourusername congrats!
↳ maxverstappen1 thanks
↳↳ username3 wait why doesn't he even follow her 😭😭😭
liked by georgerussell63, yourbestfriend and 10,369 others
yourusername some outfits from this week ❤️
username1 oh she's an it girl
yourbestfriend BODY TEA or whatever the youth says these days ♡ liked by yourusername
carmenmmundt looking lovely like always ❤️
↳ yourusername oh my god girl just like you!
username2 WHERE WERE YOU GOING IN THE SECOND PIC SO BEAUTIFUL
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liked by yourusername, redbullracing and 1,258,147 others
f1updates Max Verstappen for media day.
tagged: maxverstappen1, yourusername
username1 oh my god this is doing things to me
username2 HE LOOKS SO GOOD
username3 i can just tell he has an rb shirt under this but i can't prove it
username4 so that stylist is GOOD good
username5 no blue jeans???? max verstappen youve changed
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maxverstappen1 has followed you on Instagram.
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liked by maxverstappen1, alexandrasaintmleux and 21,753 others
yourusername convinced max verstappen to try matcha for the first time and to wear a non-rb shirt on the same day. insane work on my part
username1 he's still wearing the jeans tho 💔
↳ yourusername look, i have to pick my battles here
yourbestfriend THAT BREAKFAST LOOKS SO YUMMY
↳ yourusername IT WAS
maxverstappen i'm picking the cafe next time ♡ liked by yourusername and 1,005 others
↳ username2 next time? is this a thing now?
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liked by carmenmmundt, alexandrasaintmleux and 110,220 others
f1gossip F1 driver Max Verstappen and his stylist Y/N L/N are seen having breakfast together for the 11th time this month.
username1 guys is this professional?
username2 the only thing i'm noticing is that he's not wearing a red bull shirt in any of the shots. the world is healing.
username3 omg they're basically colleagues can't they be friends who hang out?
username4 errrm i don't know about this not gonna lie
liked by yourusername, georgerussell63 and 600,287 others
maxverstappen1 📷 Between sessions.
username1 i don't care if they're fucking she's literally performing miracles out here
username2 omfg he looks AMAZINGGGG HOW DID SHE DO IT
georgerussell63 the new stylist gets the gr63 approval
↳ maxverstappen1 i don't care
yourusername wonderful jacket i wonder just who picked it out for you! ♡ liked by maxverstappen1 and 41,005 others
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liked by redbullracing, f1updates and 972,941 others
maxverstappen1 Unbelievable weekend!!! Let’s keep this momentum up @.redbullracing 💪
And a special thanks to @.yourusername for adjusting my cap so many times throughout the weekend
username1 i thought they were fucking but she didn't even like this even tho he TAGGED HER i'm so confused
↳ username2 i feel like this is him trying to reach out i feel sort of bad for the guy
redbullracing Amazing work, Max!
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liked by username1 and 907,261 others
f1gossip BREAKING! After not being seen interacting outside of the Red Bull paddock for over two weeks, Max Verstappen and his stylist Y/N L/N were seen together at a restaurant. Sources say the two were arguing during dinner, were seen arguing again outside of the restaurant, and, minutes later, shared a passionate kiss just outside of Verstappen's car. The two were seen leaving together.
yourbestfriend y'all should really leave people alone sometimes
username1 I CALLED IT THEY WERE FUCKING THE WHOLE TIME
username2 oh this is so unprofessional in every way
username3 they were cute as friends but this issss badddd
username4 yikes
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liked by username1 and 712,345 others
f1gossip BREAKING: three days after stylist Y/N L/N and F1 driver Max Verstappen were seen kissing outside of his car, it has been confirmed that Red Bull Racing has FIRED the stylist for unprofessionalism.
username1 that's actually insane, poor girl
username2 i mean, it's not like they could fire MAX VERSTAPPEN, is it?
username3 justified after all the PR drama tbf
username4 i don't care if it makes sense to fire her, she seemed to make him so happy :(
liked by maxverstappen1, yourbestfriend and 149,762 others
yourusername it's a shame that it's over but we had a good run and i'm very thankful for the opportunity to work with such a great team ❤️ even got to do a red bull shirt skinny jeans combo of my own lol
yourbestfriend this is so fucking stupid i'm so fucking pissed
username1 no comment from max?
username2 i get people saying it's unfair but like... she became a pr liability. what else were they gonna do.
alexandrasaintmleux you have such a wonderful path ahead of you ❤️ wishing you the best always
liked by carmenmmundt, yourbestfriend and 789,456 others
f1gossip Two months after the PR scandal between stylist Y/N L/N and F1 driver Max Verstappen that resulted in the stylist being fired by the Red Bull team, the pair is seen together for the first time since they were caught dining together at a restaurant in Monaco. Sources say they seemed pretty cozy and touchy with each other.
Rumor has it she will attend the Brazilian GP.
username1 OH MY GOD YES PLEASE I WANT THEM BACK
username2 could it be...
username3 i'm not believing ANYTHING until they post something idc i've been upset about their fallout for 2 months
liked by yourusername, yourbestfriend and 1,594,321 others
maxverstappen1 An excellent race this weekend, but nothing compares to having my beautiful girl on the paddock again
I've loved to have you to myself for the past couple of months but now I want everyone to know I've been in love with you ever since you told me, back when you still called me "Mr. Verstappen" and I didn't know what your favorite breakfast teas were, that "the fucking cap's gotta go"
you are simply lovely
tagged: yourusername
yourusername you're so cheesy omg who would've fucking know
Summary: your life has revolved around your younger brother for so long that you’ve forgotten what it means to be someone other than Chief Operating Officer of the Ollie Bearman Experience … Oscar is set on reminding you what it means to live for yourself
Based on this request
The rattle of a flight case over the uneven tarmac of the Imola paddock is your soundtrack.
It’s Thursday. Setup day. The air smells like rubber, ozone, and the aggressively strong espresso being pumped out of the hospitality units.
You’re a blur of lanyards and logistics.
“No, Mum, I told you, the passes are at guest collection, not the main gate. Yes, the main gate.” You’re pinching the bridge of your nose, phone wedged between your shoulder and ear. “Because the main gate is for … look, just go to guest collection.”
You hang up and immediately tap out a message to Ollie’s manager. Parents arriving 14:00. Please intercept. I’m stuck with the helmet freight.
“Y/N?”
Ollie pokes his head out of the motorhome, his hair already a mess. “Have you got the spare balaclava? The thin one?”
“Top pocket of your boot bag. Where it always is,” you call out, not unkindly. “And your hydration tablets are next to your washbag.”
“Legend. What would I do without you?” He flashes that million-dollar grin, the one that’s starting to plaster billboards.
“We are, hopefully, never going to find out,” you murmur, signing the clipboard from the freight guy.
You lean against the cool metal of the travel case, just for a second. You close your eyes. Just one single, solitary second where you aren’t Ollie’s sister or Y/N, the problem-solver. You’re just … tired.
“He’s not wrong.”
Your eyes snap open.
Oscar Piastri is standing there, holding two water bottles, looking infuriatingly cool and un-flustered in his papaya team kit. He’s just … observing.
“What?” You say, standing up straight, the professional mask slamming back into place.
“What he’d do without you,” Oscar says. His voice is calm, with that slight, easygoing Aussie flatness. “I reckon he’d be walking around with one race boot and his helmet on backwards.”
You manage a small, tired laugh. “Hi, Oscar. And yeah, probably. You’re not wrong.”
He holds out one of the water bottles. It’s not the team-branded stuff. It’s just a simple, cold bottle of water.
“You look like you need this more than us drivers,” he says. It’s a statement, not a question.
You stare at the bottle. It’s such a small gesture, but it feels monumental. No one gets you the water. You’re the one who distributes the water.
“Oh. Thank you.” You take it, your fingers brushing his. “That’s … really nice of you.”
“No worries.” He takes a sip from his own. “It’s chaos today. Everyone’s a bit feral.”
“Tell me about it. My parents are currently lost somewhere in Emilia-Romagna, and Ollie seems to have forgotten how to locate his own socks.”
Oscar smiles. It’s a small, quick thing, but it reaches his eyes. “The glamour of it all, eh? I just saw my performance coach trying to argue with a coffee machine.”
“The coffee machine is probably winning,” you say, cracking the seal on the bottle. The cold water is heaven.
“Always does.” He lingers, not in an awkward way, but in a way that suggests he’s not in a hurry. “You’re … Y/N, right?”
“That’s me.”
“You do this full time? The … all of it?” He gestures vaguely at your lanyards, the clipboard you’re now holding, the phone that’s already buzzing again.
“This?” You sigh. “Yeah. Pretty much. Chief Operating Officer of the Ollie Bearman Experience. It’s a varied role.”
“Sounds it.”
The phone buzzes again. WHERE IS GUEST COLLECTION?
You hold it up with a look of profound suffering. “I have to. This is … yeah. But thank you. For the water.”
“Anytime,” Oscar says. He watches you go, watches you switch back into ‘command mode’ as you answer the call. “Yeah, Mum, I’m walking there now, stay where you are …”
***
Two weeks later, it’s Monaco.
If Imola was chaos, Monaco is a gilded, high-stakes panic attack crammed into two square kilometres. The paddock is a floating barge. The motorhomes are stacked like luxury Jenga. And you haven’t slept in what feels like three days.
The pressure is immense. Every sponsor, every journalist, every face you’ve ever seen is here.
You’re hiding.
You’ve found a small, three-foot gap between the back of the Haas motorhome and a temporary barrier. It’s the only place that doesn’t smell like perfume or exhaust fumes. It just smells like the sea. You’re leaning against the wall, eyes closed, trying to do the 4-7-8 breathing exercise your old uni textbook recommended.
“Found your hiding spot.”
You jump, your heart leaping into your throat. Oscar is standing at the end of the gap, hands in his pockets.
“God, you scared me,” you breathe out. “Are you … are you also hiding?”
“My trainer’s trying to make me eat a quinoa salad.” Oscar says, his tone deadpan. “I’m philosophically opposed to quinoa on a race weekend. Or any weekend, really.”
You can’t help it. You laugh. A real, genuine laugh that feels rusty. “It’s … it’s a texture thing. I get it. It’s like eating damp sand.”
“Exactly. See? You get it.” He gestures to the wall next to you. “Mind if I hide here too? Just for five minutes. Before the sand-man finds me.”
“Be my guest. The No Quinoa Zone is open to all.”
He slides down to sit on a low-slung cable protector, looking completely out of place in his pristine race suit, and yet, completely at ease. You remain standing, too wired to sit.
“So,” he says, looking up at you. “Chief Operating Officer. Monaco seems like it’s testing your bandwidth.”
“My bandwidth exploded about an hour ago when Ollie’s helmet visor went missing and my dad decided to try and ‘network’ with Toto Wolff.”
“Ouch. Did you find the visor?”
“In the fridge. Don’t ask.”
“And your dad?”
“Currently being politely held captive by Ollie’s manager, thank God.”
Oscar chuckles, a low, pleasant sound. “You’re like the ultimate plate-spinner. I’ve been watching you. You don’t stop.”
You bristle, just slightly. “It’s what has to be done. It’s … it’s just family.”
“Right.” He nods, not pushing. He just watches you. It’s not a leer, not a stare. It’s analytical. Like he’s processing data. “But what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Like, when you’re not spinning the plates. When it’s not Monaco, or Imola, and Ollie is … I don’t know, asleep. What do you do?”
The question hangs in the salty air. It’s so simple, and yet it feels like the most complex equation you’ve ever faced.
“I-I sleep. I guess. Do the laundry. Book the flights for the next race. Re-stock the protein bars.”
“So, more plate-spinning. Just different plates.”
“It’s a big job, Oscar.”
“I know it is. But … it’s not you. Is it?”
You look at him, confused. “It’s … it’s my life.”
“Is it the life you planned?”
You press your lips into a thin line. You’re starting to feel exposed, like he’s peeling back a label you’ve worked very hard to stick on. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I heard some of the Haas guys talking,” he says, casual, but his eyes are sharp. “They said you were at uni. Before.”
You flinch. “I was. A long time ago.”
“What for?”
“Psychology,” you say, the word tasting strange on your tongue. “At Bristol.”
“Psychology.” He nods slowly. “Right. That makes sense.”
“Why?”
“You’re hyper-observant. You’re always anticipating everyone’s emotional state. You’re basically the paddock therapist, but you’re also the caterer and the travel agent.”
“It’s just … managing people.”
“So, you dropped out?” He asks. It’s gentle. No judgment.
“Ollie got his F4 seat. The big one. Mum and Dad … they work, you know? They work all the time to pay for this. They couldn’t travel. He was so young. He couldn’t just go to Italy by himself. He needed … someone.”
“He needed you.”
“He needed someone,” you repeat, firmly. “So, I deferred. And then deferring just became dropping out. It’s fine. It’s not a big deal. Look where he is. It worked.”
“It worked for him,” Oscar corrects, just as gently. “Do you miss it?”
You turn your face away, looking out at the sliver of blue harbor visible between the buildings. “I don’t think about it.”
It’s the biggest lie you’ve told all year. You think about it every time you fill out a landing card and your occupation is blank. You think about it every time you mediate an argument between Ollie and an engineer, using techniques you learned in Conflict Resolution 101.
“Right,” Oscar says, and you can hear the skepticism in his voice. “Well. My five minutes are up. The quinoa is calling.”
He stands up, brushing a non-existent piece of dust from his suit.
“Oscar?”
He turns.
“Don’t … don’t mention that. To Ollie. Or anyone.”
“The psychology thing?”
“Yeah. It’s … it doesn’t matter. It’s in the past.”
“Sure,” he says. But his eyes say, is it? “See you around, Y/N. Try and … I don’t know. Breathe.”
He walks away, leaving you alone in the No Quinoa Zone, feeling more seen, and more raw, than you have in a very, very long time.
***
It becomes a thing. A quiet, unspoken routine across the next few race weekends.
Barcelona. Montreal. Spielberg.
You’ll be running, stressed, and he’ll just … appear. He’ll hand you a coffee. “This one’s an oat flat white. You look like you’re past the point of black coffee.”
Or you’ll be pacing in the back of the garage, and he’ll walk by on his way to the grid. “He’ll be fine, you know. He’s a good driver.” And you’ll nod, and your shoulders will drop an inch.
He never pushes. He never flirts. He just sees.
He asks you questions no one else does. Not “How’s Ollie?” but “How are you?” Not “Are you ready for the triple-header?” but “What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get home?”
You find yourself answering honestly.
“I’m going to sleep for fourteen hours.”
“Good plan.”
“I’m going to eat a curry that isn’t from a hotel room service menu.”
“Solid. Get a garlic naan. Actually, get two.”
It’s easy. It’s the easiest thing in your life.
And then, it’s Silverstone.
Home race. The pressure is suffocating. Your parents are here, Ollie’s friends are here, every junior UK journalist is here, and they all want a piece of The Next British Hope.
And you are holding it all together with duct tape and caffeine.
Ollie’s qualifying is … fine. P8. Not a disaster, but not what he wanted. He’s grumpy.
“I just … I can’t find the rhythm in the high-speed stuff, Y/N,” he’s complaining later, slouched in his driver’s room. “It’s just not … clicking.”
“You will,” you soothe, handing him his recovery shake. “You’re always good on race pace here. Just get a clean start, stay out of trouble. You’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” He rubs his face. “Are Mum and Dad sorted for dinner?”
“Yes. I booked our usual Italian place. 8 pm.”
“And the passes for the Thomas cousins tomorrow?”
“On my desk. I’ll give them to you in the morning.”
“And the …”
“Ollie,” you say, your voice finally cracking, just a little. “Everything is handled. Just focus on the data. I’ve got the rest.”
“Right. Sorry. Thanks. You’re the best.”
You walk out of the motorhome to get some air. The evening is cool. You’re just starting to un-clench your jaw when Oscar finds you. It’s like he has a You’re About To Break radar.
“That,” he says, leaning against the McLaren hospitality unit, “was a masterclass in calm-parent-voice.”
You drop your head against the wall. “I’m so tired, Oscar.”
“I know.”
“He doesn’t even see it. He just … he asks, and he knows it’ll be done. And I-I just … I do it. It’s like I’m an app on his phone.”
“A very reliable app,” Oscar says. He’s not smiling. He’s just watching you with that quiet intensity.
“I love him. I’d do anything for him. You know that.”
“I do. That’s the problem.”
You look at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means he’s twenty years old, Y/N. He’s driving a 300-kilometer-an-hour rocket ship. He’s perfectly capable of booking a table at a pub for his own parents.”
“He’s … he’s busy. He’s got pressure-”
“We’re all busy. We’ve all got pressure. Lando still manages to order his own Nando’s. I reckon Ollie can figure out OpenTable.”
“It’s just easier if I do it.”
“Easier for him.” Oscar takes a small step closer. He’s not crowding you, but the space between you is suddenly charged. “When’s the last time you did something that was easier for you?”
You have no answer.
“When was the last time you read one of those psychology books you’re pretending not to miss?”
“I-I don’t have time.”
“Bullshit.” It’s the first time you’ve ever heard him say it. The word is sharp, precise. “You make time. You make time for everyone else. You’ve got 24 hours in your day, same as everyone. You just give all of yours away.”
Tears, hot and stinging, spring to your eyes. It’s the truth. It’s the sharp, awful, undeniable truth.
“I don’t … I don’t know how to,” you whisper, and the admission shatters something inside you. “I don’t know how to not do it. If I stop, everything falls apart. His head … my parents … the whole … thing. It all falls apart.”
“No, it won’t.” His voice is low, incredibly gentle now. “It’ll just … wobble. And then they’ll learn to hold it themselves. And you’ll be free.”
He reaches out. He doesn’t touch your face, or your arm. He just barely rests his fingers on the back of your hand, which is gripping your lanyard so hard your knuckles are white.
“You’re allowed to have a life, Y/N. A real one. Separate from all this.”
You’re openly crying now, silent tears tracking down your dusty cheeks. You’re embarrassed, but you’re also relieved.
“I-I can’t,” you choke out. “Tomorrow’s the race. It’s … it’s too much.”
“I know. So. We’ll get through tomorrow.” He squeezes your hand, a tiny, firm pressure. “You’ll be the Chief Operating Officer for one more day. And then … Sunday night. You’re having dinner with me.”
“Oscar, I can’t. I have to pack up the freight, I have to-”
“Sunday night,” he says, his voice leaving no room for argument. “I’m not asking. I’m telling you. Ollie can pack his own helmet. Your parents can find their own way home. Sunday night. You and me. And we are not, under any circumstances, talking about racing.”
“What … what will we talk about?” The idea is terrifying. An entire conversation that isn’t about Ollie.
Oscar’s mouth quirks. “Pineapple on pizza. Whether Die Hard is a Christmas movie. An old psychology professor who you hated. I don’t care. Anything but this.”
You look at him, at his calm, steady eyes, and for the first time, you feel a different kind of buzz. It’s not anxiety. It’s something else.
“Okay,” you whisper.
“Okay.”
“Pineapple is a crime, by the way.”
“We’ll argue about it on Sunday,” he says, and the small smile he gives you is a promise.
***
Race day is … a race day.
It’s a blur of adrenaline, high-stress, and lukewarm coffee. Ollie has a great start. He makes up two places. You pace. He gets stuck behind a rival. You pace more. He finishes P11. Almost points. Solid.
The garage is content. Ollie is relieved. Your parents are proud.
You … you are just on autopilot. You manage the press. You hug Ollie. You coordinate the pack-down. You’re efficient, you’re professional. But something in your head has shifted.
You catch Oscar’s eye as he walks past the garage. He finished P2. He’s talking to his engineer. He sees you, and he gives you one, short, decisive nod.
At 6 PM, you’re packing Ollie’s race suit into its bag.
“Right,” Ollie says, toweling his hair. “So, team dinner at 8, then we’ll head to the airport? Can you make sure my passport is-”
“In your bag. Where it’s been all weekend.” You zip the bag with a sharp, final pull.
“Great. So, you’ll be at the dinner?”
You stand up. You take a breath. It feels like stepping off a cliff.
“No.”
Ollie stops, his phone in his hand. “… what? Why not? You always come to the team dinner.”
“Not tonight. I-I have other plans.”
“Plans?” He looks genuinely, completely bewildered. “What plans? With Mum and Dad?”
“No. Just … plans. With a friend.”
“What friend?”
“It doesn’t matter, Ollie.” You pick up your own small backpack. “Your passport is in your bag. Your flight is at 10:40. Your manager has the details. Our parents have their own car. You are twenty years old. You will make it to the airport.”
Ollie is staring at you like you’ve just grown a second head. “Y/N, are you … are you okay? Are you mad about something?”
“I’m not mad,” you say. And you realize, with a jolt, that you’re not. “I’m just … done. For today.” You walk over and kiss his damp cheek. “You drove brilliantly. I’m proud of you. I’ll see you back in London.”
You walk out of the motorhome. You don’t run. You just … walk.
It feels like the first time your shoulders have been down from around your ears in five years.
He’s waiting outside the main gate, just as he said he would be. He’s not in team kit. He’s in a simple black t-shirt and dark jeans. He’s leaning against a refreshingly non-papaya McLaren 750S.
He opens the passenger door for you.
“You look …” he says, as you slide in.
“Like I’ve been dragged through a hedge?”
“No,” he says, closing the door and walking around. He gets in. The car is quiet. No radio. “You look … lighter.”
“I feel it,” you say, buckling your seatbelt. “I just told Ollie I wasn’t coming to the team dinner.”
Oscar starts the car. “And did the world end?”
“No. But he looked very confused. Like I’d just told him the sky was purple.”
“He’ll get used to it.”
He drives you out of the track, away from the traffic, away from the noise. He takes you to a small, quiet pub in a village you’ve never heard of, twenty minutes away. It’s all old beams and horse brasses and smells like beer and fireplace.
They sit you at a quiet table in the corner.
“Right,” Oscar says, opening the menu. “Rules.”
“I remember,” you say. “No racing.”
“No racing. No drivers. No teams. No lanyards. No discussion of freight logistics.”
A small, giddy laugh bubbles out of you. “I … I honestly don’t know what to talk about.”
“Good.” He doesn’t even look at the menu. “We’ll start with the pineapple thing. You’re wrong. It’s a perfect balance of sweet and savoury.”
“It’s wet, Oscar. It makes the whole pizza soggy. It’s a structural integrity issue.”
“Only if you use tinned. Fresh pineapple, properly grilled first? It’s a game-changer.”
“You grill it first? Who are you? Gordon Ramsay?”
“I’m just someone who respects the pizza, Y/N. Unlike you, apparently.”
The waitress comes. You order. A proper Sunday roast. Oscar orders fish and chips. And a pint. You order a glass of wine. It feels decadent.
“Okay,” you say, taking a sip. “My turn. Die Hard.”
“Christmas movie,” he says instantly. “100%.”
“Wrong. It’s an action movie that happens to be set at Christmas. The themes are not festive. It’s about an estranged marriage.”
“It’s about redemption. It’s about family. It’s got Christmas music in it. It’s a Christmas movie.”
“We are fundamentally incompatible,” you say, smiling into your wine glass.
“We’ll have to agree to disagree.”
The food comes. It’s hot. It’s real. You talk about bad movies. You talk about his childhood in Melbourne, and he asks you about growing up in Essex. You talk about dogs. (He wants a golden retriever. You’re a spaniel person.)
And then, in a lull, he gets serious.
“So,” he says, setting his fork down. “Psychology.”
Your smile fades, but the anxiety isn’t there. Not this time.
“Psychology,” you echo.
“You’re going to finish it.”
It’s not a question.
“Oscar, I-”
“You are,” he says, his voice firm but kind. “Online. Part-time. One class a semester. I don’t care. But you’re going to enroll. Because you’re too smart to be … just a helmet-holder. No offense to helmet-holders.”
“I-I wouldn’t even know where to start. It’s been years.”
“You start by going to the university website. You start by sending an email. It’s just logistics, Y/N. And you’re the best logistics person I’ve ever met.”
He’s using your own job against you. And he’s right.
“Why do you care so much?” You ask, your voice small. “It’s my life. It’s my mess.”
He leans forward. The pub is noisy around you, but your table feels like it’s in a bubble.
“Because,” he says, his voice low. “I think you’re pretty amazing. And I think it’s a massive waste. And, selfishly, I want to be able to have a conversation with you about something other than your brother’s tyre degradation.”
He pauses, then adds, “And also, I really like watching you. But I hate watching you run yourself into the ground. It’s … frustrating.”
You stare at him. “You like watching me?”
“Yeah,” he says, so simply. “I do. I like that you’re smart. And I like that you’re funny, even when you’re stressed. And I like that you’re kind to everyone, even when they’re being idiots.” He shrugs, a little sheepishly. “So. Yeah. I care.”
This is the 2000s rom-com moment. The declaration. It’s not in the rain. It’s not at an airport. It’s in a pub in Northamptonshire, over a half-eaten sticky toffee pudding. And it’s perfect.
“Oh,” you say. It’s all you can manage.
“So,” he says, clearing his throat, “you’ll look into it? The uni thing?”
You nod, your throat thick. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll … I’ll look into it.”
“Good.”
He pays the bill, batting away your attempt to split it with a simple, “Don’t be ridiculous.”
He drives you back to your hotel in silence. It’s not awkward. It’s full.
He pulls up.
“So,” you say, your hand on the door.
“So,” he echoes.
“Thank you. For dinner. For … everything. For the kick in the arse, as my brother would so eloquently put it.”
“Anytime,” he says. He’s looking at you, and his eyes are warm, and he’s not just ‘observing’ anymore. “I’ll text you. Maybe we could get another dinner. Back in London. Before Spa.”
“I-I’d like that. A lot.”
“But only,” he says, a serious look on his face, “if you send me a screenshot.”
“A screenshot?”
“Of your application. Or at least the email you sent to the admissions office.”
You laugh. “You’re unbelievable. You’re giving me homework.”
“Yep,” he says. “Someone has to. Now go on. Go and sleep. You look … well, you still look tired. But you look better.”
“Thanks,” you say, rolling your eyes.
You get out of the car. You walk to the hotel door. You turn back. He’s still there, watching you.
You give him a small wave.
He waves back.
You go inside, and as you walk to the elevator, you pull out your phone. You don’t text Ollie. You don’t text your parents.
You open your web browser. And you type.
***
The laptop screen glows in the dark of your flat. It’s been three days since Silverstone. Three days since the pub. Three days since Oscar Piastri gave you homework.
You’re staring at the Bristol University Returning Students and Course Re-engagement page. The cursor blinks, mocking you.
Please outline your reasons for withdrawal and any changes in circumstance that support your re-application.
You lean back, rubbing your eyes. What do you write? My brother got very fast in a very expensive car and I became his de-facto PA, therapist, and sock-finder?
It feels impossible. It’s been years. The academic part of your brain feels like it’s been shrink-wrapped and stored in an attic. You’re a person who manages freight logistics, not a person who writes essays on developmental theory.
Your phone buzzes on the table. A text. Not Ollie. Not your mum.
Oscar: This is a serious question. Is a hotdog a sandwich?
You can’t help it. You snort, a small, surprised laugh. You pick up the phone.
You: Absolutely not. A sandwich requires two separate pieces of bread. A hotdog is a bun. It’s a hinge. It’s a taco. Sort of.
Oscar: A taco? You’re insane. A taco has a thin shell. This is a longitudinal bread-based containment system.
You: You’re just making up words now.
Oscar: It’s what I do. How’s the other longitudinal containment system? The academic one?
He’s so casual. So clever about it. He doesn’t ask ‘Did you do it?’ He just nudges.
You: I’m staring at the form. It’s a lot. I don’t know if I can. I don’t even know if I’m that person anymore.
The typing bubble appears instantly.
Oscar: You are. You’re literally the only person in the paddock who uses the word ‘socio-political’ correctly. You’re still that person. You’re just rusty.
Oscar: Don’t think about the essay. It’s just admin. You’re the queen of admin. Fill in the ‘Name’ box.
You look at the screen. Name: Y/N Bearman. Okay.
You: Done.
Oscar: Good. Now ‘Address’. You know that one. I’ll even spot you the postcode.
You find yourself doing it. You type in your address. Your old student ID number, which you somehow still remember.
You: I’m at the ‘Reason for Withdrawal’ part.
Oscar: Keep it simple. “Family responsibilities and career support.” That’s it. It’s true.
Oscar: And the ‘Reason for Re-application’?
You: …
Oscar: “Circumstances have now changed, allowing for a return to part-time study.”
You type his exact words. They look clean. Professional. Devoid of the years and years of anxiety and exhaustion and lost identity.
Oscar: See? You’re a student. You’re just pre-enrolled.
You take a deep breath. You fill out the last few boxes. You attach a scan of your old transcript. You hover over the Submit Inquiry button.
You: I’m scared.
Oscar: I know. Do it anyway.
You click it.
The screen changes. Thank you. Your inquiry has been received. A representative from the department will be in touch.
You fall back against your sofa, your heart hammering. It’s done. It’s … started.
You take a screenshot. You send it to him.
The reply is almost instantaneous.
Oscar: Good. Now, about that dinner. Thursday? 7pm. I’ll pick you up. Wear something that isn’t a team kit.
***
It’s Thursday. 6:52 PM.
You are, for the first time in what feels like a decade, nervous for a non-race-related reason. You’re wearing a dark green silk skirt and a simple black top. You’ve put on makeup. You’ve dried your hair.
You feel … alien.You’re just checking your bag when the front door to your flat opens.
“Y/N? You here?”
Ollie. He has a key. He always has a key. He wanders in, helmet in hand, already talking.
“Look, I know I’m supposed to email the team, but you’re just better at this. This padding here,” he points, “it’s digging into my left temple. It feels weird. Can you look? And hey, where are you … whoa.”
He stops. He’s taking in your outfit. The hair. The makeup.
“Where are you going?” He asks, his brow furrowing. “You’re all dressed up. Is it a sponsor thing? Did I forget a sponsor thing?”
“No, Ol. It’s not a sponsor thing.”
“Then what? Are Mum and Dad in town?”
“No.” You pick up your bag. “I’m … going out. For dinner.”
“Dinner?” He repeats, like it’s a foreign concept. “With who?”
The old you, the Chief Operating Officer, would have said it’s fine, don’t worry, and then sat down, taken his helmet, and spent the next hour re-fitting the padding.
The new you … hesitates. You look at the helmet. You look at the door.
“Just a friend,” you say.
Right on cue, the intercom buzzer goes. You jump.
You press the button. “Hello?”
“Y/N? It’s me. Oscar. I’m downstairs.”
Your blood turns to ice, then immediately to fire. You can see Ollie over by the coat rack, frozen.
“… Oscar?” Ollie mouths, his eyes wide.
“I’ll be right down,” you say into the speaker, your voice impressively steady. You hang up.
You turn to your brother. The look on his face is a comical mixture of total, profound confusion and a dawning, horrified realization.
“Piastri?” He whispers. “Oscar Piastri? Austrian? From McLaren? That Oscar?”
“That Oscar,” you confirm, grabbing your keys.
“He’s … why is he … you’re going to … oh.” The final word is the sound of the tumblers clicking into place. “You’re going on a … with … him?”
“The padding is fine, Ollie,” you say, walking to the door. “It’s probably just new. It’ll wear in. If it’s still weird tomorrow, email your manager and have him talk to the Schuberth rep.”
“But … Y/N …”
“I’ve got to go. I’ll be late.”
“But my helmet-”
“Have a good night, Ol.” You open the door. “And please, for the love of God, don’t microwave that leftover pasta in the plastic container.”
You close the door behind you, leaving your brother standing alone in your hallway, helmet in hand, looking like his entire world has just been flipped upside down.
You feel sick. You feel triumphant. You feel … completely, terrifyingly alive.
When the lift doors open, Oscar is waiting. He’s in dark jeans and a grey Henley. He looks … normal. And great. He smiles when he sees you.
“Wow,” he says, his voice soft. “See? No team kit.”
“You clean up okay yourself, Piastri,” you manage.
“You alright?” He asks, as you walk out into the cool English evening. “You look like you just ran a marathon.”
“I just … I just left Ollie,” you say, the words tumbling out. “He had an issue with his helmet padding. And I just … I told him to email his manager. And I left. I’ve never just left.”
Oscar stops by his car and turns to you.
“And?” He asks, a small, amused smile playing on his lips. “Did the flat implode? Did he burst into flames?”
“No,” you say, a hysterical giggle rising in your throat. “But he looked … he looked baffled. Like I’d just stolen his dog.”
“Good.” Oscar opens the car door for you. “Baffled is a good look for him. Baffled means he’s learning.” He leans in, just a fraction. “How’s it feel? To be such a terrible, negligent sister?”
“It feels … terrifying,” you say, sliding into the seat. “And really, really good.”
***
The second date is better than the first.
You’re not you (the COO). Oscar’s not him (the F1 Driver). You’re just … two people. In a Thai restaurant in Islington that he’d found because “they’re supposed to have the best Massaman curry in the city.”
You’re not just answering his questions. You’re asking them.
“So, what about you?” You ask, nursing a glass of wine. “This whole life. It’s … a lot. You’re, what, twenty-three?”
“Twenty-four,” he corrects, gently.
“Twenty-four. And you live on the other side of the world, and you’re the ‘calm one’, the ‘iceman’, the ‘robot’. Does that … does that get heavy?”
Oscar stops eating. He looks at you. It’s that same, steady, analytical gaze, but it’s softer now.
“Yeah,” he says, quietly. “Sometimes. Everyone expects me to be … fine. All the time. No drama. Just get in, do the job. And most of the time, I am. But, sometimes …” He shrugs. “It’s, yeah. It’s heavy.”
“Who do you talk to?” You ask. “When it’s heavy.”
“My folks. My manager, sometimes. But, mostly I just … process it. It’s just data. Emotions are just data.”
“That,” you say, smiling, “is the most Oscar Piastri thing you have ever said.”
“Is it?” He laughs. “Probably. It’s how my brain works.”
“See?” He says, pointing his fork at you. “Psychology. You’re already back.”
And you are. You spend the next hour debating. You talk about the pressure he felt in his F2 year, and you find yourself analyzing it. Not as a fan, but as you. The old you. The real you.
He’s easy. He’s so easy to be with. He’s funny, in his bone-dry, understated way. He’s smart. And he’s kind. He’s just … fundamentally kind.
He drives you home. He walks you to the door of your building.
“So,” he says, hands in his pockets.
“So,” you echo. “Thank you. For tonight. For … not letting me stay in and fix a helmet.”
“My pleasure. I’m always happy to enable sisterly negligence.”
You laugh. “Spa, next week.”
“Yep,” he says. The mood shifts, just a little. “It’s a madhouse. That track is special. It’s going to be a lot.”
“I know,” you say, the COO part of your brain clicking back on. “I’ve already got the parking passes mapped out, and I’m pre-booking the hotel restaurant for Ollie because …”
“Y/N.”
You stop.
“It’s fine,” he says, smiling. “You’re allowed to plan. It’s what you’re good at. But … plan for you, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean will you have dinner with me there? Even if it’s just a takeaway pizza on a hotel room floor?”
Your heart does a stupid flip.
“Yeah,” you say, your voice softer than you intended. “Yeah, I will.”
“Good.”
He steps a little closer. You’re standing under the bright, sterile light of the entryway. It’s not romantic. But it is.
He doesn’t kiss you. He just reaches out and touches your arm, his fingers warm on your skin.
“Goodnight, Y/N.”
“Goodnight, Oscar.”
You watch him walk back to his car. You go inside, and your flat is quiet. Ollie is not there. The helmet is gone.
You check your phone. One text. From Ollie.
Went home. We’ll talk tomorrow. But Piastri? Seriously? He’s so calm.
You smile.
You: Go to bed, Ol.
***
Spa is, as predicted, chaotic.
And Ollie is having a weekend. A bad one.
He spun in FP2. He qualified P12. He is vibrating with frustration.
“I just don’t get this track!” He’s ranting, pacing the small Haas hospitality area. “It’s the car … it’s just not working!”
“You’ll find it, Ol,” you say, handing him a water. But your voice is different. It’s not soothing. It’s just calm. “You’ll … “
“Y/N! There you are!”
You both turn. Oscar is standing there, holding two passes. He smiles at you, then nods at your brother.
“Ollie. Tough one today.”
“Yeah,” Ollie grunts, clearly not in the mood. “Hi.”
“I snagged these from the team,” Oscar says, holding the passes out to you. “They’re for the viewing platform at Turn 11. If you, you know, want a different view for the race.”
You stare at the passes. It’s certainly a gesture. A very public one.
“Y/M, I need you,” your brother says, his voice sharp. He’s stressed. He’s defaulting to what he knows: you. “I need to talk about the setup. Before the briefing.”
You look from Ollie — tense, demanding, and scared — to Oscar, calm, supportive, and waiting.
This is it. This is the moment.
“Ollie,” you say, turning to your brother. Your voice is incredibly quiet, but it cuts through his panic. “Your debrief is in ten minutes. With your engineer. You need to talk about the setup with him. I-I can’t help you with understeer.”
Ollie just stares at you. “But … you always … you … you take the notes …”
“I can’t. Not today.” You take the passes from Oscar. “Thank you, Oscar. That’s really thoughtful.”
“No worries,” Oscar says, his eyes fixed on you. “See you later?”
“See you later.”
Oscar nods, and walks away.
You turn back to Ollie. He looks … lost.
“Y/N, what is going on?” He asks, his voice smaller now. “You’re … you’re with him. And you’re abandoning me.”
“Oh, Ollie,” you sigh, and the old instincts kick in. You reach out, fix the collar on his team shirt. “I am not abandoning you. I will never abandon you. But I can’t be your … your everything. You have a team for that. You’ve got engineers, and managers, and a PR officer. They are all paid to help you. I’m just your sister.”
“You’re more than that,” he protests.
“I know. I was. But I can’t be, anymore. Not like that. It’s not good for you. And … it’s killing me.”
The honesty of it hangs in the air. Ollie finally seems to see it. He sees the dark circles under your eyes. He sees the tension in your shoulders.
“Right,” he says, his voice thick. “Right. I … I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just go to your debrief. Talk to your engineer. You’re brilliant, Ollie. You don’t … you don’t need me to find the time.”
He nods. He looks like he’s about to argue, but he just nods. “Okay. Okay. So … you’re … you’re going with him?”
“I’m, yeah. I think I am.”
“Okay.” He nods again. “Right. Well … don’t tell him any of my setup secrets.”
You laugh, a small, watery laugh. “I don’t even know your setup secrets, you idiot.”
“Right.” He smiles. A tiny, real smile. “Okay. Go. I’m … I’m good.”
You watch him walk off towards his engineers. He looks taller, somehow.
You walk out of the hospitality unit, your heart feeling too big for your chest.
You find Oscar by the media pen. You just walk up to him. He’s in the middle of talking to his PR officrt. He sees you. He excuses himself for a second.
“Hey,” he says. “You okay? That looked intense.”
“It was,” you say, your voice shaking a little. “I think I just got promoted. Or … demoted. From Second Mum to Sister.”
“Good,” he says. “That’s a much more fitting title.”
“Oh,” you say, suddenly remembering. You pull your phone out. “Before I forget.”
You open your email. You show him the screen.
Dear Y/N, We are delighted to review your re-engagement inquiry. Please find attached the necessary forms to process your application for part-time study …
Oscar stops. He’s not smiling. He’s just looking at you. And the pride in his eyes is so bright, so unfiltered, it makes you want to look away.
“Y/N,” he says, his voice low. “That’s … that’s brilliant. That’s seriously brilliant.”
And then, right there, in the middle of the Spa paddock, with a thousand people shouting and cameras flashing and engines revving, he leans in.
He puts one hand on your elbow, just to steady you. And he kisses you.
It’s not a big, dramatic, cinematic kiss. It’s simple. It’s gentle. It’s quick. It’s solid. It’s him. It tastes like the Monster he’s always drinking.
He pulls back. His cheeks are, for the first time, faintly pink.
“Right,” he says, clearing his throat. “So. Pizza. My hotel room. Eight o’clock.”
You just … nod, completely dazed. Your lips are tingling. “Pizza. Eight. Yeah.”
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