hi! i'm pasc (short for pascale) and i write things sometimes. requests are open and responses are slow. i'm in nursing school during the standard fall/spring semesters, and i work full time on school breaks so i don't always have as much time or motivation to write as i'd like to
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my works
i'm always cycling through fandoms so if you want to see something but you don't know if i watch it, feel free to ask! i no longer write for 5SOS or EST19XX (honestly i probably won't do most RPF anymore, it's just not my thing). current fandoms: mainly top gun/tgm, outer range (rhett), and some criminal minds. i've been rereading the pjo books and hunger games so i might chatter about them as well!
request guidelines:
note: the length of a fic pretty much always depends on how inspired i am. you can ask for thoughts/headcanons vs narrative/fic, but whether something ends up a blurb or a one-shot is up to me and the motivation goblin in my brain
please preface with content warnings if you are requesting a sensitive topic (sa, substance use, sh/si, etc)
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Summary: The life of a princess isn't private. But neither is an F1 driver's. So people start catching on to you dating Oscar Piastri.
Word count: 4.8k
Warning: very slight angst (2025 abu dhabi)
A/n: i'm not even going to promise anything anymore. chapter 7 of i think we're alone now is fighting me :( but!! this is really sweet and i loved writing it, so please enjoy this! also!! requests are open!!
princess.yn.ln
liked by mclarenracingf1, landonorris, user1 and 218,923 others
tagged: mclarenracingf1
princess.yn.ln: business as usual in monaco👑🧡
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user1: omg, i can't believe it!! y/n watching an f1 race?? from oscar's garage?? my favorite princess and favorite driver interacting?😭
mclarenracingf1: thank you for gracing us with your presence!
princess.yn.ln: thank you for inviting me! it was a great experience!
landonorris: next time you're welcome to be on my side of the garage😌🧡
user2: omg not lando shooting his shot😭
user3: such a loser omg😭😭
user4: what are you doing at an f1 race?? you shouldn't go anywhere near those dirty cars!
user5: c'mon, this isn't the ancient times, she does a bunch of things like this
user6: so great to see you attending the monaco grand prix!
user7: so y/n was on oscar's side of the garage and he didn't even like this post?😭 he's such a loser
user8: didn't you see them interacting before the race?? they were so awkward😭😭
user9: well, mostly oscar. i think y/n was just unsure about the place
user10: it was fully oscar's fault, y/n was flawless as usual
user11: leave my baby alone, he can't help being awkward😭
user12: wait so a literal princess wasn't in the vip lounge?? she was down in the garage?? with all those people??
princecharming: y/n is as down to earth as a princess can get. also! she's the nicest person i've ever had the pleasure to meet🥰
user12: girl, you're so lucky😭
user13: still don't understand how a princess ends up at an f1 race, but you go girl!!
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oscarpiastri
liked by mclarenracingf1, user14, user15 and 872,349 others
oscarpiastri: pretty cool weekend👍
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user14: congrats oscar!! you'll win the next one!
user15: bro met a literal princess and is just like "pretty cool weekend"
user16: leave him alone, he's just pookie😭
mclarenracingf1: congrats oscar! stronger for the next one💪
user17: the white suit🤤
user18: omg he looked soo ethereal this weekend in that suit!!
user19: petition to keep the white suit forever🤤
waiting4princecharming: signing that one!
user20: tbf it was a pretty cool weekend. you took third place, met a princess... so congrats!!
landonorris: shame on you for not liking the princess' post
oscarpiastri: ...yeah and congrats oscar on p3?
landonorris: yeah, yeah whatever. go and like the princess' post!
oscarpiastri: thank you lando, congratulations on winning monaco
landonorris: thank you teammate😌🧡
user21: all of you bashing oscar for not liking y/n's post, but y/n didn't like his post either
user22: i mean tbf, he didn't mention her. why would she need to like it?
user23: and she's a literal princess!
user24: cool weekend dude! congrats on everything
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You've been talking to this one guy for months now, never meeting up, never knowing his real name. It was easier on the anonimous dating site, because that made it possible for you to date someone for yourself and not for your title.
Until a month ago, where he confessed that he was an F1 driver and that he wanted to meet you for real.
That's how you ended up in Monaco with an all access pass as the guest of McLaren and more importantly the guest of its driver Oscar Piastri. Your heart raced about as fast as he did that Sunday and were kind of glad that your background provided enough media training so that it didn't show on your face.
Because there were cameras. A lot of them. And most of them pointed at you when you entered the paddock, as you watched the race, as you did anything remotely interesting.
And after the race, after the podium celebrations, you were finally out of the public eye and right in front of Oscar Piastri. He smelled strongly of the champagne even though he pulled his race suit halfway down.
"You didn't tell me you were a princess," he started, clearly tired and a little out of it.
"To be fair, you didn't tell me you were an f1 driver either," you countered, back straight though you were feeling extra nervous now that you were face to face.
You had to admit that Oscar looked absolutely beautiful. Even with his wet hair and sweat clinging to him. With his red cheeks, which you weren't sure were only from the race.
"But I told you earlier. You should've let me know before you came..." he trailed off, looking away from you. "I would've..."
"You didn't have to do anything," you resisted the urge to reach out to him, keeping your hands to yourself. "That's why we were both on that dating app, no? To keep our realities from putting a strain on our... relationship."
Oscar sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. You knew that this was the moment you had to make a choice. Where he had to make a choice.
"If you... if this is too much for you, I understand. It's not as if we've become anything more than friends," you told him, kindly, though your heart was heavy.
After all, the life of a princess wasn't easy. Constantly in the public eye, representing a whole country. There were things expected of you: do everything good, marry right, continue your lineage. It was something out of your choice.
But Oscar had the choice and you weren't going to take that from him, no matter how much you've grown to like him.
"No-" he said then, quicker than either of you expected. "No I... couldn't- I don't want to... fuck, how do I say this?" he groaned, clearly fighting with himself. "I want to continue whatever started. Because it's been really good. I just... I'm just a bit overwhelmed is all."
"I..." you started. "It's okay. Do you want me to go?"
"No... I... could you wait for me? I have debrief and I have to change but... I want to take you out for dinner," he explained. "Can I? As a date."
"Yeah," you smiled gently. "I would love that."
Oscar finally smiled then and your heart skipped a beat. Of course he smiled on the podium, but this... this was directed at you and it was so much softer than the other one. It was beautiful. He was beautiful.
"Oh... yeah," he blinked suddenly. "Where do I even take a literal princess on a date?"
You couldn't help the laugh that broke out of you. It was half amusement, half relief at not being rejected. Your heart was so much lighter than ten minutes before.
"Anywhere you want to," you told him, grin bright.
"No, no," he shook his head. "Not only is it our first date, it's also... you're a princess!" he pointed at you.
"Yeah," you nodded. "Still... I'm fine with anything. What do you usually eat after a race?"
"If I did good, a burger, but-"
"Perfect!" you stopped him. "It's been a while since I ate a good burger. Know any lowkey place?"
"Yeah, but-"
"No buts," you finally stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. He was half a head taller than you, even with your heels on. "I'll be waiting for you in the parking lot. We can take my car."
Oscar stared at you for a moment longer, eyes softening and some of the tension bleeding out of him.
"Okay," he smiled lightly.
And that was the start of everything.
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princess.yn.ln added to their close friends story
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yourbff: omg is this the guy you've been talking to??
↪princess.yn.ln: yes!! his name is oscar piastri
↪yourbff: the f1 driver?? omg y/n!!!
↪princess.yn.ln: i'll tell you everything, i swear!!
↪yourbff: you better!!
↪yourbff: but first. is he cute? is he polite?? is he nice???
↪princess.yn.ln: he's a dream, he's amazing!!
yourbrother: this wasn't what we talked about...
↪princess.yn.ln: i know! hope father and mother isn't mad about me staying out late!
↪yourbrother: you know them, they're more concerned than mad
↪yourbrother: was it at least good?
↪princess.yn.ln: it was a dream come true. he's polite and knows how to treat a woman right
↪yourbrother: and a princess?
↪princess.yn.ln: he's amazing, you don't have to worry!
↪yourbrother: i always worry
↪princess.yn.ln: i know. i love you💜
↪yourbrother: i love you too❤️
princecharming: damn, the guy looks very concerned
↪princess.yn.ln: don't let him fool you. that's just his resting face :)
oscarpiastri added to their close friends story
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landonorris: hold on, i know that side profile! that dress!! oscar!!! are you on a date with the princess????
↪oscarpiastri: it's just a dinner
↪landonorris: don't "it's just a dinner" me!! she looks beautiful, you're in a restaurant, this is a date!!
↪oscarpiastri: she always looks beautiful. she's a princess
↪landonorris: mate, c'mon!
↪oscarpiastri: good night lando
↪landonorris: don't leave me hanging here osc!!
↪landonorris: oscar!!!
nicolepiastri: who is this pretty lady? were you on a date?
↪oscarpiastri: yeah, i'll call you tomorrow and explain it all
↪nicolepiastri: alright darling. just did it go good?
↪oscarpiastri: yeah, it went very well
↪nicolepiastri: i'm glad. good night baby
↪oscarpiastri: good night mom
hattiepiastri: omg is that the princess y/n l/n?????
↪hattiepiastri: i know damn well you aren't ignoring me!
↪hattiepiastri: oscar!! answer me!!
↪oscarpiastri: yes, it is her
↪hattiepiastri: were you on a date with her????
↪oscarpiastri: yes
↪hattiepiastri: well explain!! come on, i need to know!! was it good?? is she as ethereal irl as she is online??? is she very princess-y???
↪oscarpiastri: yes to all of them
↪hattiepiastri: ah, you're impossible!
↪oscarpiastri: :)
waiting4princecharming: can you ask her where she got her necklace from? it's really pretty
↪oscarpiastri: it's a family heirloom i believe :)
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From then on, it was easy to fall in love and start dating. Even if the dates themselves were a little hard since you were bound by duty and in different places more often than not. But even if you spent time together, you had to find a place where no one would recognise either of you.
All the hard work was worth it though when he finally asked you to be his girlfriend. And even that didn't happen without his panicking, which you came to find endearing.
Even with talking about your title and what it entailed, Oscar couldn't shake the feeling of not being good enough for a princess. You did what you could to expel those thoughts, but ultimately it just took a long time before he stopped being anxious about his every word and action.
"Is this going to reflect badly on you and your family?" he would ask. "Oh my God, what if they find out that you're out on a date in McDonald's of all places? This was a bad idea…"
"Baby," you would start, gentle in the way you talk and reach forward to rest your hand on his own. "I asked for this. This is the most normal I get to be. And my family is going to be okay, you don't have to worry. They're glad that I'm feeling calm around you."
"Oh, so they know about me?" his eyes widened.
"Of course, and they love you," you chuckled. "We're not as closed off from reality as many seem to think."
"So you mean that the royal family watches Formula One?"
"Yeah. It used to be only my father and brothers, but since we've been dating, we've all been watching it."
"And who are you rooting for?" he leaned forward.
"Lando," you deadpanned and watched as his face dropped. You laughed then and reached forward to hold his hand. "I'm kidding, we're rooting for you, of course. How could we not? With how happy you make me."
Oscar smiled then and leaned over the table to press a kiss to your lips.
"You're so cheeky," he murmured against your lips and you couldn't help but smile.
You reached up to cup his face.
"Only for you," you muttered and kissed him back.
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princess.yn.ln
liked by yourbff, princecharming, yourbrother and 827,290 others
princess.yn.ln: the best part of the theatre world are operas. if you haven't seen an opera, go watch one! the sheer talent to these people and the amazing production, it's worth a watch!
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yourbff: which show did you watch? and more importantly, why wasn't i there??
princess.yn.ln: it was the magic flute and it was a surprise for me too! i wasn't planning on going, but it was absolutely amazing!
yourbff: oooh i understand😌
princess.yn.ln: 🥰
yourbrother: ah, that's why… was it good? did you enjoy it?
princess.yn.ln: yes! thank you so much!
yourbrother: my pleasure :)
princecharming: a beautiful show and a beautiful lady :)
princess.yn.ln: :)
user25: omg this opera is sooo good! and you were in my theatre?? i could've met you😭
user26: i saw her and she looked to be enjoying the show so much! but she also wasn't alone
user25: she wasn't alone?
user26: nope! but i didn't see who she was with. they were sitting in the shadows
user25: omg… could she have been on a date???
user27: i mean i wouldn't be so sure. she always goes to things like this with a bunch of important people
user28: plus!! her caption seems to point more toward the importance of theatre rather than anything personal
user25: so the man on the last slide is just an important person, nothing personal?
user27: i mean it's just a hand holding the paper. there isn't anything remotely romantic about that
user29: omg her dress😭 she's so pretty, it's unreal!!
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user30: omg the same opera that one princess y/n l/n was watching?? is this a coincidence?? I THINK NOT!!
user31: holy shit, this cannot be real, what do you mean oscar was at the royal opera house last night?? when y/n was there too???
user32: could they have been on a date??
user33: now hold on, there's a lot of jumping to conclusions. yes they were at the same opera, but nothing points to them being there together. there were hundreds of people attending the opera yesterday, he could've been there with any of his friends
user33: i mean his girl best friend, lily was also around this weekend!
user34: in any case, if they were there together, then good for them, i wish them all the good. lord knows y/n deserves a good man, she does so much
user35: i ship it!! #oscarforprince2025
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Your relationship with Oscar wasn't the easiest of course. Everything you did was public and there was little to no private life. So you mostly spent the evenings together on call. The feats of the 21st century.
"Yeah, it was just not an easy weekend," he sighed one evening, when he was halfway across the world from you. "And I really wished that you were there. It would've made it more... bearable."
"I know," you sighed and desperately wished that he was next to you so you could reach over and hold his hand. "I'm so sorry, my love. But I will be in Abu Dhabi."
"That's still months away though," he fell back on his bed, clearly suffering.
"If I could, I would go to all your races, you know that."
"I know," he turned on his side and you couldn't help but stop for a moment to admire just how beautiful he was. "And I accepted that you were even busier than me when I asked you to be my girlfriend. It doesn't make being away from you any easier."
"It's not easy for me either," you tried to placate him. "But it's always a little easier to bear when I know that we can talk in the evening."
"It does make it slightly more bearable," he agreed and looked at you through the phone. "I just wish you were beside me."
"I wish that too," you smiled gently. "But we're meeting before Mexico, no?"
"Yeah."
"And then I'll be free for the whole week of the Abu Dhabi grand prix," you added.
"Yeah," he hummed. "I can't wait for the winter break."
"I know, my love," you smiled as he closed his eyes. "I know how tired you are. But it's almost over and you've been doing so good. I'm so proud of you."
"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you for always standing by my side."
"Always."
"I love you."
"I love you too."
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princess.yn.ln
liked by princecharming, yourbff and 238,173 others
princess.yn.ln: waiting for my prince charming to save me from my (very important) meetings👑💜
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user36: omg, you DO have a boyfriend!!
user37: oh to be a princess and live in a castle and wear beautiful dresses every day😩
princess.yn.ln: if you don't romanticise your whole life, what are you doing?😌
user37: you're so right, i WILL wear beautiful dresses every day!!
yourbff: soft launching queen😌👑
princess.yn.ln: not queen yet!
user38: sometimes i forget that y/n is next in line and will probably become queen in MY lifetime
user39: omg not her boyfriend's nickname being prince charming, i can't😭😭
user40: she's so iconic for that!!
user41: whoever that bloke is is really lucky!!
princecharming: thank you😌
user41: girl, get out of here, we're not talking about you😂🫵
princecharming: you both look quite comfortable
princess.yn.ln: we always are😌💜
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oscarpiastri
liked by landonorris, waiting4princecharming and 784,832 others
oscarpiastri: quick stop before mexico👑
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landonorris: hold on, THE OSCAR PIASTRI DANCING???
oscarpiastri: contrary to popular belief, i CAN dance. just not that well
landonorris: AND YOU WERE AT A BALL WITHOUT ME KNOWING??
landonorris: what year are we even living in??
landonorris: HOLD ON!!
landonorris: YOU DIDN'T!!!!
oscarpiastri: 😌
user42: what did oscar do???
user43: why is he at THE ROYAL PALACE???
user44: i'm so sure that that's princess y/n, i could bet money on it!!
user45: he WAS dancing with the princess! AND HE WAS CONVERSING WITH THE ROYAL FAMILY ALMOST ALL EVENING!!!
user46: so... this is confirmation that him and princess y/n are dating, RIGHT???
user47: it HAS TO BE like there's no way he would be there without SUCH A CONNECTION!!
user48: plus the fact that he was talking to the king and queen and also y/n's brother?? ALL EVENING??
mclarenracingf1: hold on... that's our driver??
user49: i'm crying, even mclaren admin is surprised to see oscar at such an event😭😭
waiting4princecharming: damn, you DO look like a prince👀💜
oscarpiastri: thank you for your kind words😌🧡
user50: girl, WHO ARE YOU??
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user51: IT HAS TO BE
user52: god i hope we get a confirmation of them being together, I NEED THEM TO BE TOGETHER #oscarpiastriforprince2025
user53: this is gonna be the most epic fight ever and i'm honestly here for it. also here for Y/N L/N, THE PRINCESS!!!
user54: i can't believe the 2025 season is real. oscar may be a world champion?? also dating a literal princess??? he's winning in life fr
user55: even if he doesn't become world champion, he's winning in life as the boyfriend of A LITERAL PRINCESS!!!
user56: but imagine him becoming a world champion AND having the title of prince!!
user57: how does that work anyway?
user58: well... should he marry y/n while she's still a princess, i believe he WOULD get the title of prince
user59: omg a world champion prince😭
user60: i desperately wish for that to be real😭😭
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oscarpiastri
liked by princess.yn.ln, waiting4princecharming, hattiepiastri and 749,287 others
tagged: princess.yn.ln
oscarpiastri: lots achieved, lots learned. thank you for being with me through this journey🧡
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princess.yn.ln: i am so proud of you, my love!! if nothing, you won my heart with your resilience and pureness. i love you so so much!💜
oscarpiastri: i love you more🧡
hattiepiastri: i'm so proud of you brother!! you did amazing!
oscarpiastri: 🧡
hattiepiastri: also thank you for introducing us to the princess
princess.yn.ln: it was so good to meet you all, oscar talks constantly about you💜
nicolepiastri: you did so well sweetheart! you're going to be a champion one day, i believe in you!
oscarpiastri: thank you mom🧡
yourbff: now you get to rest, oscar. you did everything you could!
oscarpiastri: thank you. and thank you for taking care of y/n when i couldn't be there!
yourbff: always!!
princess.yn.ln: 💜💜
yourbff: 💜💜
yourbrother: it was great to see you race. you did great!
oscarpiastri: thank you!
user61: well at least one of my wishes came true! oscar is dating princess y/n🥰
user62: still baffled at the fact that meepful OSCAR PIASTRI pulled the actual PRINCESS Y/N L/N!!!
user63: i mean... oscar does look really good and is probably the biggest green flag in the whole grid
princess.yn.ln: couldn't agree more!🥰
user63: OMG Y/N!!!
user64: well... we're one step closer to oscar becoming a prince👀
user65: imagine oscar coming back to the 2026 season as PRINCE OSCAR PIASTRI
user66: omg, i would die right then and there-
user67: omg their kiss before the podium😭😭 it was EVERYTHING
waiting4princecharming: it was a beautiful moment💜
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"You don't have to say anything if you don't want to," you hum as Oscar lays on top of you, his head buried in your neck. "But should you have anything on your mind, I'm here to listen to it."
"I just... want to not think about what I let slip," he mutters into your neck and you rake your fingers through his hair, lightly scratching at his nape.
"You didn't let anything slip. You fought valiantly, beautifully," you turn your head to nose at his cheek. "Stressed me out too," you add and he snorts. "And still, I don't think I have ever been more attracted to you than during that race."
"Not even when I won?" he lifts his head to look you in the eye.
"You were very hot every single time you won. But yesterday... I saw a different side of you. And God, it was beautiful."
"And hot?"
"And very hot," you agree and cup his face to pull him closer.
You kiss him slowly, trying to tell him everything you feel without words. He matches your pace, keeping the kiss slow but oh so sweet.
This is everything that you dreamed of while you were away from each other, everything that you promised to the other. And finally spending a whole week with each other was everything. Especially with the knowledge that the whole off season was there for the two of you to enjoy with only some duties breaking it up.
"I love you so much," he mutters against your lips. "You're so good to me."
"I love you more," you smile. "My prince charming."
"My beautiful princess."
‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹
princess.yn.ln added to their story
[caption: my boyfriend before he was my boyfriend💜 (he was trying to impress me. it didn't work)]
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oscarpiastri: i think i did pretty good with twinkle twinkle little star
↪princess.yn.ln: you did, i was endeared💜💜
↪oscarpiastri: 🧡🧡
hattiepiastri: was this right after monaco?😂
↪princess.yn.ln: it WAS!! he played twinkle twinkle little star to me😂
↪hattiepiastri: can't believe you still agreed to date this idiot😂
↪princess.yn.ln: what can i say? he was very endearing😌💜
charles.leclerc: i raised him right😌
↪princess.yn.ln: hmmm i wouldn't say that🤔
↪charles.leclerc: 😩😩
landonorris: what a loser😂
↪princess.yn.ln: that loser pulled a princess, while you...
↪landonorris: 😦😦
yourbff: you guys are disgustingly in love
↪princess.yn.ln: thank you🥰💜💜
yourbrother: when are you two coming home?
↪princess.yn.ln: soon! it's just another three days and we'll be home!💜
oscarpiastri added to their story
[caption: the only one who can make the off season better🧡]
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princess.yn.ln: my love🥺💜💜
↪oscarpiastri: i love you🧡🧡
↪princess.yn.ln: i love you more!!💜💜💜
hattiepiastri: god i love her dresses so much😩😩
↪oscarpiastri: she says thank you
↪oscarpiastri: and told me to tell you that when you come to the palace you can choose anything to wear
↪hattiepiastri: tell her thank you!!
↪hattiepiastri: also still can't believe that for the next couple of weeks you'll be staying at the palace😩 you're so lucky!!
↪oscarpiastri: i do feel lucky😌
yourbrother: just don't get cold feet!!
↪oscarpiastri: i won't, i promise
↪yourbrother: good! take care of my sister!
yourbff: i'll be arriving around 4pm
↪oscarpiastri: thank you so much!
↪yourbff: wouldn't miss it for the world!!
landonorris: tell me honestly, when are you planning to make her your wife?? she's perfect
↪oscarpiastri: believe me, i know
↪landonorris: you're dodging the question
↪oscarpiastri: aren't you meant to still be celebrating with your family?
↪landonorris: yeah, but i'm also missing my best friend :(
↪oscarpiastri: 🧡
‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹
princess.yn.ln
liked by yourbff, oscarpiastri, hattiepiastri and 479,292 others
tagged: oscarpiastri
princess.yn.ln: i can add "future mrs. piastri" to my list now! thank you @.yourbff for coordinating everything and letting us have a beautiful night together!
and to the love of my life: you are everything to me and thank you for your beautiful speech! i still can't believe we met less than a year ago, it feels like we've known each other for ages! thank you for always putting up with me and still loving me through it all! i can safely say you're my soulmate and i love you so much!
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oscarpiastri: princess y/n piastri-l/n does have a ring to it!😌🧡
oscarpiastri: and i love you so much more! thank you for everything this season. you're my soulmate!🧡
princess.yn.ln: it does have a nice ring to it😌💜💜
yourbff: girl, you don't know how hard it was to hide this from you😩 i wanted to tell you just how much planning went into this. but i'm so glad that you had a beautiful evening!
princess.yn.ln: it was a dream come true!! thank you so much!!
nicolepiastri: welcome to the family, y/n! we're so happy to have you!
princess.yn.ln: it's my pleasure nicole! you raised an amazing young man and i couldn't be happier!
hattiepiastri: i can't believe our family will be tied to THE ROYAL FAMILY!!
hattiepiastri: and i'm gonna have the princess and FUTURE QUEEN as my sister-in-law😭😭
princess.yn.ln: i'm really lucky to have you guys become a part of our family. you're all so amazing!!
yourbrother: glad to see that my favorite driver didn't get cold feet😌
yourbrother: also i guess congratulations!
princess.yn.ln: thank you, bozo😌💜💜
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oscarpiastri
liked by mclarenracingf1, landonorris, princess.yn.ln and 784,319 others
tagged: princess.yn.ln
oscarpiastri: guess i'm marrying a princess😌
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princess.yn.ln: oscaar😭 what is this caption??
oscarpiastri: the truth?
princess.yn.ln: you should've let me come up with it😭
oscarpiastri: i think it's clever :)
princess.yn.ln: you're impossible😭
princess.yn.ln: still love you though💜
oscarpiastri: i love you too!🧡
hattiepiastri: you're such a loser
oscarpiastri: thank you
landonorris: i can't believe this is the way you're announcing your engagement😭
landonorris: congrats mate
oscarpiastri: thank you, mate
charles.leclerc: not even a heads up for your father?😭
oscarpiastri: sorry charles
charles.leclerc: still, congratulations! alexandra says she wants to spend a "bride-out" with y/n
oscarpiastri: i'll let her know :)
mclarenracingf1: congratulations oscar!!
yourbrother: thank you for making my big sister happy
oscarpiastri: thank you for allowing me to
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Hello my friend I am a mother of two little girls from Gaza, Sara (6 years old) and Ameera (5 years old) 💔Before the war, we lived a simple life with a home and dreams like any other family. Today, our home has been destroyed, and we are living in a damaged tent after long months of displacement, fear, hunger, and loss.
My daughters spend their days standing in long lines for water and bread instead of living their childhood 🥺 My husband was also injured while trying to bring food for us during the famine.
I created this fundraiser with a broken heart, only hoping to protect my daughters and give them a chance to live with dignity, safety, and hope again 🙏
Any donation, no matter how small, can help us survive. And if you cannot donate, sharing our story may help us reach someone who can, but please try to support us with a donation because my campaign is still new and my little girls desperately need your help 🌿
Hi, I am Max Langlois. I created this fundraiser for these two little girls. Please read their story below, share and donate if you can.
Please do not leave Sara and Ameera alone in this pain and suffering 💔
hello! idk if you're comfortable with this type of request but can i request an op81 x heiress!/royalty! read x mv3? max and oscar are a really good duo! 🥰🥰 thank youu
The Weight of Gold - MV3 & OP81
served with: max verstappen x fem!heiress!reader x oscar piastri
sypnopsis: as the heiress to F1's most powerful sponsor, Y/N has spent her entire life trapped in a cage of expectation. But when her father announces to the press, without her consent, his sham commitment to a mega-team, Max and Oscar enter the picture. As their paths cross around Y/N, the 2 rivals forge a silent, unbreakable alliance. They don't care about appearances, paddock gossip, or the threat of losing sponsorships. They're going to help Y/N regain control of her life and they have no intention of forcing her to choose between them when things settle down.
wc: 15.6k
note: hey besties!! I finally finished this fic, it took longer than I thought and it was longer than planned too 🤣🤣 I hope it's what you had in mind for your request and if not, I'm sorry 😪 I hope you enjoy it a lot, love you all!! 😽 (P.S. I hope being the heiress of a company is what you were expecting) ring inspo
The polished, untouchable heiress was a mirage. It just took Max and Oscar two entirely different moments to see the girl trapped underneath.
For Max, it happened three months before the Monaco breakdown, during the unrelenting rain of the Silverstone weekend.
Max was in a foul mood. Free Practice 2 had been a disaster of red flags and zero grip, and he had retreated to the quietest corner of the Red Bull Energy Station to escape the frantic engineers. The hospitality area was supposed to be empty, shut down for the evening to everyone except essential personnel.
But as Max rounded the corner toward the espresso bar, he heard a sharp, very un-heiress-like string of curses.
He stopped, leaning silently against the doorframe.
Y/N was standing in front of the massive, industrial espresso machine. She was wearing a flawless, structured white blazer, looking like she belonged on the cover of Forbes, but her posture was rigid with absolute fury. She jammed a button on the machine. Nothing happened. She hit it again, harder this time.
"Come on," Y/N hissed, her voice vibrating with a raw, desperate exhaustion that caught Max entirely off guard. "Just one cup. Do not do this to me."
The machine whirred, hissed aggressively, and spat a stream of cold, murky water all over the pristine marble counter—and directly onto the sleeve of her blazer.
Y/N froze. For a second, Max thought she was going to cry. The perfect, smiling asset that her father paraded around the grid looked completely shattered over a broken coffee machine.
Instead of crying, Y/N let out a breath, grabbed a fistful of napkins, and aggressively slammed them onto the counter. "Fine," she whispered fiercely to the machine. "Be useless. See if I care."
She kicked the base of the heavy metal counter with the toe of her designer heel—a sharp, violent thud that echoed in the empty room.
A low, involuntary chuckle escaped Max’s chest.
Y/N whipped around, her eyes wide, the mask slamming back into place so fast it gave Max whiplash. Her spine straightened, her chin lifted, and the furious, real girl vanished behind a polite, deadened smile.
"Max," she said smoothly, though he could see her pulse jumping at her throat. "I apologize. I didn't realize anyone was still here."
Max didn't smile back. He didn't like the mask. He pushed off the doorframe and walked slowly toward her, his eyes locked on hers. He didn't stop until he was entirely in her personal space, close enough to smell the vanilla perfume and the bitter scent of the spilled espresso.
He reached past her, his arm brushing her shoulder, and flipped a hidden override switch on the back of the machine. The digital screen hummed to life, glowing a warm green.
"You have to reset the boiler after the cleaning cycle," Max said, his voice a low rumble. He pulled a fresh cup, locked the portafilter in place, and hit the extraction button. A perfect, dark shot of espresso began to pour.
Y/N stared at the coffee, then slowly looked up at him. The polite smile faltered, just a fraction. "Right. Thank you."
Max picked up the cup and held it out to her. When her fingers brushed his to take it, he didn't let go right away. His blue eyes dragged over her ruined white sleeve, and then back up to her exhausted, guarded eyes.
"For what it's worth," Max murmured, his voice dropping into that blunt, intense honesty he reserved for very few people. "I liked you better when you were kicking the counter."
He finally released the cup and walked away, leaving Y/N staring after him, the first tiny crack forming in her armor.
For Oscar, the realization came a month later, beneath the glittering chandeliers of a VIP gala in Monza.
The room was suffocatingly loud, packed with team principals, celebrities, and the corporate elite. Oscar hated these events, but McLaren expected him to make an appearance. He was seated at a table near the back, quietly observing the room with a glass of sparkling water, when he noticed her.
Y/N was seated three tables away, trapped in a conversation with two tech billionaires and her father. From a distance, she looked perfect. She was nodding at the right intervals, offering polite, composed smiles, and holding a champagne flute with absolute elegance.
But Oscar was a driver who made his living noticing the micro-details that everyone else missed.
He watched the way her knuckles were entirely white where she gripped the stem of the glass. He noticed that her polite smile never once reached her eyes—they looked glassy, thousand-yard-staring through the men talking at her.
Then, Oscar saw her shift her weight slightly under the table. Her foot slipped out of her towering stiletto heel, just for a second, seeking relief on the carpeted floor. It was a tiny, desperate motion. She was miserable. She was being held hostage in plain sight.
Oscar set his water glass down. He didn't overthink it; he just acted.
He navigated through the crowded tables with quiet efficiency, approaching her father's circle just as one of the tech executives was launching into a droning monologue about market shares.
"Excuse me," Oscar interrupted smoothly, his voice polite but carrying enough authority to halt the conversation.
Her father looked annoyed, but seeing the McLaren driver, he forced a smile. "Ah, Piastri. Enjoying the evening?"
"Very much," Oscar lied effortlessly. He didn't look at her father; his dark, observant eyes dropped entirely to Y/N. "Actually, I was hoping to steal your daughter for a moment. McLaren’s aerodynamicist was just debating the drag coefficient of the new rear wing, and Y/N promised she'd settle the bet."
It was a completely absurd excuse. Y/N’s father knew it. The tech billionaires looked confused.
But Y/N looked at Oscar like he had just thrown her a life raft in the middle of a hurricane.
"Of course," Y/N said quickly. She slipped her foot seamlessly back into her heel and stood up, placing the untouched champagne on the table. "Duty calls. Gentlemen."
Oscar offered his arm, a perfectly gentlemanly gesture for the cameras, and she took it. Her grip on his forearm was tight, her fingers trembling slightly.
He led her away from the tables, bypassing the aerodynamicists entirely, and steered them out onto a quiet, dimly lit balcony overlooking the Italian gardens. The heavy glass doors shut behind them, cutting off the noise of the gala instantly.
Y/N dropped his arm, turning her back to the glass doors. She let out a long, shaky exhale, her shoulders slumping as the perfect posture dissolved.
"Aerodynamics?" Y/N asked, looking over at him.
Oscar leaned against the stone balustrade, crossing his arms comfortably. "It was either that, or tell them I needed you to explain the geopolitical history of the tire blanket ban. I went with the more believable lie."
For a second, Y/N just stared at him. And then, it happened.
A laugh slipped out of her. It wasn't the polite, breathy chuckle she gave the board members. It was a real, bright, surprised laugh that completely transformed her face. The heavy, guarded look in her eyes vanished, replaced by a brilliant, unfiltered relief.
Oscar felt the air knock out of his lungs. It was like watching a completely different person step out of the shadows.
"Thank you," Y/N breathed, a genuine smile lingering on her lips as she looked at him. "I think I owed you a rescue."
"Anytime," Oscar replied softly, his eyes tracing the new, relaxed lines of her face. He filed the sound of that laugh away in his mind, making a quiet, concrete decision right then and there.
He was going to make sure she never had to fake a smile around him again.
Once Max and Oscar had seen the girl beneath the heiress, they couldn't unsee her. And more dangerously, they couldn't stop looking for her.
As the European leg of the season dragged on, a bizarre, unspoken phenomenon began to occur in the paddock. Wherever Y/N was forced to stand for prolonged PR appearances, either a dark blue Red Bull cap or a papaya McLaren jacket would inevitably appear on the periphery.
It started subtle.
In Hungary, when a gaggle of aggressive photographers cornered Y/N near the VIP turnstiles, Oscar "accidentally" stopped to tie his shoe directly in their path, creating a bottleneck that allowed her to slip away into the Red Bull hospitality suite unnoticed.
Two weeks later in Spa, it was Max. Y/N had been forced to stand in the pouring rain on the grid while her father gave an excruciatingly long television interview. Max had finished his own media duties, but instead of retreating to the dry garage, he casually leaned against his car’s front wing, angling an oversized team umbrella just enough to shield her from the worst of the downpour. He didn't look at her. He didn't speak to her. But he stood in the freezing rain for ten solid minutes until her father finally moved on.
They were orbiting her. Separately. Silently.
But it was only a matter of time before their orbits collided.
The collision happened in the sweltering, suffocating humidity of the Singapore Grand Prix.
Y/N had been running on three hours of sleep, paraded through endless late-night sponsor dinners. By Saturday afternoon, the exhaustion was radiating off her in waves.
Max had been tracking her movements since Thursday. He had seen the dark circles under her eyes that her makeup artist couldn't quite hide, and the slight tremor in her hands when she handed her father a microphone during a press event. Max's protective instincts were practically vibrating.
After Free Practice 3, Max bypassed his debrief entirely. He grabbed a bottle of electrolyte water and walked straight out the back of the Red Bull garage, intending to pull Y/N into his driver’s room the moment she stepped out of the FIA hospitality suite.
But when he rounded the corner, she wasn't there.
Max’s eyes narrowed, scanning the crowded paddock. He spotted the trailing edge of her father's entourage heading toward the Paddock Club, but Y/N wasn't with them.
Max moved with predatory focus, checking the usual hiding spots. The terrace. The media center fire escape. Nothing.
Finally, acting on a gut instinct he couldn't entirely explain, Max crossed enemy lines. He walked straight into the McLaren hospitality center.
The papaya-clad mechanics and PR reps stared at the reigning World Champion striding into their territory, but nobody was brave enough to stop him. Max ignored them all, heading straight for the private driver rooms at the back.
He didn't bother knocking on Oscar's door. He just opened it.
The blast of icy air conditioning hit Max first. Then, he saw her.
Y/N was curled up in the corner of Oscar's small, heavily air-conditioned driver room, fast asleep. She had a McLaren team towel draped over her legs to combat the chill, and her head was resting against the plush fabric of the sofa. The tense, rigid lines of her face were completely smoothed out. She looked peaceful.
Oscar was sitting in the armchair opposite her, scrolling through data on his tablet. He didn't look up when the door opened, completely unbothered by the intrusion.
"Close the door, Max," Oscar murmured quietly, finally flicking his dark eyes up to meet Max’s. "You're letting the heat in."
Max stepped inside, letting the heavy door click shut behind him. He looked from the sleeping girl to the McLaren driver, his jaw tight. The bottle of electrolyte water in his hand suddenly felt redundant. Oscar had already placed a fresh, unopened bottle on the coffee table right next to Y/N’s phone.
"Her father is looking for her," Max said, keeping his voice to a low rumble so he wouldn't wake her.
"I know," Oscar replied calmly, setting his tablet down. "I told his assistant she got called into a meeting with Zak about the branding on the rear wing. Bought her an hour."
Max crossed his arms, staring at Oscar. The territorial fire that always burned in Max’s chest flared, urging him to grab Y/N, wake her up, and drag her back to his own territory. But as he watched Oscar—who was sitting guard with the exact same lethal, quiet devotion that Max felt—the fire shifted into something else. Recognition.
"You're tracking her," Max stated bluntly.
"So are you," Oscar countered smoothly. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze locking with Max's in a silent challenge. "I saw you block that Netflix crew from her in the pit lane yesterday."
"I saw you accidentally spill your water on that creepy tech investor who wouldn't leave her alone in Miami," Max shot back.
The two drivers stared at each other in the dim light of the room, the sleeping heiress breathing softly between them. They were apex predators in a cutthroat sport, trained to exploit weaknesses and destroy the competition. Sharing was not in their DNA.
But Y/N wasn't a championship trophy. She was a girl drowning in a gilded cage. And for the first time, Max and Oscar looked at each other and realized that neither of them had the power to pull her out alone without causing a PR explosion that would drag her down with them.
Max let out a slow, sharp exhale, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. He walked over, setting his electrolyte water on the table right next to Oscar's.
"Her dad’s people will start swarming this building in twenty minutes," Max said, his tone shifting from adversarial to tactical. "If you take her out the back exit, I'll go out the front and start an argument with Laurent in plain sight. Every camera in the paddock will turn toward me."
Oscar’s mouth twitched into a slow, begrudging smirk. He looked at Max, the silent rivalry transforming instantly into an ironclad alliance.
"Distraction duty again, Verstappen?" Oscar asked quietly. "Careful. I might start thinking you're a team player."
"Shut up, Piastri," Max muttered, though a faint smirk pulled at the corner of his own mouth. He looked down at Y/N one last time, his eyes softening completely, before turning back to the door. "Twenty minutes. Don't let them see her."
"I won't," Oscar promised.
Max slipped out the door, the click of the lock sealing the unspoken treaty. The grid didn't know it yet, and neither did Y/N's father, but the war had just officially begun.
-
The roar of the engines had faded hours ago, replaced by the equally deafening hum of the Paddock Club. Y/N stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, her champagne glass untouched, functioning exactly as she was trained to: as the perfect, smiling centerpiece of her family’s empire.
Her father, the CEO of the title sponsor plastered across half the grid, was currently holding court by the bar. Every time he glanced her way, Y/N knew it was an unspoken command to straighten her posture, to laugh politely at a stale joke told by a billionaire investor, to look the part of the dutiful heiress. Her heels dug into the carpet, a sharp, constant reminder of the cage she was standing in.
"If you grip that glass any tighter, it's going to shatter."
The voice was calm, pitched perfectly just under the noise of the room. Y/N didn’t have to turn around to know who it was. She allowed her shoulders to drop a fraction of an inch as Oscar stepped up beside her. He wasn't in his race suit anymore, dressed instead in his team kit that looked effortlessly comfortable compared to her suffocating silk dress.
"If it shatters, it might give me an excuse to leave," Y/N murmured, finally unclenching her jaw.
Oscar took a sip of his water, his eyes tracking the crowded room with mild detachment. He was always like this—the quiet center of a hurricane. "I could always accidentally spill this on you. Ruin the dress. Tragic wardrobe malfunction. You'd have to retreat to your hotel."
A genuine, albeit tired, smile touched Y/N’s lips. "Tempting, Piastri. But my mother would simply have a backup dress materialized within three minutes. I'm stuck here until the board members are sufficiently charmed."
Oscar shifted slightly, angling his body to subtly block the line of sight between Y/N and the group of executives her father was entertaining. It was a small, deliberate movement. An anchor dropping.
"Take five minutes," Oscar said softly, not looking at her so as not to draw attention. "Go out to the terrace. It's empty. Breathe for a second."
Y/N met his gaze briefly. His dark eyes were steady, observant. He always saw the cracks before anyone else did, noticing the exact moment she reached her limit. "Thank you," she breathed.
Slipping out the heavy glass doors onto the dimly lit terrace was like breaking the surface of the water after holding her breath for too long. The cool night air of the circuit washed over her, and Y/N let her eyes close, leaning her weight against the railing. For exactly two minutes, it was quiet.
Then, the heavy door clicked open.
"You're hiding."
Y/N’s eyes snapped open. Max Verstappen stood in the doorway, his team cap pulled low, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked entirely out of place on the VIP terrace, carrying a raw intensity that demanded space. He didn't wait for an invitation, stepping out into the cool air and letting the glass door swing shut behind him, cutting off the noise of the party completely.
"I'm not hiding," Y/N lied smoothly, straightening up out of habit. "I'm getting fresh air."
Max scoffed, a blunt, dismissive sound. He walked over, invading her personal space just enough to make the air between them feel electrified. "You're hiding, Y/N. Your dad is looking for you in there to parade you in front of the new tech sponsors."
Her stomach dropped. The mask she had just managed to peel off slammed back into place. "I should go back inside, then."
She moved to step past him, but Max caught her wrist. His grip wasn't tight, but it was solid. Grounding. He looked down at her, his blue eyes sharp and unyielding, stripping away the polished heiress persona in a second. Max knew pressure. He knew what it felt like to have a parent’s heavy expectations dictating every move, turning a passion into a prison.
"You don't have to go back in right now," Max said, his voice dropping low, losing the abrasive edge it usually held for the press.
"Max, I can't just disappear."
"Yes, you can." He let go of her wrist, instead stepping into her line of sight to the door, effectively shielding her from anyone who might look out. "I've got the key to my driver's room. The couch is terrible, but it's soundproof. No cameras. No sponsors. Just ten minutes of absolute silence. You look like you're going to pass out if you smile one more time."
Y/N looked between Max’s fierce, protective stance and the glass door leading back to the flashing lights and suffocating expectations. She thought of Oscar, standing guard near the bar, giving her the quiet excuse to leave, and Max, standing in front of her, offering a literal escape route.
"Ten minutes," Y/N whispered, her voice cracking slightly under the weight of her own exhaustion.
Max’s expression softened, just for a fraction of a second. "Ten minutes," he agreed, gesturing toward the back stairwell. "Come on."
The descent from the Paddock Club to the ground floor was a blur of concrete stairs and service hallways. Max moved with practiced efficiency, taking the routes designed for drivers trying to dodge the media pen. He stayed half a step ahead of Y/N, his broad shoulders cutting a path through the lingering crew members until they reached the Red Bull motorhome.
When Max finally pushed open the door to his driver’s room and locked it behind them, the absolute silence of the space hit Y/N like a physical weight.
There was no clinking of crystal glasses, no camera shutters, no forced laughter. Just the low, steady hum of the air conditioning. Y/N exhaled a breath it felt like she had been holding since Thursday’s press conferences. She kicked off her heels without asking, her bare feet sinking into the utilitarian carpet as she collapsed onto the small, stiff sofa.
Max watched her from the center of the room. He didn't offer platitudes or ask if she was okay, because they both knew the answer. Instead, he reached into his duffel bag, pulled out a thick, oversized team hoodie, and tossed it to her.
"Put that on," Max ordered gruffly. "You're shivering."
"It's just the adrenaline leaving my system," Y/N murmured, though she gratefully pulled the heavy fabric over her head. The contrast of the dark blue cotton over her custom designer silk dress was ridiculous, but it smelled like motor oil, clean laundry, and him. It felt like armor.
Max grabbed a bottle of water from the mini-fridge and handed it to her before leaning against the edge of his massage table, crossing his arms. His blue eyes traced the exhaustion mapping her features.
"He’s suffocating you, Y/N." The bluntness was classic Max. No sugarcoating, no PR-approved phrasing.
Y/N stared at the water bottle in her hands. "It's the board, Max. Not just my father. If I don't play the game, they'll restructure the company and push me out entirely. I was born to do this."
"You weren't born to be a prop," Max shot back, his jaw tightening. "I know what it looks like when someone is pushing you until you break. If you let them, they will take everything until there is nothing of you left."
Before Y/N could process the raw, heavy truth in his voice, a sharp knock rapped against the door.
Max’s head snapped toward the sound, his posture instantly rigid. "I told my trainer I wasn't to be bothered," he muttered, stalking toward the door. He yanked it open just a fraction, ready to snap at whoever was on the other side.
Instead of a Red Bull staff member, Oscar Piastri stood in the hallway, looking entirely unfazed by Max’s lethal glare.
Oscar had his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his jeans. "Didn't think you'd be giving paddock tours on a Friday night, mate," he said, his voice mild and unbothered.
Max narrowed his eyes, instinctively shifting his weight to block Oscar’s view into the room. "What do you want, Piastri?"
"To return this." Oscar held up a small, glittering designer clutch. "She left it on the terrace. Figured you wouldn't want her mother’s PR assistant finding it and tracking her down."
Max hesitated, and in that brief second, Oscar effortlessly pushed the door open a few inches wider, his dark eyes instantly finding Y/N huddled on the couch in the oversized Red Bull hoodie. A flicker of something territorial flashed across Oscar's usually placid expression, but it was gone before it could fully register, replaced by quiet relief.
"How did you know we were here?" Max demanded, his voice low and defensive.
"I saw you both take the service stairs," Oscar replied calmly, finally looking back at Max. "And it's a good thing I did. Her dad cornered me by the bar three minutes later asking if I'd seen her."
Y/N’s head shot up, a spike of panic piercing through the calm she had just found. "What did you say?"
Oscar stepped fully into the room, gently pushing the door shut behind him until it clicked in the lock. He walked over, setting the clutch on the small table next to her.
"I told him you looked incredibly pale, complained of dizzy spells, and that I practically forced you to go to the FIA medical center for hydration," Oscar said smoothly. He looked down at her, his expression softening entirely. "It’s a nightmare to get clearance to go in there if you aren't team personnel. Your dad isn't going to try."
Max let out a short, incredulous breath, staring at the McLaren driver. "The medical center? That buys her maybe thirty minutes before they start making calls."
Oscar turned to face Max, the height difference negligible, the contrast in their energy stark. Max was all fire and defensive tension; Oscar was ice-cold strategy.
"Exactly," Oscar said, his tone perfectly even. "So she gets thirty minutes of peace, Max. Not ten."
The tension in the small room thickened, heavy and electric. Max and Oscar stared at each other, a silent, assessing standoff between two apex predators who suddenly realized they were guarding the same territory. Neither stepped back. Neither looked away.
Y/N pulled her knees to her chest under the oversized hoodie, watching the two drivers. For the first time all weekend, she didn't feel like a pawn on a chessboard. She felt safe.
The silence in the room stretched until it was wire-taut. Max’s jaw worked, his eyes locked on Oscar with the kind of predatory focus he usually reserved for turn one on a Sunday. Oscar merely held the gaze, his posture relaxed, though the slight tilt of his chin betrayed a stubbornness that matched Max’s own.
"You can stop sizing each other up," Y/N murmured from the couch, her voice muffled slightly by the collar of Max’s hoodie. "I don't have the energy to break up a fight."
The tension snapped. Max broke eye contact first, letting out a sharp, frustrated breath as he resumed pacing the narrow strip of floor between the massage table and the wall. Oscar let out a quiet exhale, his shoulders dropping as he moved to sit on the edge of the small coffee table, placing him just inches from Y/N's knees.
"Not fighting," Oscar said softly, his eyes scanning her face. "Just figuring out logistics. You have about twenty-two minutes left before the medical center excuse expires and your mother’s assistant starts tracking your phone."
Max stopped pacing. "Turn it off."
"Max, I can't just—"
"Turn it off, Y/N," Max repeated, stepping closer. The raw command in his voice wasn't aimed at her in anger, but in fierce, unyielding protection. "If they can't reach you, they can't control you. Just for tonight."
Y/N hesitated, her fingers trembling slightly as she reached for her phone resting inside the glittering clutch. The screen was already lit up with half a dozen missed calls. Before she could overthink the consequences, Oscar’s hand covered hers. His skin was warm, his grip steadying.
"I'll take the battery hit for you," Oscar offered casually. He took the phone from her shaking fingers, held down the power button, and tossed the lifeless device onto the counter. "Oops. Must have died. Tragic."
A short, genuine laugh punched out of Y/N’s chest, the sound surprising all three of them. Max’s rigid posture relaxed just a fraction at the sound of it. He stepped into the space beside Oscar, leaning against the edge of the coffee table. The two drivers were suddenly a united front, a barricade of muscle and team kit standing between her and the world outside the door.
"Okay, her phone is dead," Max said, all business now, his strategic mind taking over. "But she can't go back to her family’s hotel. Her dad will be waiting in the lobby with a PR brief for tomorrow."
"I have a room booked under my trainer's name," Oscar said smoothly, not looking up from where his thumb was absently tracing a soothing pattern against Y/N’s ankle, right where the strap of her heels had dug violently into her skin. "Different hotel. Totally off the grid from the title sponsors."
Max narrowed his eyes, processing the offer. He didn't like the idea of Oscar taking her away, but he couldn't deny the logic. Max's own hotel was heavily guarded, but also heavily monitored by media. "How do you get her out of the paddock? If she walks out in that dress, even with my hoodie on, someone will recognize her."
"I can take my rental car around to the service gate behind the Red Bull hospitality," Oscar suggested. "It bypasses the main turnstiles."
"No," Max countered instantly. "The service gate is swarming with Netflix crews right now. You take her through the McLaren garage. It's Friday night, half your mechanics are already at the pub. I'll take my Honda out the front gate and create a bottleneck at the media pen. They’ll all swarm my car looking for a quote about qualifying, and you drive her out the back while they're distracted."
Oscar looked up at Max, a slow, begrudging smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Using yourself as bait, Verstappen? That's terribly noble of you."
"Shut up, Piastri," Max muttered, though there was no real venom in it. He looked down at Y/N, his blue eyes softening as they swept over her exhausted frame. "Does that work for you? You stay at Oscar’s shadow-room tonight. Tomorrow, we figure out the rest."
Y/N looked between them. Max, who was willing to throw himself to the media wolves just to buy her a clear exit. And Oscar, who was currently rubbing the ache out of her feet while quietly organizing a safe haven. The sheer weight of their combined care was terrifying, entirely foreign to a girl who was only ever valued for what she could provide.
"Why are you both doing this?" she whispered, her voice dangerously thick with unshed tears. "If my father finds out either of you helped me disappear, he could threaten your sponsorships. He’s ruthless."
Max reached out, his calloused fingers brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The touch was impossibly gentle for a man who lived his life at two hundred miles an hour. "Let him try," Max said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "I don't care about the sponsors, Y/N."
Oscar’s hand slipped from her ankle, his fingers coming to rest lightly over her knee, anchoring her to the present. "Neither do I," Oscar added, his voice a quiet vow in the sterile room. "We care about you. Now, let's get you out of this cage."
The execution of the plan was ruthlessly efficient, a stark reminder that Y/N was currently in the hands of two men who made split-second, high-stakes decisions for a living.
Max handed her a spare Red Bull cap, pulling the brim down low over her eyes. He lingered for a fraction of a second, his hands resting heavy and warm on her shoulders.
"Keep your head down. Don't look at the cameras if there are any left," Max instructed, his thumb brushing against her collarbone in a fleeting, grounding touch. He looked over her head to Oscar. "Text me when she's behind a locked door."
"Drive safe, mate," Oscar replied smoothly, picking up his car keys. "Try not to run over any journalists."
Max gave a dark, amused scoff before slipping out the door. Two minutes later, Y/N and Oscar followed.
The walk through the back corridors of the paddock was a masterclass in stealth. Oscar moved with a quiet, unhurried confidence, instinctively positioning himself between Y/N and any wandering mechanics. They slipped through the darkened McLaren garage, the sleek, papaya-colored cars sleeping under their covers, entirely devoid of the glamorous chaos they represented in the daylight.
When they reached Oscar’s nondescript rental SUV in the back lot, he opened the passenger door for her, making sure she was completely shielded before shutting it silently.
As Oscar pulled out onto the perimeter road, heading for the service exit, Y/N caught a glimpse of the main gates through the trees. It was a circus of flashing lights and swarming bodies, entirely centered around Max’s Honda. Max had parked at a ridiculous angle, blocking half the exit, and was currently leaning against his hood, casually giving a Netflix crew the most monotonous, drawn-out answers about tire degradation conceivable.
"He really does have a flair for the dramatic," Oscar murmured from the driver's seat, a hint of genuine amusement in his voice.
"He's going to get fined for blocking the exit," Y/N said, a weak smile breaking through her exhaustion.
"Red Bull will pay it. Worth every penny." Oscar merged onto the dark, quiet highway, the chaotic glow of the circuit finally fading in the rearview mirror. "You can put the seat back. We've got a twenty-minute drive."
The silence in the car wasn't heavy like the silence in the VIP suite; it was expansive. Safe. Y/N leaned her head against the cool glass of the window, the steady hum of the tires against the asphalt lulling her into a state of hazy relief. By the time Oscar navigated into the underground parking garage of a modest, off-the-grid hotel, her eyelids were heavy.
Oscar handled the logistics flawlessly. They bypassed the lobby entirely, taking the service elevator straight to the top floor. He unlocked the door to a standard, unassuming suite—no crystal chandeliers, no sprawling terrace, just a quiet room with a large bed, a sofa, and heavy blackout curtains.
"Sanctuary," Oscar announced quietly, tossing the keycard onto the counter. "I'm ordering room service. What do you want?"
"Just tea," Y/N murmured, hovering awkwardly in the center of the room. The adrenaline had completely vanished, leaving behind an ache in her bones that felt impossibly deep. She reached up to pull the heavy hoodie over her head, intending to give it back, but realized underneath she was still trapped in the suffocating, corset-boned silk dress her mother had forced her into.
She reached around to her back, her fingers fumbling blindly with the hidden zipper. It was stuck, the delicate fabric caught in the tiny metal teeth. A frustrated, choked sound escaped her throat, a sudden wave of irrational tears prickling her eyes. It was just a zipper, but it felt like the last chain holding her to the cage.
"Hey. Stop. You're going to tear it, and then your mother will definitely execute us."
Oscar was there instantly. He gently swatted her hands away, stepping in close behind her. Y/N dropped her arms, her head falling forward in defeat.
"It's stuck," she whispered, her voice dangerously fragile. "I can't get it off."
"I've got it. Deep breath," Oscar said softly.
His knuckles brushed lightly against her spine as he worked the fabric free. There was no hesitation, no awkwardness—just the steady, methodical patience of a man who knew how to untangle a mess. With a quiet click, the zipper gave way, sliding smoothly down her back.
The corset loosened, and Y/N finally, truly breathed.
"Thank you," she breathed out, stepping forward and catching the dress before it slipped off her shoulders entirely.
"Bathroom is through there. Take your time. There's one of my clean t-shirts on the counter." Oscar stepped back, giving her space immediately. He picked up Max’s discarded hoodie from the armchair and held it out to her. "Keep this. It's colder in here than it is at the track."
When Y/N emerged from the bathroom twenty minutes later, the transformation was complete. The heiress was gone. Her face was scrubbed clean of the heavy, flawless makeup, her hair was tied up in a messy knot, and she was drowning in Oscar’s soft grey t-shirt and Max’s oversized blue hoodie.
Oscar was sitting on the floor, leaning against the base of the sofa, a pot of chamomile tea resting on the coffee table beside him. He looked up, his dark eyes tracking over her bare, scrubbed face and the drowning layers of their team gear. The corner of his mouth ticked upward into a soft, private smile.
"Better?" he asked.
Y/N walked over, sinking onto the floor right next to him instead of taking the couch. She pulled her knees to her chest, her shoulder brushing against his. "So much better."
Oscar poured her a cup of tea, sliding it toward her. Just then, his phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at the screen, and the soft smile widened.
"Max?" Y/N guessed, wrapping her hands around the warm mug.
"Yeah. He says the media finally let him leave. He wants to know if you're asleep yet." Oscar picked up the phone, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. He looked at her, his expression turning serious, yet incredibly warm. "He also wants to know if he should bring breakfast tomorrow before we figure out how to handle your family."
Y/N stared at the steaming tea. Tomorrow, the war with her family’s PR machine would begin. Tomorrow, the consequences of her disappearance would hit the paddock. But tonight, she was sitting on the floor of a shadow-room, wrapped in the protective layers of two men who were fully prepared to burn that machine to the ground for her.
"Tell him yes," Y/N said softly, leaning her head against Oscar’s shoulder. "Tell him to come over."
Oscar’s arm slipped naturally around her waist, anchoring her against his side as he typed out the reply. "Done."
-
The knock on the door came at 6:15 AM, a sharp, rhythmic rap that dragged Y/N out of a deep, dreamless sleep.
She blinked against the dim light of the hotel room. She was tangled in the sheets of the massive bed, still drowning in Oscar’s t-shirt and Max’s hoodie. The sofa was empty, but a neatly folded blanket sat on one end.
The door clicked open, and Y/N heard the low, gravelly sound of Max’s voice, followed immediately by Oscar’s quiet murmur. She pushed herself up, padding barefoot into the small living area just as Max set a cardboard tray of coffees and a white paper bag on the kitchen counter.
Max was in street clothes—dark jeans and a fitted black t-shirt, a Red Bull cap pulled low over his messy hair. He looked exhausted, the shadows under his eyes speaking of a restless night, but the moment he saw her, his entire posture shifted. His shoulders dropped, and his blue eyes swept over her, lingering for a heavy, satisfied second on the sight of her wearing his oversized team hoodie.
"You look better," Max stated. It wasn't a question. He picked up a cup of coffee and walked it over to her, pressing the warm cardboard into her hands. "Oat milk latte. Two sugars. Right?"
Y/N stared at the cup, her heart doing a strange, painful stutter. "How did you know my coffee order?"
"I pay attention," Max said simply, leaning against the back of the sofa. He didn't elaborate, but he didn't have to. The idea of Max Verstappen—ruthless, hyper-focused World Champion—quietly noting down her coffee preferences during crowded hospitality meetings was enough to make her breath catch.
Oscar emerged from the bathroom, fully dressed in his McLaren kit for the day, his hair slightly damp. He walked over to the counter, pulled a pastry from the bag, and tossed it onto a napkin before grabbing his own coffee. "Morning. How's the escapee?"
"Caffeinated, now," Y/N said, offering a small, fragile smile. She took a sip of the coffee. It was perfect.
But the domestic peace shattered exactly ten seconds later.
Oscar’s phone, resting face-up on the counter, lit up with a barrage of notifications. The buzzing was violent, relentless. Max’s phone in his pocket started vibrating simultaneously.
Oscar set his coffee down, his brow furrowing as he unlocked his screen. The quiet, relaxed aura around him evaporated instantly, replaced by a cold, sharp stillness.
"What is it?" Y/N asked, the coffee suddenly turning to ash in her mouth.
Oscar didn't answer. He just turned the phone around so she could see the screen. It was an alert from a major motorsport publication, but it had nothing to do with racing.
BREAKING: F1 Paddock Royalty to Wed. [Family Company] Heiress Y/N Engaged to Tech Billionaire Richard Vance in Mega-Merger.
Below the headline was a perfectly curated, PR-approved statement from her father, expressing his "overwhelming joy" at the union of their two families. There was a photo of her attached—one taken weeks ago, photoshopped to perfection, standing next to a man who looked at her like she was a shiny new acquisition for his portfolio.
The air in the room vanished.
"No," Y/N choked out, taking a step back. The mug trembled in her hands, coffee sloshing over the brim onto her fingers. "No, we hadn't—I never agreed. I told them no."
Max snatched the phone out of Oscar’s hand, his eyes scanning the article. A muscle feathered in his jaw, tight and dangerous. "He released it to the press to force your hand," Max realized, his voice a low, lethal snarl. "Because you disappeared last night. He's trying to trap you in the spotlight so you have to come back."
"If I deny it publicly, they'll pull my shares. They'll ruin my reputation, leak stories about my mental health, whatever it takes to protect the stock price," Y/N whispered, panic clawing at her throat. She looked between the two drivers, the reality of her gilded cage slamming shut around her. "You have to go."
Max’s head snapped up. "What?"
"You have Free Practice 3 in two hours, and Qualifying after that. If my father finds out I'm with you—if the media links you to this—he will drag your teams into a PR nightmare. He sponsors half the grid!" Y/N was rambling now, moving toward the bedroom to find her discarded clothes. "I have to go back. I have to play the part, or he'll destroy—"
"Stop."
Oscar moved faster than she expected. He caught her by the shoulders, his grip firm and entirely grounding, halting her frantic retreat.
"Breathe, Y/N," Oscar commanded softly, his dark eyes locking onto hers, anchoring her to the floor. "We aren't leaving. And you aren't going back there to smile for cameras next to a man you despise."
"Oscar, you don't understand how ruthless they are—"
"I don't care," Max interrupted, his voice cracking like a whip. He stalked over, invading her space, his chest practically brushing her back as he boxed her in with Oscar. "Let him try to ruin me. I drive cars fast, Y/N. I don't give a shit about corporate politics or your father's money. You are not marrying him."
The sheer ferocity in Max’s voice sent a shiver down her spine. He wasn't just protective; he was possessive, a raw, burning fire fighting the ice in her veins.
"We have time," Oscar said calmly, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles into her shoulders. "It's Saturday. The paddock is focused on Qualifying. You stay here today. Do not turn your phone on. Do not look at the news."
"And what happens tomorrow?" Y/N asked, a tear finally slipping hot and fast down her cheek. "I can't hide forever."
Max reached out, his rough thumb catching the tear before it could drop. The gentleness of the gesture was entirely at odds with the storm brewing in his eyes.
"Tomorrow, we win," Max said, his gaze flicking briefly to Oscar, a silent, ironclad agreement passing between the two rivals. "We handle the track today. You rest. And tonight, we figure out how to blow up your father’s empire."
The hours stretching between morning and evening were agonizingly slow. Y/N paced the length of the hotel suite, the heavy silence of the room pressing in on her. She had kept the television off for most of the day, terrified of seeing her own face plastered across the news networks alongside a man she loathed.
But when the clock struck three, she couldn't help herself. She found the remote and switched on the feed for Qualifying.
The broadcast immediately cut to the Red Bull garage. And there, standing behind the engineers, looking immaculate and furiously impatient, was her father. The commentators were already buzzing about the "wedding of the decade," casually mentioning that the bride-to-be was entirely absent from the paddock today due to a "minor illness."
Y/N felt physically sick. She watched as Max strapped into his car, his visor snapping down, hiding his eyes.
When the session started, it was brutally clear that Max was driving with a lethal, barely contained rage. He didn't just clip the apexes; he punished them. His RB21 looked like it was glued to the track, defying physics, setting purple sectors that made the commentators gasp.
Oscar, on the other hand, drove with terrifying, surgical precision. Where Max was a sledgehammer, Oscar was a scalpel. He carved through the circuit, unfazed by the traffic, entirely immune to the chaos unfolding in the garages.
They locked out the front row. Max P1. Oscar P2.
When Max climbed out of his car in parc fermé, the trackside reporter immediately shoved a microphone in his face. Y/N held her breath.
"Max, incredible lap! Your title sponsor's CEO is in the garage today celebrating a massive family milestone—any words on the big engagement?"
Max ripped his balaclava off, his chest heaving, his blue eyes instantly locking onto the camera lens. It felt as though he was looking straight through the screen, directly into the hotel room.
"I don't care about PR stunts," Max said, his voice cold and abrasive. "I'm here to race. The people who matter know where I stand." He shoved past the reporter without waiting for a follow-up, leaving a stunned silence in his wake.
A few meters away, Oscar was approached with a similar question. He smiled, a tight, polite expression that didn't reach his eyes. "I think the only commitments that matter this weekend are the ones made on the track. Excuse me."
Y/N let out a shaky breath, collapsing back onto the sofa. They were daring her father to retaliate. They were drawing the fire away from her and onto themselves.
It was nearly 8:00 PM when the hotel door finally clicked open.
The heavy, metallic smell of adrenaline, sweat, and champagne immediately filled the small suite. Max and Oscar stepped inside, looking utterly exhausted.
Y/N was waiting for them at the small dining table, an open hotel notepad in front of her. She had spent the last four hours tearing apart her family’s corporate structure in her head. The panic from the morning had burned away, leaving behind a cold, sharp clarity.
Max dropped his helmet on the floor and crossed the room in three massive strides. He didn't say a word, just pulled her up from the chair and wrapped his arms tightly around her. The embrace was crushing, possessive, and exactly what she needed. Y/N buried her face in his shoulder, gripping the fabric of his race suit.
"We saw him in the paddock," Max rumbled against her hair. "He looked like he wanted to murder someone."
"Let him," Oscar said quietly, walking over. He didn't join the hug, but his hand came up to rest on the back of Y/N’s neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin right at her hairline. The dual contact—Max’s overwhelming heat and Oscar’s steadying touch—anchored her completely.
Y/N pulled back just enough to look at both of them. "You two are going to get fired. Or fined. Or both. Did you hear your own interviews?"
"I meant every word," Max said stubbornly, his hands dropping to her waist, keeping her close.
"McLaren pays my fines," Oscar added with a dry smirk, his hand sliding from her neck to rest on her shoulder. He looked down at the notepad on the table, his eyes narrowing slightly at the frantic, scribbled diagrams. "What's this?"
Y/N took a deep breath, stepping back to gesture at the paper. "It's my way out. You said we were going to blow up his empire tonight. I figured out how."
Max leaned against the table, crossing his arms, all his attention zeroed in on her. "I'm listening."
"My father controls the board because he holds a 40% majority," Y/N explained, her voice steadying as the plan took shape out loud. "I have 12% in a trust that fully vested on my last birthday. He thinks I’m too afraid of the family name to ever use it against him. But if I vote my shares with the minority stakeholders—who hate this tech merger, by the way—we can block the acquisition. The engagement becomes completely useless to him."
Oscar picked up the notepad, studying her frantic math. "You have the voting power to override the CEO."
"Yes," Y/N said. "But to do it, I have to go public. I can't just quietly break the engagement. I have to humiliate him in front of the exact people he’s trying to impress. I have to call a press conference and detonate the whole thing."
Max stared at her, his blue eyes darkening with a mixture of immense pride and something far more dangerous. He reached out, tracing the line of her jaw with his knuckles. "You’re going to war with them."
"I am," Y/N whispered, leaning into his touch. "But I don't know how to get a microphone tomorrow without his security shutting it down."
Oscar set the notepad down. He looked at Max, the same silent, strategic communication passing between them that had happened the night before in the Red Bull driver's room.
"They won't shut it down if you're holding the microphone in the FIA media pen," Oscar said slowly, a brilliant, ruthless plan forming in his eyes.
"Only drivers and team principals are allowed in the pen," Y/N pointed out.
Max let out a low, dark chuckle. He reached out, grabbing Oscar by the shoulder in a rare display of complete camaraderie. "Not if she walks in on the arm of the race winner. The FIA won't dare drag her out on live television if she's standing between P1 and P2."
Y/N's breath caught. "You want to smuggle me into the post-race press conference?"
"We are going to walk you through the front door," Oscar corrected softly. He stepped closer, closing the small triangle between the three of them. His dark eyes were fierce, stripping away his usual calm facade to reveal the iron beneath. "You wear the team gear. You walk in with us. And you burn his absolute house down."
Sunday morning dawned with the heavy, electric tension that only race day could bring.
The hotel suite was quiet, save for the hum of the air conditioning. Y/N stood by the window, watching the distant grandstands filling up with a sea of fans. She had swapped the oversized hoodies for something completely different: a sharp, tailored black blazer and matching trousers she had requested Oscar’s trainer smuggle out of her apartment. It was armor. She wasn't going into the paddock as a lost heiress in a silk dress; she was going in as a majority shareholder.
A warm hand settled on the small of her back, the thumb tracing the line of her spine through the blazer.
"Nervous?" Oscar’s voice was a low, soothing hum near her ear. He was wearing the team's jersey and blue jeans.
"Terrified," Y/N admitted, leaning back slightly against his chest. "If I miscalculate this, my father will freeze my assets and have me escorted out by security before I even open my mouth."
"He won't get close enough to try," Max said, walking into the living area. He was tossing an FIA VIP All-Access lanyard between his hands. It wasn't one of her father's heavily branded corporate passes; it was a personal guest pass. Max Verstappen - Guest 1.
Max stepped up to her, slipping the lanyard over her head. He didn't let go of the thick fabric strap right away, using it to pull her just a fraction closer. His blue eyes traced her sharp, commanding outfit, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face.
"You look dangerous," Max murmured approvingly.
"I feel like I'm about to jump out of a plane without a parachute," Y/N breathed, her hands resting lightly on his chest.
Oscar stepped to her other side, his hand sliding down her arm to briefly intertwine his fingers with hers. "You aren't jumping alone. My trainer is going to bring you to the paddock entrance with ten laps to go. You wait in the FIA hospitality suite—it’s neutral ground, your dad's people can't get in there. When the checkered flag drops, we meet you at the entrance to the media pen."
Max leaned down, pressing a hard, lingering kiss to her forehead. "We'll see you at the finish line."
Watching the race from the sterile quiet of the FIA hospitality suite was torture.
Y/N stared at the television monitors, her heart hammering against her ribs. The commentators were shouting themselves hoarse. Max and Oscar had pulled away from the rest of the grid by lap twenty, turning the Grand Prix into a two-man war of attrition. They traded fastest laps, their cars dancing on the absolute edge of grip. It was a terrifying, beautiful display of synchronized aggression.
They weren't just driving to win. They were driving to make a statement.
On lap 70, the checkered flag waved. Max crossed the line first, Oscar a mere six-tenths of a second behind him.
Y/N didn't wait to watch the cool-down lap. She stood up, her pulse deafening in her ears, and walked out the door.
The corridor leading to the media pen was chaotic, thick with mechanics, PR reps, and journalists preparing for the top-three interviews. Y/N stayed back in the shadows, pulling the brim of Max's spare Red Bull cap low over her eyes. She watched the monitors as Max and Oscar completed the podium ceremony. They barely sprayed the champagne, their faces set in grim, singular focus before they abandoned the podium entirely.
Five minutes later, the double doors at the end of the hall banged open.
Max and Oscar strode through, still in their sweat-soaked race suits, helmets dangling from their hands. The energy radiating off them was lethal. The crowd of journalists naturally parted, intimidated by the sheer intensity of the 1-2 finishers walking side-by-side.
Max’s eyes scanned the corridor, snapping to Y/N instantly. He didn't smile, but his jaw unclenched. Oscar met her gaze a second later, a subtle nod of his head signaling the start.
Y/N stepped out of the shadows.
The moment she joined them, the air in the corridor seemed to ignite. Murmurs ripped through the crowd. Y/N stepped perfectly into the space between the two drivers. Max immediately placed a heavy, grounding hand on her lower back, while Oscar stepped half a pace ahead, boxing her in from the flashing cameras.
They walked into the media pen as a united, impenetrable front.
The trackside reporter, microphone in hand, gaped at them. "Max, Oscar—congratulations. And... Y/N, we didn't expect to see you here today, especially after yesterday's incredible engagement announcement—"
"Stop," Max ordered, his voice echoing off the temporary walls. The entire pen went dead silent.
Before the reporter could recover, a furious shout broke through the crowd. "Y/N!"
Her father pushed his way to the front of the barricade, his face purple with rage. He was flanked by two massive corporate security guards. "What do you think you are doing? Get over here immediately. This is a PR disaster!"
Y/N froze, the ingrained terror of her father's voice paralyzing her lungs. But Max didn't flinch. He stepped directly in front of her, his broad shoulders completely obscuring her from her father’s line of sight.
"Take another step toward her," Max challenged, his voice dangerously soft, "and we’ll see how fast paddock security tackles a title sponsor."
"She is my daughter and the future wife of—"
"Actually," Y/N said, her voice cutting through the thick tension.
She stepped out from behind Max. Her hands were shaking, but she forced her chin up. Oscar moved subtly to her side, his arm brushing hers, a silent reminder that she was anchored.
Y/N reached out and pulled the live microphone from the stunned reporter’s hand. She looked directly into the primary broadcast camera, broadcasting to millions of viewers worldwide.
"There is no engagement," Y/N stated, her voice ringing out clear and cold. "The announcement yesterday was fabricated by my father and the board of directors to force a corporate merger without my consent."
Her father lunged forward against the barricade. "Cut the feed! Cut the damn feed!" he screamed at the cameramen. Nobody moved.
"Furthermore," Y/N continued, her eyes shifting to meet her father’s furious gaze, "as a vested 12% shareholder of the company, I am officially aligning my voting rights with the minority stakeholders. The merger with Vance Tech is blocked. The acquisition is dead."
The media pen erupted. Dozens of journalists started shouting questions, camera flashes exploding in a blinding strobe effect.
Her father stared at her, utterly ruined, the realization setting in that the daughter he had treated as a prop had just publicly dismantled his life's work in under sixty seconds.
Y/N didn't wait for the questions. She handed the microphone back to the reporter, her hands finally steady. She turned back to Max and Oscar, the crushing weight of twenty-four years of expectations completely gone from her shoulders.
Max’s eyes were practically glowing with pride. He didn't care about the cameras, the journalists, or the screaming CEO behind the barricade. He reached out, grabbing the lapels of her blazer, and pulled her in, kissing her hard and breathless in front of the entire Formula 1 world.
When Max finally pulled back, Oscar was waiting. He smiled—a brilliant, genuine, unfiltered smile—and took her hand, lacing his fingers tightly through hers.
"Ready to go home?" Oscar asked quietly, ignoring the absolute pandemonium erupting around them.
"Yeah," Y/N breathed, squeezing his hand. "Take me home."
-
The air in the glass-walled London boardroom was sterile, cold, and thick with open hostility.
It was month four of the corporate war, and Y/N was exhausted. She sat at the center of the massive mahogany table, a mountain of legal documents in front of her. For the past three hours, her father and his loyalist board members had been systematically trying to dismantle her coalition of minority shareholders through intimidation, legal loopholes, and sheer volume.
"You are acting on emotion, Y/N," her father said, his voice laced with that familiar, patronizing edge designed to make her feel like a child. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the table. "You are tanking the stock price with this rebellion. The Vance Tech merger is the only logical path forward. If you force this vote today, you will bankrupt the very legacy you claim to be protecting."
A few of the older board members murmured in agreement, their eyes darting nervously between Y/N and the furious CEO.
Y/N kept her face perfectly neutral, but under the table, her hands were trembling. Her father was good at this. He was twisting the narrative, making the minority shareholders doubt their alliance with her. She had the votes on paper, but if he managed to flip just two of them in this room, she would lose everything.
She opened her mouth to counter his financial projections, but before she could speak, the heavy glass doors of the boardroom swung open.
The security guard at the door sputtered, trying to step in the way. "Sirs, you can't go in there, this is a closed—"
"Move," a low, gravelly voice commanded.
The entire room went dead silent as Max Verstappen and Oscar Piastri walked in.
They weren't in team gear. Max wore a tailored black button-down, sleeves rolled up over his forearms, looking every inch a man accustomed to commanding a room. Oscar was in a sharp, dark navy suit, devoid of a tie, radiating an icy, untouchable calm.
"What is the meaning of this?" Y/N’s father demanded, his face turning an alarming shade of purple. He pointed a shaking finger at them. "Security! Remove them immediately. This is a private executive board meeting!"
Max didn't even look at her father. He walked straight past the billionaire executives, pulled out the empty leather chair directly to Y/N’s right, and sat down. He slouched back comfortably, crossing his arms over his chest, and finally leveled a dark, predatory glare at the CEO.
"Try it," Max challenged softly, his voice echoing in the quiet room.
The security guard nervously hovered at the door, took one look at Max’s lethal expression, and quietly stepped backward into the hallway, letting the door click shut.
Oscar, meanwhile, walked to Y/N’s left. He didn't sit. He stood just behind her chair, a silent, immovable sentinel. He reached across the table, picked up the crystal pitcher of ice water, and poured a fresh glass, setting it gently near Y/N’s right hand.
"Sorry we're late," Oscar murmured to her, completely ignoring the fifteen stunned executives staring at him. "Traffic on the M4."
Y/N let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The trembling in her hands stopped instantly. The crushing, suffocating pressure of the room completely evaporated, absorbed by the two men who thrived under pressure on a global stage.
Her father slammed his hand on the table. "I will not have my boardroom turned into a circus by two racing drivers! Y/N, tell your... distractions to leave, or I will have the police escort them out."
Y/N picked up the glass of water Oscar had poured. She took a slow sip, enjoying the absolute, horrified silence of the room. When she set the glass down, the heiress was gone. The Chairperson had arrived.
"They are my guests," Y/N said, her voice ringing out clear, cold, and dripping with authority. "And as the majority voting bloc of this company, I decide who sits in this room."
She looked around the table, locking eyes with the wavering minority shareholders. With Max sitting beside her like a loaded weapon and Oscar standing behind her like a shield, the power dynamic in the room entirely inverted. Her father suddenly just looked like an angry, desperate old man.
"Let's be clear about the Vance Tech merger," Y/N continued, pulling a sleek black folder from her stack of documents and tossing it to the center of the table. "That merger wasn't designed to save the company; it was designed to liquidate our R&D department to cover my father's personal offshore debts. The proof is on page four."
The boardroom erupted into chaos. Executives lunged for the folder, papers tearing as the minority shareholders finally saw the unredacted financials her team had spent months digging up.
Her father stared at her, the color draining from his face. "You... you stole confidential files."
"I audited my own company," Y/N corrected coldly. She didn't break eye contact with him. "Call the vote."
Ten minutes later, it was over.
The vote was a landslide. The merger was killed, and a secondary motion to remove the CEO for gross financial misconduct was passed with a terrifying swiftness.
As the executives scrambled out of the room to call their lawyers and PR teams, her father stood frozen at the head of the table. He looked from Y/N, to Oscar, and finally to Max. He opened his mouth to speak, to hurl one last threat, but Max simply leaned forward, resting his forearms on the mahogany table.
"I think your meeting is over," Max stated, his tone devoid of any emotion, which somehow made it infinitely more terrifying.
Her father swallowed hard, turned on his heel, and walked out.
When the glass doors finally clicked shut behind the last executive, leaving the three of them alone in the massive room, the adrenaline suddenly vanished, leaving Y/N completely hollowed out. She dropped her face into her hands, letting out a long, shaky breath.
"It's done," she whispered into the quiet room. "It's actually done."
Max was out of his chair in a second. He crouched down next to her, gently prying her hands away from her face. His thumbs brushed over her cheekbones, his fierce, blue eyes searching her face to make sure she wasn't breaking.
"You destroyed them," Max said, a fiercely proud smile finally breaking through his serious expression. "You didn't even flinch."
Oscar stepped around the chair, resting a hand softly on top of Y/N’s head, threading his fingers through her hair. "You were terrifying. I think the CFO actually cried."
Y/N let out a wet, exhausted laugh, leaning her head against Max’s shoulder while Oscar’s hand anchored her from above. She looked between the two of them, the men who had flown halfway across Europe on a Tuesday between race weekends just to sit silently in a room so she wouldn't have to face her demons alone.
"Thank you," Y/N breathed, wrapping one hand into the fabric of Max's shirt and reaching up with the other to grip Oscar's wrist. "For showing up."
"Always," Oscar promised quietly.
Max pressed a kiss to her temple, pulling her up from the chair. "Come on, Chairperson. Let's get out of London. I know a place in Monaco that delivers terrible takeout."
-
The fallout from the media pen was apocalyptic, but for the first time in her life, Y/N didn’t care.
Walking out of the paddock that Sunday, flanked by Max and Oscar, felt like walking out of a burning building. They didn’t look back. Her father’s PR machine scrambled to do damage control, the board of directors convened in emergency sessions, and the global media lost their collective minds over the love triangle that had just hijacked the Formula 1 World Championship.
But behind the locked doors of Max’s Monaco apartment, the three of them simply shut off their phones, ordered terrible takeout, and finally breathed.
The corporate war took six brutal months. Y/N leveraged her shares, rallied the minority stakeholders, and ruthlessly ousted her father from the CEO position. She didn't destroy the company; she took it over. She restructured the board, tore up the toxic sponsor mandates, and rebuilt the empire on her own terms. Max and Oscar were her unwavering anchors through every vicious legal battle and grueling boardroom standoff. When she was too exhausted to fight, Max gave her his fire. When she was too overwhelmed to think, Oscar gave her his ice.
They didn't conform to anyone's expectations. They just existed, perfectly balanced, fiercely protective of the sanctuary they had built together.
One Year Later
The roar of the engines vibrating through the grid was deafening, a physical force that rattled the ribcage. The Mediterranean sun beat down on the asphalt, and the paddock was a chaotic sea of VIPs, mechanics, and flashing cameras.
It was the exact same environment that had once been Y/N’s gilded cage. Now, it was just her playground.
Y/N stood at the back of the Red Bull garage, a clipboard tucked under her arm. She wasn't wearing a suffocating designer silk dress or agonizing heels. She wore a sharp, tailored black jumpsuit, comfortable sneakers, and draped casually over her shoulders was a bright papaya McLaren team jacket. Resting against her collarbone, catching the light, was a thick gold chain carrying a small, diamond-encrusted lion pendant—a gift Max had secured around her neck before they left the apartment that morning.
She was the youngest acting Chairperson in her company’s history, the lead sponsor for half the grid, and the most untouchable woman in motorsport.
"You're supposed to be pretending to be impartial, you know."
Y/N looked up from her notes. Oscar was leaning against the engineering bulkhead, his race suit tied around his waist, an easy, fond smirk playing on his lips.
"I am entirely impartial," Y/N replied, stepping forward and adjusting the collar of the McLaren jacket she had stolen from his driver’s room an hour ago.
"Right. That's why you're standing in the Red Bull garage wearing my clothes," Oscar teased quietly. He reached out, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His touch was as grounding as ever, a quiet harbor in the middle of the grid's madness. "How were the sponsor meetings?"
"Boring. But short," Y/N smiled, leaning into his hand. "Nobody argues with me anymore. It’s wonderfully refreshing."
Before Oscar could reply, a heavy presence stepped up behind Y/N. A familiar, calloused hand wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against a firm chest clad in dark blue fireproofs.
"She's wearing your jacket because it's cold in the paddock," Max muttered, resting his chin briefly on top of Y/N's head as he glared playfully at the McLaren driver. "But she's standing in my garage because I qualify faster."
Oscar let out a dry, genuine laugh. "Keep telling yourself that, mate. Let's see who's faster into turn one."
Max grinned, a feral, competitive spark lighting up his blue eyes. He turned his attention down to Y/N, his expression instantly softening into something impossibly warm and exclusively hers. He pressed a kiss to the side of her head, entirely unbothered by the Netflix cameras lingering twenty feet away. The media had spent months trying to dissect their dynamic, trying to figure out who was the "real" partner, before finally giving up. The truth was too undeniable to twist: they were a unit. A closed circuit.
"Five minutes to track clearance," Max murmured, his thumb stroking her hip. "Will you be on the pit wall?"
"For the first half," Y/N promised, turning her head to press a quick kiss to his jaw. "Then I'm walking over to McLaren for the second half. Try not to run each other off the road while I'm in transit, please."
"No promises," Oscar and Max said in unison.
They shared a look—the same silent, ironclad understanding that had forged their alliance a year ago in a sterile driver’s room. They were rivals on the asphalt, ruthless and unyielding, but the moment they stepped out of the cars, they belonged to the same girl.
Max squeezed her waist one last time before pulling his balaclava over his head and stepping out toward the car. Oscar gave her a soft, lingering smile, his knuckles brushing against her cheek.
"See you at the podium," Oscar promised quietly, turning to head back down the pit lane to his own garage.
Y/N stood alone at the edge of the garage as the cars fired up, the deafening scream of the engines drowning out the paddock chatter. The cameras flashed, capturing her standing exactly where she wanted to be, wearing the colors of the two men she loved, entirely unbothered by the noise.
She looked out at the glittering Monaco harbor, taking a deep, unrestricted breath.
The cage was gone. She held the keys now.
-
The Monaco apartment was usually just a high-end storage unit for their luggage between race weekends. But on a rare, rainy Tuesday in October, it was a sanctuary.
Outside, the Mediterranean was swallowed by a heavy, grey storm, rain lashing against the floor-to-ceiling windows. Inside, the sleek, obscenely expensive kitchen was currently the site of a logistical nightmare.
Y/N had made a fatal error: she had suggested they cook dinner instead of ordering in.
"I'm just saying, it’s rice," Max grumbled, leaning heavily over the marble island. He was holding a wooden spoon like it was a steering wheel, staring aggressively into a simmering steel pan. "If I turn the heat up, it cooks faster. That is basic science."
"It's risotto, Max, not a qualifying lap," Oscar corrected smoothly from the other side of the island.
Oscar was wearing a dark grey apron over his t-shirt, completely unbothered by the kitchen chaos. He was currently mincing garlic with terrifying, surgical precision, the knife rocking back and forth in a perfect, rhythmic cadence. "If you turn the heat up, you burn the arborio, ruin the starch release, and we end up eating crunchy garlic paste."
"You have been adding broth for twenty minutes," Max argued, running a frustrated hand through his messy hair. He abandoned the stove, walking over to where Y/N was perched on the edge of the kitchen counter.
Max wedged himself directly between her knees, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his chin heavily on her chest with a dramatic groan. "He is torturing me on purpose."
Y/N laughed, resting one hand on the back of Max’s neck, her fingers tangling in the soft hair at his nape. With her other hand, she took a sip of her red wine. "Oscar is following the recipe. You are trying to bully the rice into submitting to your will. They require different strategies."
"My strategy is faster," Max muttered into her collarbone, his breath warm against her skin. He didn't move, entirely content to use her as a human shield against culinary responsibility.
Oscar paused his chopping, picking up a small spoonful of the simmering risotto. He walked around the island, bypassing Max entirely, and held the wooden spoon up to Y/N’s lips.
"Taste test," Oscar murmured, his dark eyes locking onto hers, completely ignoring the World Champion currently clinging to her waist.
Y/N leaned forward and tasted it. The rich, savory warmth of parmesan and white wine hit her tongue perfectly. She closed her eyes, letting out a soft hum of approval. "That’s actually incredible."
"See?" Oscar said mildly, reaching out with his free hand to wipe a microscopic drop of broth from the corner of her mouth with his thumb. "Patience yields results."
Max turned his head just enough to glare at the McLaren driver. "Give me that."
Oscar obliged, holding the spoon out. Max took a reluctant taste, chewing slowly. His eyes narrowed as he realized it was, in fact, perfect.
"Fine," Max conceded begrudgingly. "But I’m taking credit for the stirring. The stirring was crucial."
"You stirred it like you were trying to dig a hole through the bottom of the pan," Oscar pointed out drily, turning back to the stove to turn off the heat. "But sure. Team effort."
The three of them ended up abandoning the formal dining table entirely. Instead, they dragged a mountain of throw pillows and thick blankets onto the rug in the living room, sitting on the floor with their bowls of risotto, the rain hammering against the glass walls of the apartment.
Y/N sat cross-legged, leaning sideways against Oscar’s shoulder. Max was stretched out on his back, his head resting squarely in Y/N’s lap, perfectly content to let her feed him a bite from her bowl every few minutes while he stared up at the ceiling.
"We leave for Austin on Monday," Max noted quietly, the tension of the impending race week creeping slowly into his voice. The final stretch of the season was always brutal.
Y/N trailed her fingers lightly across Max’s forehead, smoothing out the tiny crease forming between his brows. "Monday is a long time from now. Tonight, we just exist here."
Oscar shifted slightly, wrapping his arm around Y/N’s back and pulling her closer to his side, effectively anchoring both her and Max to the present moment. He rested his chin on the top of her head.
"No press, no sponsors, no track limits," Oscar murmured into her hair, his voice a low, steady rumble that vibrated against her shoulder. "Just us."
Max turned his face slightly, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the inside of Y/N’s wrist where it rested near his jaw. He closed his eyes, leaning fully into the quiet sanctuary they had built.
"Just us," Max echoed softly.
-
The flight from Monaco to Austin was nine hours of pressurized cabin air and shifting time zones. By the time they unlocked the door to their secluded rental property in the Texas hills, the clock read 10:00 PM local time, but their bodies were stubbornly protesting that it was 5:00 AM.
The house was dark, quiet, and smelled faintly of cedar and dry Texas air.
"I am completely dead," Max announced, his voice a gravelly, sand-papered rasp. He didn't even drop his heavy duffel bag; he just unclipped it and let it fall straight onto the hardwood floor of the entryway.
He moved like a zombie toward the sprawling master bedroom, collapsing face-down across the massive king-sized bed without even removing his sneakers.
Oscar, carrying Y/N’s smaller rolling suitcase along with his own, walked into the kitchen with the slow, methodical stride of someone operating on autopilot. He set the luggage down, walked over to the fridge, and opened it. The light illuminated the exhaustion etched deep into the shadows under his eyes.
"The team stocked it," Oscar muttered, his usual sharp cadence slowed down by the jet lag. "There’s milk, eggs, and... three different types of locally brewed IPA that Max will definitely try to drink before FP1."
Y/N walked up behind him, her limbs feeling like lead weights. She didn't say anything, she just leaned her forehead directly against the center of Oscar’s back, letting her arms loop loosely around his waist.
Oscar didn't move. He just let out a long, slow exhale, his hands resting on the edge of the refrigerator door as he leaned back into her weight, anchoring her. "We should sleep," he murmured into the cold air of the fridge.
"Max is already unconscious," Y/N mumbled against the fabric of his shirt. "I think he’s wearing his shoes."
Oscar let out a quiet, breathless chuckle. He turned around within the circle of her arms, closing the fridge door and plunging the kitchen back into the soft, ambient glow of the outdoor landscape lights. He reached down, his hands cupping the back of her thighs, and effortlessly lifted her up to sit on the edge of the kitchen counter.
Y/N wrapped her legs around his waist out of habit, her hands sliding up to grip his shoulders.
Oscar stepped in close, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He didn't say anything for a long time, just breathed her in, his hands sliding up her back to hold her tight against him. In the quiet, dark kitchen, away from the paddock turnstiles and the corporate contracts, the silence was expansive.
"Come here," a low, demanding rumble echoed from the bedroom doorway.
They both looked over. Max was leaning against the doorframe, looking utterly disheveled. His hair was standing up in three different directions, his eyes were half-lidded with sleep, and he had managed to kick his shoes off, but he was still wearing his dark jeans and a rumpled t-shirt.
"You're both vibrating," Max muttered, his bluntness amplified by his exhaustion. He walked over, his heavy steps silent on the rug, and wedged himself into the space right next to Oscar, his large hands immediately reaching out to grip Y/N’s hips. "Stop thinking about the data. Stop thinking about the board. Come to bed."
Y/N smiled, reaching out to tangle her fingers in Max’s chaotic hair, smoothing it down. "We're coming, Max."
Ten minutes later, the lights in the Texas villa were completely out.
The bed was a massive, tangled sea of white sheets and heavy blankets. Y/N was stuck directly in the middle. Max had claimed her left side, one of his heavy, calloused legs thrown completely over hers, his arm wrapped possessively around her waist as if making sure she couldn't escape into the night. His breathing was already deep and even, a heavy, rhythmic anchor.
Oscar was on her right, pulled in close enough that his chest was pressed against her shoulder. He wasn't as heavy as Max, but he was immovable. His hand was slid beneath the small of her back, his fingers tracing slow, abstract shapes against her skin through her t-shirt, a quiet, soothing pattern that systematically turned off the remaining static in her brain.
Y/N looked up at the ceiling, listening to the synchronized breathing of the two men holding her captive in the dark.
Tomorrow, the Texas heat would hit. Tomorrow, the Austin circuit would swarm with hundreds of thousands of fans, flashing cameras, and the relentless pressure of the championship fight. Max and Oscar would become rivals again, fighting for inches at two hundred miles an hour.
But tonight, in the quiet dark of the hill country, they were just three people who had successfully stolen their lives back from the world.
Y/N closed her eyes, turning her face into Oscar’s shoulder while Max’s grip tightened imperceptibly around her waist, and finally drifted off to sleep.
Thursday media day at the Circuit of the Americas was always a special kind of chaos.
The Texas sun beat down relentlessly on the asphalt, turning the paddock into a sweltering oven. The air was thick with humidity, the smell of barbecue from the hospitality suites, and the electric buzz of American fans who brought a completely different, wilder energy to the sport.
Y/N navigated the crowded paddock with effortless authority. She was dressed for the brutal heat in a tailored, lightweight cream linen vest and matching trousers, looking every inch the untouchable Chairperson of a global conglomerate. But the sharp corporate edge was softened by the details: she was wearing Max’s favorite pair of dark aviators, and strapped to her wrist was Oscar’s spare Richard Mille watch, the oversized face sliding down her forearm.
She had just wrapped up a highly successful meeting with the circuit promoters and was making her way back toward the center of the paddock when a rogue Drive to Survive camera crew intercepted her path.
"Madame Chairperson!" the producer called out, motioning for the boom mic operator to step in. "A quick question for the fans? The championship fight is coming down to the wire between Red Bull and McLaren. Who exactly are you rooting for this weekend?"
It was a trap of a question, designed to manufacture drama. A year ago, a microphone in her face would have sent her into a spiral of anxiety, terrified of saying the wrong thing and invoking her father's wrath.
Today, Y/N simply stopped, lowered the dark aviators down the bridge of her nose, and offered a cool, entirely unbothered smile.
"I am rooting for an excellent return on investment for my shareholders," Y/N replied smoothly, not missing a beat. "And as my company sponsors both teams, I think I'm guaranteed a win either way. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a strategy briefing to attend."
She slipped her sunglasses back up and stepped around the crew, leaving them scrambling for a follow-up.
A low, familiar chuckle sounded from the shaded awning of the Red Bull hospitality suite to her left.
Max was leaning against the barrier, dressed in his dark blue shorts and a Red Bull polo. He had a white towel draped around his neck against the heat, and he was watching her with that dark, intensely proud expression that always made her pulse skip a beat.
"Very diplomatic, Madame Chairperson
"I try," Y/N smiled, stepping into the shade.
Before she could say another word, Max reached out and unapologetically dropped a massive, woven cowboy hat onto her head. It sank down, completely messing up her carefully styled hair and shielding half her face.
Y/N pushed the brim up, glaring playfully at the World Champion. "Really, Max?"
"It suits you," Max grinned, a feral, boyish spark in his eyes. He stepped into her space, entirely ignoring the cameras clicking a few yards away. He wrapped a heavy hand around the back of her neck, his thumb stroking her skin just beneath the collar of her linen vest, and leaned in to press a lingering, unapologetic kiss to her mouth.
It was still surreal to the paddock—the ruthlessly private Max Verstappen openly displaying affection in the middle of a race weekend. But he didn't care. He had almost lost her to a corporate cage, and he was never going to pretend she wasn't his again.
"You're going to get sweat on her suit, mate," a calm, dry voice interrupted.
Max pulled back just a fraction, keeping his hand firmly on the back of Y/N’s neck, and looked over her shoulder.
Oscar was strolling up the paddock path, looking entirely unbothered by the Texas heat in his papaya kit. He was holding two iced coffees, the condensation dripping down the plastic cups. He walked directly into the Red Bull awning, entirely ignoring the confused looks of the Red Bull PR team, and handed one of the cups to Y/N.
"Thank you," Y/N breathed, wrapping her hands around the freezing plastic. She took a long sip, the caffeine and ice immediately reviving her.
Oscar reached out and adjusted the ridiculous cowboy hat on her head, tilting it back so he could actually see her eyes. "Good meeting?"
"Excellent," Y/N said, leaning her shoulder casually against his chest. "I terrified three different marketing executives."
"That's my girl," Oscar murmured softly, his dark eyes flashing with quiet pride. He looked at Max, the easy camaraderie settling over them. "You ready for the press conference? They put us in the same group today. They're going to try and make us trash-talk each other."
Max scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest, his competitive fire instantly flaring to life. "I don't need to trash-talk you, Piastri. I'll just beat you into turn one on Sunday."
"Right. Because that worked out so well for you in Singapore," Oscar fired back smoothly, taking a sip of his iced coffee.
"That was a tire degradation issue!" Max argued immediately, his voice rising in volume.
Y/N stood between them, sipping her iced coffee in the sweltering Texas heat, listening to the two most lethal drivers on the grid bicker about brake bias and apex lines. The cameras outside the awning were desperately trying to capture the "hostility" between the championship rivals, completely missing the fact that under the shade, Oscar’s knee was casually resting against Max’s leg, and Max’s hand was still resting protectively on the back of Y/N’s neck.
They were going to go to war on the asphalt on Sunday. But the moment the checkered flag dropped, they would both come back to the exact same place.
-
Three Years Later
The F1 calendar had grown to a grueling twenty-six races, making the deep winter shutdown the most sacred time of the year.
Outside the glass walls of their secluded Alpine chalet, a heavy snowstorm was burying the mountains in total whiteout conditions. Inside, the fire was roaring, the only sound accompanying the soft crackle of burning cedar and the howling wind.
Y/N was curled up on the massive velvet sofa, swathed in a thick cashmere blanket. She was three years into her tenure as Chairperson, having doubled the company’s valuation and cemented herself as the most terrifyingly effective negotiator in motorsport. But here, miles above sea level with zero cell reception, she was completely at peace.
She turned a page in her book, blindly reaching out with her left hand to grab her mug of hot tea.
Instead of ceramic, her fingers brushed against warm skin.
Y/N looked up. Max was kneeling beside the coffee table, having silently intercepted her tea. He set the mug down, but didn't let go of her hand. His blue eyes were piercing, completely stripped of the competitive fire that usually defined him, leaving behind something impossibly raw and devoted.
A floorboard creaked softly to her right. Y/N turned her head to see Oscar standing just behind the sofa. He walked around to join Max, moving with that quiet, unhurried grace. He knelt on her other side, his knee brushing against Max’s in the tight space. Oscar reached out, his warm hands entirely covering her right hand where it rested on her lap.
The air in the room suddenly shifted. It wasn't heavy or suffocating—it was electric.
"What are you two doing?" Y/N asked softly, her heart giving a sudden, violent kick against her ribs.
Max and Oscar shared a look. It was that same silent, ironclad communication they had used in the Red Bull driver’s room years ago, the exact same wavelength that allowed them to dismantle boardrooms and coordinate on track.
Oscar turned his dark, steady eyes back to her. He reached into the pocket of his dark wool sweater and pulled out a small, midnight-blue velvet box.
"We had a logistical debate," Oscar started, his voice a low, grounding rumble that immediately anchored her racing pulse. A soft, self-deprecating smile touched his lips. "Max wanted to do this on the podium at Yas Marina. I told him the FIA would fine us for delaying the broadcast, and that you would probably murder us for doing it on live television."
"It would have made a great photo," Max muttered stubbornly, though his thumb was stroking a soothing, repetitive circle into the back of Y/N’s left hand. He looked up at her, the playful irritation vanishing. "But he was right. You’ve spent your whole life being a spectacle for other people. This isn't for them."
Oscar clicked the velvet box open.
Resting inside the black silk were not one, but two rings, brilliantly designed to interlock. One band was set with a flawless, fiercely brilliant emerald-cut diamond, flanked by sharp, geometric platinum edges—Max. The other was a smooth, elegant band of crushed diamonds set in deep white gold, quietly catching the light from every angle without demanding it—Oscar.
Separated, they were stunning. Snapped together, they formed a perfect, seamless whole.
Y/N let out a shattered breath, her eyes darting between the rings and the two men kneeling in front of her.
"We don't do things the way the rest of the world does," Max said, his voice dropping into that blunt, absolute certainty he only used when he was talking about her. His grip on her hand tightened. "We don't share you. We just belong to you. And I am entirely done pretending there is any universe where I wake up without you."
"We built a sanctuary," Oscar added quietly, lifting her right hand to press a soft, lingering kiss to her knuckles. He looked at her, his expression radiating that deep, unshakable calm that had saved her life more times than she could count. "We want to make it permanent. The three of us. A closed circuit."
Tears spilled over Y/N’s lashes, hot and fast, completely ruining the quiet composure she had maintained for three years. She didn't have to choose between the fire and the ice. She never had.
"Yes," Y/N choked out, pulling both of them forward by their collars. "God, yes. Give me the rings."
Max let out a ragged breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, leaning up to catch her lips in a deep, bruising kiss that tasted like pure relief. Oscar’s hands tangled in her hair as he kissed her next, slow and deliberate, a quiet vow sealed in the warmth of the firelight.
Two Months Later
The Formula 1 circus had returned, the desert sun beating down on the first official media day of the new season.
The media pen was swarming, microphones shoved aggressively toward team principals and drivers. Y/N stood near the entrance of the FIA hospitality suite, reviewing a sponsorship contract on her tablet. She was wearing a sharp, tailored black suit, completely unbothered by the chaos around her.
As she lifted her hand to adjust her sunglasses, the desert sun caught the metal on her left ring finger.
A photographer’s lens flashed. Then another. Within thirty seconds, the murmur rippling through the paddock turned into a deafening roar.
The trackside reporter abandoned his interview with a midfield rookie and practically sprinted toward her. "Madame Chairperson! Y/N! The rings on your finger—are congratulations in order? Can you tell us who proposed?"
Y/N paused. She looked down at the heavy, interlocking diamonds resting perfectly on her finger. She then looked across the paddock.
Standing outside the Red Bull garage, Max was watching her, leaning against the barricade with a ferociously proud smirk on his face. Fifty yards down the pit lane, Oscar was standing outside McLaren, a dark, incredibly smug smile playing on his lips as he held her gaze.
Y/N looked back at the reporter, offering a cool, entirely untouchable smile.
"Yes, congratulations are in order," Y/N said smoothly, adjusting the cuff of her blazer. "And to answer your question: they both did."
She didn't wait for the reporter to pick his jaw up off the floor. She turned on her heel and walked down the pit lane, leaving the entire Formula 1 world to completely lose its mind, while she went to find her fiancés.
SingleDad!KartingCoach!George Russell x Single Mom!OC
↳ Summary: As a single mother, Josefine is used to doing everything on her own. Leaving everything behind to chase her son's karting dreams in England, she dedicates herself wholeheartedly to pushing him through the ranks, no matter the cost...even if it takes everything from her in the process. She knows that nothing is guaranteed and trust isn't easily won, and yet she comes to learn that the biggest lessons may not be found on the track but, rather, in the form of a retired Formula 1 driver and his daughter.
Tag Navigation: *Possible spoilers ahead!!*
#💟 — Everything to do with this universe | #tbp lore — Details on the characters etc.
Series Contains: Topics ranging from societal class divides and financial struggles, family dynamics, [single] parenthood and parental sacrifice, karting rivalries and dramatic and emotional ten-year-olds, learning things the hard way in many forms. Just a lot of 'realism' <3
Season Schedule
New Chapter Every Tuesday + Friday!
ZERO
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
NINE (Extended Version)
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
EPILOGUE
Practice Sessions
Blurbs & Extras
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Pascale finds out some things about Esme’s old life and decides that she was going to fix things.
Warnings and Notes: Mention of Domestic Violence and portrayal of an abusive relationship in the past. (Let's just ignore me writing Christmas stuff in May...
As always big thanks to @llirawolf and @leodette, who listen to me ramble.
***
The salon hummed with late-morning chatter — the comforting rhythm of blow dryers, the faint scent of hairspray, the quiet laughter that filled the air between customers.
Pascale Leclerc had always thought of it as her second heartbeat. After so many years, she knew every sound instinctively.
Today, though, her attention was half on her client — a woman in her sixties who’d been coming for years — and half on the story unfolding in the chair.
“…and now my daughter doesn’t know what to do,” the woman was saying, voice hushed but tight. “Her ex is fighting for shared custody again. After everything.”
Pascale made a sympathetic noise, sectioning another strand of hair. “That must be awful for her.”
“It is. He barely saw the children before, but now he’s making demands because he’s remarried. It’s all through lawyers now. Just such a mess.”
Pascale murmured something comforting — she’d heard hundreds of stories like this over the years — but her eyes drifted toward the back of the salon.
Esme was tidying the sinks with quiet efficiency, sleeves rolled to her elbows, movements small and careful. She always moved like that… as though she’d spent years teaching herself how to occupy as little space as possible.
And yet there was softness everywhere in her.
In the way she soothed anxious clients. In the way she smiled at old women who repeated stories. In the infinite patience she showed Juliette.
When the appointment ended, Pascale brushed off the last of the hair clippings, thanked her client, and watched her leave.
Then she turned to Esme.
“Esme, do you have a moment?”
Esme looked up, startled. “Of course.”
Pascale hesitated for a second. She wasn’t usually one to pry (well, not much) but something in the conversation with her client lingered.
“I was just wondering,” she began carefully, “with Juliette… you have everything sorted for custody and paperwork, yes? I only ask because my brother is a lawyer. If you ever need someone to help with that sort of thing…”
“Oh,” Esme said quickly, shaking her head. “No, that’s… it’s fine. There’s nothing to sort.”
Pascale frowned. “Nothing?”
Esme gave a small, almost apologetic smile. “Her father isn’t on the birth certificate.”
Pascale blinked. “Pardon?”
Esme’s tone was calm — too calm, Pascale thought, like someone used to saying something painful out loud. “He didn’t want to sign it.”
“Didn’t… want to?” Pascale repeated, trying to keep the disbelief from her voice.
Esme nodded once. “Maybe he would’ve been interested if she were a boy,” she said softly, almost like she was talking to herself. “But she wasn’t. So he didn’t.”
For a moment, Pascale couldn’t find words.
The quiet hum of the salon suddenly felt too loud.
She’d known that Esme was on her own. But this — this deliberate cruelty, this indifference — made her chest tighten.
“Esme,” she said carefully, “he didn’t… Was he there when Juliette was born?”
Esme’s eyes flicked down, focusing on the towel she was folding. “No.”
Pascale’s hands stilled around the comb she was cleaning. “Not even then?”
Esme shook her head. “He said he had work.”
Work.
Pascale pressed her lips together, forcing down the immediate flare of anger that rose in her chest. “Mon dieu,” she murmured.
Esme tried to smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s fine. We manage.”
“Fine,” Pascale echoed softly. There was nothing fine about any of it.
Pascale looked at her properly then.
Not just the polite girl from the salon. Not just the woman Charles had started orbiting like a lost planet finding gravity.
She saw the quiet vigilance in her posture. The instinctive apology woven into every sentence. The way Esme braced herself whenever someone offered kindness, like she was waiting to discover the cost attached to it.
And suddenly other moments rearranged themselves in Pascale’s mind. The panic over the roses. The way Esme flinched at raised voices.
The way she seemed genuinely startled whenever someone helped her without expecting something back.
And she thought of Juliette — the way that baby lit up the entire salon whenever she laughed, how Charles’s face softened every time he saw her.
Pascale set down her comb, crossed the room, and touched Esme’s shoulder gently. “For what it’s worth, ma chérie,” she said, voice warm but firm, “that man lost something precious. And you—” She smiled, faintly, sadly. “You made something beautiful out of it anyway.”
Esme looked up, eyes glassy for a second before she nodded. “Merci.”
Pascale squeezed her hand. “And if you ever need help with anything — papers, lawyers, babysitters, or just someone to listen — you come to me. Understood?”
Esme’s smile trembled, but it was real. “Understood.”
As Pascale watched her walk back to the sinks, she felt that familiar, protective ache settle in her chest — the same one she felt for her own boys.
Some men, she thought bitterly, should never have been allowed to call themselves fathers.
But maybe — just maybe — life had a way of giving children better ones later.
***
The next discovery didn’t arrive like a revelation.
It slipped in the way most terrible truths did in a hair salon — between small talk and the sound of scissors.
A Tuesday afternoon. Quiet. Rain tapping softly against the windows, blurring the street outside into watercolor. Pascale had insisted on trimming Esme’s fringe..
“A hairdresser who never lets someone else cut her hair is suspicious,” she had declared, steering her toward the chair.
Esme had smiled and complied, hands folded neatly in her lap.
“You’ll go home for christmas?” Pascale asked lightly, comb sliding through soft strands. “Hyères?”
The hesitation that followed was small.
Barely a second.
But Pascale noticed it anyway.
“No,” she said gently. “There’s no one there.”
Pascale assumed what anyone would assume. “Ah. Your parents travel?”
The scissors paused mid-air.
In the mirror, Esme’s eyes flicked up — not startled, not defensive. Just… careful.
“They died,” she said quietly. “When I was ten.”
The word ten did something violent inside Pascale’s chest.
“…Died?” she repeated, softer now.
“Car accident,” Esme said, like a fact memorized from a file. “On the motorway. It was raining.”
The rain outside suddenly felt deliberate.
Pascale pictured her own boys at ten.
Charles with scraped knees and solemn eyes. Arthur loud enough to fill entire rooms. Lorenzo already carrying responsibility like something stitched into his bones.
Ten.
Children were supposed to lose teeth at ten. Not parents.
“And after?” Pascale asked, very carefully.
There was another pause. Longer this time.
“Orphanages,” Esme said. “For a while. Then foster homes.”
She said it the way someone might list primary schools.
Ordinary. Administrative.
“How long?” Pascale asked before she could stop herself.
“Until I was eighteen.”
The comb slid once more through Esme’s hair, but Pascale wasn’t really seeing it anymore.
Ten years old. No parents. Institutions. Temporary beds. Temporary families.
Temporary love.
“It was a long time ago,” Esme added gently, almost reassuring Pascale. “It’s fine.”
Fine.
There was that word again.
Pascale set the comb down more carefully than necessary.
“You were just a baby,” she said quietly.
Esme gave a faint smile. “I wasn’t a baby.”
“You were,” Pascale insisted, her voice firmer now. “You were.”
Juliette stirred in her stroller nearby, sensing something shift. Esme immediately bent to scoop her up, pressing her cheek to her daughter’s curls.
Protective.
Possessive, almost.
As though the entire world would have to pry Juliette from her arms first.
“I turned out fine,” Esme murmured, smoothing a hand over Juliette’s back.
But Pascale saw it.
The way Esme held her, as if daring the world to try again.
“You didn’t have anyone?” Pascale asked.
“There were social workers,” Esme said. “Some foster families were kind.”
Some.
“And some weren’t?” Pascale pressed gently.
Esme didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.
It was there in the small tightening of her shoulders. In the way she braced herself for follow-up questions.
And suddenly, everything Pascale had noticed over the past months rearranged itself into a pattern she did not like.
The way Esme apologized for existing. The way she hesitated before accepting help, as though help always came with a price.
The red roses.
The apologies wrapped in thorns.
Of course he had found her. Of course he had. Men like that had an instinct for women who had grown up believing love was conditional.
Pascale felt something cold and furious settle under her ribs.
She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Esme without asking.
For a heartbeat, Esme stiffened — the reflex of someone who learned that touch could mean danger.
Then she softened.
Just slightly.
Just enough.
“You are not alone anymore,” Pascale murmured into her hair.
It wasn’t a question.
Esme’s hands tightened in the fabric of Pascale’s blouse.
“…Okay,” she whispered.
Pascale pulled back and cupped her face gently, maternal and certain.
Some children were born into families. Others are forged in absence. But there comes a point where someone chooses.
And Pascale Leclerc had chosen.
Esme’s ex boyfriend had thought he was dealing with a girl who grew up in foster homes, grateful for crumbs.
He had not understood what he was stepping into. If he ever dared to reappear, he would not be facing a woman alone anymore. He would be facing a mother.
***
Group Chat: Famille Leclerc
(Members: Pascale, Lorenzo, Charles, Arthur)
Pascale: Mes garçons ❤️
Arthur: this is either wholesome or dangerous
Lorenzo: What did we do?
Charles: I’m afraid already.
Pascale: I was thinking…
Arthur: oh no
Pascale: Arthur, behave.
Arthur: sorry maman continue
Pascale: I would like to invite Esme and Juliette for Noël.
Arthur: YES.
Arthur: I MEAN.
That sounds very nice. Calm. Subtle.
Lorenzo: That’s kind, maman.
Charles: …
Arthur: oh he’s short-circuiting
Pascale: Charles?
Charles: You want them here?
Pascale: Of course I want them here.
Arthur: obviously
Pascale: She has no one in Hyères.
Lorenzo: She told you?
Pascale:Yes.
Arthur: oh.
Pascale: And Juliette will not spend Christmas without a proper family table. Not if I have anything to say about it.
Arthur: okay now I’m emotional
Lorenzo: Maman, we should ask gently. No pressure.
Pascale: Of course gently. I am not a barbarian.
Arthur: debatable
Pascale: Arthur.
Arthur: sorry 😇
Charles: I don’t want her to feel obligated.
Pascale: She won’t. I will make it clear it is an invitation, not an expectation.
Lorenzo: That’s important.
Arthur: can we also acknowledge how chaotic this will be
baby + christmas + our family
Pascale: Babies belong at Christmas tables.
Arthur: I agree actually
Charles: I just…
Lorenzo: What?
Charles: It’s her first Christmas here. I don’t want it to overwhelm her.
Pascale: Charles.
Charles: Yes?
Pascale: You are not overwhelming. We are not overwhelming.
Arthur: we are absolutely overwhelming
Pascale: Arthur, silence.
Pascale: She will not be alone if I can help it. That is all.
Charles: Thank you.
Arthur: oh my god he said thank you
Arthur: he’s gone
Lorenzo: He’s thinking.
Pascale: He is worrying.
Arthur: same thing
Pascale: Charles.
Charles: I’m here.
Pascale: You care about her. That much is obvious.
Arthur: VERY obvious
Charles: Arthur.
Pascale: Then let us care about her too.
Charles: Okay.
Arthur: progress!!!!!
Lorenzo: We’ll keep it simple this year. No circus.
Arthur: speak for yourself I’m bringing chaos
Pascale: Arthur.
Arthur: fine. minimal chaos.
Pascale: I will speak to her tomorrow.
Charles: Maman—
Pascale: Gently.
Charles: Okay.
Arthur: I cannot wait to see Juliette in tiny Christmas clothes
Lorenzo: Arthur, focus.
Arthur: I AM focused
Pascale: We will set an extra place at the table.
Charles: Merci, maman.
Arthur: okay now I’m actually emotional
Lorenzo: It will be a good Christmas.
Pascale: It will. ❤️
***
The salon was warm with that particular December kind of warmth — artificial heat, cinnamon candles, the faint hum of Christmas music playing. Someone had hung small gold stars in the window. Juliette kept trying to grab them whenever Pascale carried her past.
It was late afternoon when Pascale found Esme alone.
Esme was wiping down the counter, movements steady, controlled. She always cleaned like that when her mind was busy — small, repetitive motions that kept everything in order.
“Ma chérie,” Pascale said gently, coming around the counter instead of calling from across the room.
Esme looked up immediately. “Yes?”
There was something in Pascale’s tone that made her stomach tighten — not danger, never danger — but importance.
“I wanted to ask you something,” Pascale continued. “And you must feel absolutely free to say no.”
That never made it easier.
Esme folded the cloth once, neatly. “Okay.”
Pascale smiled, soft but deliberate. “For Noël… I was wondering if you and Juliette would come to ours.”
The words landed quietly.
Esme blinked.
Christmas.
A table. A house full of people. The Leclerc house, she assumed — voices overlapping, brothers teasing each other, plates clinking, candles lit. Charles at the head of the table or maybe half-standing to reach something. Arthur loud. Lorenzo steady. Pascale in the center of it all like the axis of a small universe.
She pictured herself there.
And Juliette.
She didn’t answer immediately.
Pascale misread the silence and hurried to soften it. “Only if you want to. I know it’s your first Christmas here, and perhaps you have traditions, or you prefer something quiet, or—”
“No,” Esme said quickly. “I don’t have traditions.”
The honesty slipped out before she could filter it.
Pascale’s expression gentled.
“I just thought,” Pascale continued carefully, “that no one should spend Christmas alone. Especially not a little one.”
Juliette, as if on cue, babbled from her playpen near the mirrors.
Esme felt something uncomfortable in her chest — a mix of gratitude and something closer to panic.
She wasn’t alone.
She was used to being alone.
That was different.
She swallowed. “That’s very kind.”
“It’s not kindness,” Pascale corrected softly. “It’s an invitation.”
Esme nodded.
And then the pressure came — not from Pascale’s voice, not from her expression. From something older.
You don’t say no when someone opens a door. You don’t decline a place at the table. You don’t risk losing it.
She could say no.
She knew that.
But the idea of declining felt like stepping backward into a version of Christmas she knew too well — quiet rooms, small portions, the sound of other people’s laughter through thin walls.
She imagined Juliette older, asking why they weren’t anywhere.
She imagined Charles at his family table, glancing at his phone.
She imagined the look on Pascale’s face if she said no — not anger, never that. Just disappointment carefully hidden.
“I don’t want to impose,” Esme said finally.
“You wouldn’t,” Pascale replied immediately. “You would be welcome.”
Welcome.
The word felt foreign.
Esme forced a small smile. “Okay.”
Pascale searched her face for a long second. “Okay?”
“Yes,” Esme said, steadier now. “We’ll come.”
Relief bloomed across Pascale’s features — warm, unguarded relief.
“Good,” she said softly. “Very good.”
She reached forward and squeezed Esme’s hand.
Ehe nodded because it seemed like the right response.
After Pascale stepped away to answer the phone at the front desk, Esme remained still for a moment, fingers resting on the counter.
She had said yes.
She wasn’t sure whether she had said it because she wanted to — or because she didn’t know how to refuse something that felt so fragile and precious.
Juliette squealed again, arms reaching up from the playpen.
Esme crossed the room immediately, scooping her up and pressing her close.
“It’s just dinner,” she murmured softly into her daughter’s curls. “Just one dinner.”
But even as she said it, her chest felt tight.
Not from fear of the Leclercs.
From fear of belonging.
Because belonging meant attachment.
And attachment had always, eventually, been taken away.
She kissed the top of Juliette’s head.
“We’ll be good,” she whispered.
And somewhere beneath the worry, beneath the instinct to brace for loss, there was something else.
A flicker.
Small.
Hope.
***
Esme tried very hard not to look toward the door every time the bell chimed.
It was ridiculous.
Charles did not live in the doorway of his mother’s salon, even if lately he appeared there often enough that Nadia had started threatening to add him to the staff rota.
Still, after Pascale asked about Christmas, Esme found herself listening for him.
She had said yes.
She had said yes to spending Noël with the Leclercs — with Pascale, and Lorenzo, and Arthur, and Charles. With Juliette at their table, probably in some tiny knitted cardigan Esme had already started making in soft cream wool.
It should have felt nice.
It did feel nice.
It also made her stomach twist every time she thought about it.
Because Pascale had invited her, yes. Pascale had meant it. But Pascale was not Charles.
And Charles—
Charles had been kind to her. More than kind. Patient, warm, careful in a way that made her chest hurt if she thought about it too long.
But spending Christmas with his family was different.
That was not coffee.
That was not a walk in Nice or cookies in the salon or Juliette stealing his sleeves.
That was family.
And Esme did not know if Charles wanted her there, in that intimate, glowing center of his life. Not really. Not when everything between them was still unnamed and fragile, built out of almosts and maybe-next-times and the soft pressure of his hand in hers.
What if he felt trapped?
What if Pascale had invited them because she felt sorry for Esme?
What if Charles thought it was too much?
She was folding towels for the third time when the door opened and he stepped inside.
Juliette squealed before Esme could even lift her head.
Charles’ entire face changed.
“Bonjour, mon petit chaos,” he said warmly, crouching at the playpen before he had even properly greeted anyone else.
Juliette immediately reached for him with both arms.
“Traitor,” Esme murmured, but her voice came out too soft to be convincing.
Charles scooped Juliette up with practiced ease, letting her grab at the collar of his jumper. “She has excellent taste.”
Nadia made a choking sound from behind the counter.
Esme ignored her.
Charles looked up at her then, smiling. “Maman told me you’d come for christmas.”
Esme’s fingers tightened around the towel.
“Oh.”
His smile faltered immediately. He shifted Juliette higher on his hip and stepped closer. “Is that okay? That she told me?”
“Yes,” Esme said quickly. “Of course. I just—” She swallowed. “I wanted to make sure it was alright with you.”
Charles blinked.
“With me?”
Heat crawled up her neck. “Christmas. I mean. Your maman invited us, and it’s very kind, but I know it’s your family and your traditions, and I don’t want to intrude or make things awkward or—”
“Esme.”
She stopped.
He was looking at her like she had said something impossible.
“You think I don’t want you there?”
She looked away first. “I don’t know.”
Juliette, sensing emotional tension and choosing violence, slapped Charles lightly on the cheek.
He didn’t even react beyond pressing a kiss to her tiny palm.
“I want you there,” he said, voice soft but certain. “Both of you.”
Esme’s chest tightened.
“You don’t have to say that.”
“I know,” he replied. “That’s why I’m saying it.”
She looked back at him.
There was no hesitation in his face. No politeness. No careful obligation.
Just joy.
Not dramatic joy, not loud like Arthur would have been. But it was there in the brightness of his eyes, in the way he couldn’t stop smiling even while Juliette tried to eat the drawstring of his hoodie.
“I’m happy,” he said, as if realizing she needed the words plain. “Really happy.”
“Oh,” Esme whispered.
His smile widened. “Actually, I am very happy. Because now I have an excuse to ask a very important question.”
Her nerves rose again. “What question?”
Charles turned to Juliette with solemn intensity. “What are we getting you for Christmas, mademoiselle?”
Juliette blew a bubble of spit at him.
He nodded thoughtfully. “Excellent point.”
Esme stared at him. “Charles.”
“What?”
“She isn’t even a year old.”
“She still deserves presents.”
“She will like the wrapping paper more than the present.”
“Then we get her excellent wrapping paper.”
Esme laughed despite herself, pressing a hand to her mouth.
Charles looked absurdly pleased with that.
“I’m serious,” he said. “Does she have a wish list?”
“She cannot speak.”
“She has opinions. We start there.”
From across the salon, Nadia muttered, “This man is gone.”
Pascale, who had been pretending to organize appointment cards for the last five minutes, murmured, “Completely.”
Charles ignored both of them.
“She needs something special,” he insisted, bouncing Juliette gently. “Her first Christmas with us.”
The words slipped out naturally.
With us.
Esme went still.
Charles seemed to realize a second later. His eyes flicked to hers, careful now, ready to retreat if he had crossed too far.
But Esme couldn’t speak.
Her first Christmas with us.
Not with your mother. Not at your house. Not as guests.
Us.
Juliette grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked.
“Ow,” Charles said mildly.
The moment broke just enough for Esme to breathe again.
“She needs winter pajamas,” Esme said, because it was safer than crying in the middle of the salon. “Maybe some wooden blocks. Practical things.”
Charles looked deeply offended. “Practical things? For Christmas?”
“She is a baby.”
“And yet she has excellent taste,” he said, kissing Juliette’s cheek as she giggled wildly.
Esme shook her head, but she was smiling now. Properly smiling.
The tightness in her chest had not disappeared completely. It lingered, because old fear did not vanish just because someone was gentle with it.
But it had shifted.
Less like panic.
More like anticipation.
Charles stepped closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear.
“I really want you there,” he said again. “Not because Maman asked. Not because anyone feels sorry. Because I want Christmas with you. And with Juliette.”
Esme’s throat worked around the words.
“Okay,” she said softly.
He smiled, and for one wild second she thought he might kiss her right there between the shampoo shelves and the appointment book.
Instead, he looked down at Juliette.
“So,” he said seriously, “wooden blocks.”
Esme laughed, wiping quickly under one eye before anyone could notice. “One small set.”
“And pajamas.”
“One pair.”
“And something fun.”
“Charles.”
“Esme.”
“She will be overwhelmed.”
“She will be adored.”
The words landed gently.
Esme looked at him — really looked — with Juliette on his hip, Pascale pretending not to watch from behind the desk, Nadia grinning like she was witnessing cinema.
“She already is,” Esme murmured before she could stop herself.
Charles’ expression softened into something almost unbearable.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “She is.”
Juliette squealed and shoved her rabbit into his mouth.
Charles accepted his fate with dignity. Mostly.
***
Group Chat: Les Trois Frères
(Members: Lorenzo, Charles, Arthur)
Charles: Maman officially asked Esme.
She and Juliette are coming for Christmas.
Arthur: YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS
Lorenzo: Good. I’m glad.
Arthur: OUR FIRST BABY CHRISTMAS.
Charles: She is not “our” baby.
Arthur: honorary niece. family baby. salon mascot. tiny queen.
Lorenzo: Arthur.
Arthur: I’m emotional. Let me live.
Charles: Please be normal when they come.
Arthur: Define normal.
Charles: Not overwhelming.
No shouting “welcome to the family.”
No crying when Juliette touches wrapping paper.
Arthur: I cannot promise the last one.
Lorenzo: We’ll keep it calm.
Dinner, presents, no pressure.
Arthur: Speaking of presents. I have done research.
Charles: That sentence has never made me feel safe.
Lorenzo: I also did some reading.
Charles: You too?
Lorenzo: She’s six months old. Age-appropriate gifts matter.
Arthur: SEE. Lorenzo gets it. We are RESPONSIBLE UNCLES.
Charles: You are not uncles.
Lorenzo: What were you thinking for Juliette?
Charles: Esme said wooden blocks. Maybe winter pajamas. Something small.
Arthur: BORING.
Charles: She is a baby.
Arthur: Exactly. She deserves wonder. I found a Montessori climbing triangle.
Charles: She cannot walk.
Arthur: She can prepare.
Lorenzo: Absolutely not. She’ll fall.
Arthur: Okay. What about sensory balls?
Apparently babies like textures.
Charles: That’s actually fine.
Arthur: YES. One point for Uncle Arthur.
Lorenzo: I found a soft fabric book. No small parts. Washable. Good for motor skills.
Charles: That sounds good.
Arthur: Of course Lorenzo found the responsible gift.
Lorenzo: Someone has to.
Arthur: I also found tiny baby headphones in case Christmas gets loud.
Charles: …That is actually thoughtful.
Arthur: THANK YOU.
Lorenzo: That might be useful. Especially with you there.
Arthur: Rude but fair.
Charles: Esme doesn’t want Juliette overwhelmed.
Lorenzo: Then we keep the presents small. A few thoughtful things, not a mountain.
Arthur: Define mountain.
Charles: Arthur.
Arthur: Fine. A hill.
Lorenzo: No hill.
Arthur: A tasteful slope.
Charles: One present from each of you. Maximum.
Arthur: ONE?
Charles: Yes.
Arthur: For a baby’s first Christmas with us?
Charles: Arthur.
Lorenzo: He’s right. One each. Otherwise Esme will feel uncomfortable.
Arthur: Oh.
Yeah. Okay.
One each.
Charles: Thank you.
Arthur: But can mine be excellent?
Charles: Obviously.
Arthur: I’m thinking sensory balls plus tiny earmuffs.
Lorenzo: That’s two.
Arthur: The earmuffs are a public safety measure.
Charles: Approved.
Arthur: YES.
Lorenzo: I’ll get the fabric book.
Charles: Good.
Arthur: What are you getting her?
Charles: I don’t know yet.
Arthur: Liar.
Charles: I really don’t.
Arthur: You’ve absolutely been thinking about it.
Charles: Maybe.
Lorenzo: Something simple. Don’t try to outdo everyone.
Arthur: He’s going to buy the child Monaco.
Charles: I am not.
Arthur: A tiny Ferrari?
Charles: No.
Arthur: A tiny race suit?
Charles: No.
Arthur: A tiny helmet?
Charles: Absolutely not.
Lorenzo: Good.
Arthur: What about a plush car?
Charles: She has a rabbit.
Arthur: She can have two emotional support objects.
Charles: I’ll think about it.
Lorenzo: And Esme?
Charles:What about Esme?
Arthur: What are you getting her?
Charles: That’s private.
Arthur: OH MY GOD.
Lorenzo: You already have something in mind.
Charles: Maybe.
Arthur: IS IT THE SEWING MACHINE?
Lorenzo: That’s actually a very good gift.
Arthur: I KNOW. I’m invested.
Charles: I haven’t decided.
Arthur: You have decided emotionally. You just haven’t paid for it yet.
Charles: I hate how accurate that is.
Lorenzo: Just make sure she doesn’t feel overwhelmed by it.
Charles: I know.
Arthur: This Christmas is going to destroy me.
Charles: Please do not cry at dinner.
Arthur: No promises.
Lorenzo: I’ll sit next to him and control him.
Arthur: You cannot control love.
Charles: You are getting one sensory toy and baby headphones. That’s it.
Arthur: Fine.
But if Juliette smiles at me, I’m her favorite.
Lorenzo: This family is not ready for a baby at Christmas.
Charles: No.
Arthur: Wrong.
This baby is not ready for how loved she’s about to be.
the dopamine hit from binge reading updates from an ongoing series i haven’t checked in on in a while is unlike any other! so excited to see this little family christmas 🥰🥰
I’d like to thank @lightsovermonaco for being my beta and for more importantly keeping me sane because without her influence it’s anyone’s guess where I’d be. I also owe @sassybatflowerpaper an enormous thank you, not only for being my friend but because this story, at it’s very core, is our love child.
genre: smut, affair, erotic literature, tiniest bits of angst, nanny!reader, daddy!max, secrecy that will likely annoy you bc it sure as hell annoyed me, dark subjects
word count: 11.5k
wrath (noun) — extreme anger.
nsfw warning under the cut!
18+…unprotected sex, oral sex (m!receiving), riding, doggy style, deep throat
inspired by red sex (re-strung) [rakhi singh] !
cherry here!...guys, guys, GUYS. after a year (my bad lol), we fucking made IT! i can’t believe we are on our last sin and that this is all coming to a enddd :( i cannot thank you enough for sticking by me through it all :) these stories will forever burn in my heart as i hope it does in yours too, HA! there’s gotta be at least ONE that’ll do just that, pls don’t try to deny it ;) and for the very last time, for fucks sake I’M FREE—welcome to the twisted world of wrath!
Perhaps you’ll die like this.
Beneath his scrutiny. Blue gaze glued onto you like it belongs, dark brows bemused and brooding with skepticism. It only takes him half a second to recognize that you found amusement in it all, picking up on it the first time your lips spiked into a cunning smile.
“I know you.”
His words sound nothing like a confession, neither a lie, but more so—a fact.
“Do you?”
There’s something sly in the way you spoke, the way you moved as you shook his hand, lingering for a moment that made his head spin. Did insanity taste this way? Like one is about to reach an all time high before cruelly falling into the great abyss? God, even your mere scent had him twisted in knots of familiarity. But he doesn’t dwell on it, no, not now.
Max blinks, forces himself out of this bubble, and shakes his head sheepishly. “I-I-I’m sorry, I probably have you mixed up with someone else.”
Kelly chuckles beside him. Here he goes, so very like him to try and spook off the new nanny. “Don’t mind him, he’s just a bit jet lagged, is all.” Moving on, the brunette jumps up, clapping her hands excitedly. “You can’t even begin to imagine how happy I am now that you’re here. You’re about to change my life.”
“I mean—that is the point.” Your eyes flicker with something undetectable. “I’m looking forward to meeting the girls.”
“Right!” she exclaims, as if she had momentarily forgotten the true purpose for you being here. “If you want to go ahead and set your things down, I’ll run up quickly and grab them. I’m pretty certain Lily is awake by now, and Penelope is playing with her dolls.”
“Fine with me.”
She turns her head, clearly elated. “Sweetheart, do you mind showing her where she’ll be staying from now on?”
The Dutchman shifts. “Sure.”
It isn’t until you two set off in the opposite direction that he feels the same curiosity as before. It nudges him all the way to your room, kicks him as he opens the door, and pushes him to finally speak up again when you enter first. “Look, it’s not my intention to creep you out or anything, but—I feel like I know you…”
A giggle slips past you as you barely lift your head to look at him, dropping a duffel bag onto the Queen sized bed. “You’re a funny man, Mr. Verstappen.” Sitting down on the cushiony mattress, you peer up this time, soft and not at all guarded as a minute ago. “Did you know that we each have roughly about seven doppelgängers somewhere out in the world?”
His mouth slants. “First of all, just call me Max. And second of all, what does that have to do with anything?”
A shrug.“That you could’ve just met someone who looks a whole lot like me,” you claim like a matter-of-fact. “After all, I’ve definitely met guys who look like you: tall, blond, blue eyes.”
“That sounds rather generic,” he adds with a small chuckle. “Come on, just tell me.”
Pink lips press down into a fine line while your hands rest on each side of yours. “Well, I really don’t know what you want me to say. We’ve never met.”
“We must’ve.”
“How are you so certain?”
It’s rather foolish to admit out loud that he doesn’t actually have a clear idea as to how you two could possibly know one another, so he chooses to not say anything. The silence engulfs you both, clings awkwardly as the sun begins to dim from the window close by.
The blue glow—it was past six at this point—paints the high point of your cheekbones as you stand. “Forgive me for crossing the line or whatnot, but…” Tsk. “You lack a whole lot of trust.”
He stays still.
You nod. “I mean—it makes sense, I’m not judging you for it. A stranger moves into your million dollar home almost overnight in order to take care of your two kids, and you’re doing what every other parent would rightfully do. Ask questions, that is.”
Is that what he’s doing?
He winces apologetically. “I’d greatly appreciate it if we kept this between us. I really don’t need another reason for Kelly and I to argue.” He scoffs lightheartedly. “She already thinks I’m against this whole arrangement as it is.”
“Well..are you?” you challenge with a teasing smile.
Max scratches his temple. “I’d like to think not, but that wouldn’t quite make me the honest man I claim to be,” he jokes, voice thick in his rich accent. “You seem like a nice girl, don’t get me wrong, but I sort of thought her and I would’ve figured this all out together.”
The sound of a baby crying rings from upstairs, making the blue eyed man perk up. He shifts against his feet for a moment, but not long after, the crying stops. He visibly relaxes after that.
“If you were to ask me, I’d say she already has it figured out,” you point out. “Looking after a newborn isn’t the simplest of things to do, especially when your partner is gone half of the time.” Pause. “She deserves the help, don’t you think?”
A wave of shame flashes across his features completely, allowing him to focus on the fact that you were right. The majority of Kelly’s pregnancy, he was traveling for work, he barely made it on time the day of her labor, and not long after, he was off racing again. None of that could’ve been as easy as she made it out to be, and she has made her decision on hiring you for help. Believing that they could’ve done this on their own—on her own—was a huge misconception on his behalf, and he sees that now.
The Dutchman tilts his head in an upward motion with a curved smile. “I see why she likes you so much already.”
-
Nice tattoo.
The sound of his groggy morning voice makes you look up from your bowl of cereal, so sweet, you can already feel your teeth rotting. It just so happens to be Penelope’s recent hyperfixation. You hum against your spoon. “P insisted on a hibiscus,” you share, glancing over your shoulder to where the pink and orange glitter tattoo hugs your skin. “Cool, eh?”
He grabs a plate, then the milk, pouring it with a yawn. “Got any real ones?”
“Not really my thing,” you respond, circling the piece of metal around the soggy marshmallows that have long melted. “Ink poisons the blood stream.”
Max snorts. “You actually believe such lies?”
“Guess so.” Pushing your chair back, you make your way to the sink quietly, wash your plate, and dry your hands. “Is it okay if I take the car out to the store? Need to restock on a couple of things.”
He blinks, finding it nearly comical how you can end a conversation, just like that without batting an eye. He nods. “Of course.”
“Thanks.”
By now, it’s been five months of you being here, and yet, he doesn’t know a single thing about you. You never seemed to talk about yourself, always kept a wary distance towards any personal questions, like you could sense them before he could properly ask. It was quite theatrical, he must admit, but he can’t help but itch with curiosity. Which is why he doesn’t find his offer weird, of course. He’s only trying to get to know you.
“You know what? Let me go with you.” He grabs the keys to his car. “I’ll drive.”
But the drive is tense for him, not for you. While he turns on his blinker with a frozen jaw, you cheerfully make silly faces over at Lily who was awoken when he hit a large pothole. Lucky the tire didn’t pop. Max taps a finger against the steering wheel.
“She loves you.”
“Mmm—sure hope so,” you joke with a chuckle, scooping her small hand against yours. “We’ve spent quite a lot of time together, I’d be horrified if she didn’t.”
He softens when Lily attempts to talk, though everything is more of a babble. “Don’t worry. You’re on the top of her list of Favorite People. Last weekend, when you were out with your friends, she lost her mind. For the longest time, Kelly and I couldn’t get her to stop crying.”
“You could have called. I would’ve canceled my plans.”
“Oh, it’s alright,” he hums out. “I mean, we’re her parents. You’re just the nanny.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted it. He doesn’t miss the way you flinch as if you’ve been pinched angrily. But equally enough, in a split second, whatever offense was drawn onto your face was long gone, replaced with a tight smile.
“You know, next time either of you need help trying to calm her down—call me.” You click your tongue. “It’s a bit sadistic having her cry it out, don’t you think?”
The absolute nerve.
The moment he parks the car in between the white lines, you’re quick to unbuckle yourself, then Lily. Carefully, you hoist her into her baby sling and walk up to the entrance, pulling a shopping cart along the way. He barely even has a fair chance to register what just happened.
He knows that what he said was wrong. Degrading, even. But you weren’t any better. Either way, just to be safe, he gives you your personal space, wanders until it’s time to pay. The older lady at the register coos at the five month old as soon as she spots her. “What a beautiful baby girl, look at those eyes!” When she looks up at you and Max, her gaze lightens up far more. “You two must be proud parents.”
“Oh, she’s not the mo—”
“I’m not her mom,” you correct her warmly, swiping the credit card. “I’m only a nanny.”
He recoils with guilt. “T-T-Thank you.”
If the drive there was the slightest bit awkward, now it was far beyond humiliating, especially now that Lily sleeps and there’s no more common ground tying you together.
“Penelope has been asking me to teach her how to rollerskate,” you say after a minute or so.
Max hums gently, not trying to intimidate you. “Yeah, she’s been begging us for a while now, but neither Kelly nor I know how.” A beat. “It’s a good thing you do, though.”
And all is well.
You smile, catching his gaze past the small mirror as he finally reaches the driveway.
-
Ever since becoming a Dad, traveling for work has gotten a whole lot harder. It’s a challenge in a world of its own.
“What do you mean you’re not home?”
Kelly winces, her face close to the screen. The background is blurred, the noise is rather loud, and all he wanted to do was see his daughter. “I’ve already told you, I’m at a birthday dinner.”
“At two in the morning?”
She shrugs. “Is it two? Jesus. Guess I haven’t noticed.” Someone close by chants her name like a slur, evidently drunk. She laughs, responds back in Portuguese, way too quick for him to understand, and before he knows it, the line goes dead.
“Unbelievable,” Max mutters beneath his breath. And it’s late, he really should be resting, saving up the very little energy he has left, but something within him is urging him to make the call. So he does.
You don’t pick up straight away. Not by the first ring, nor the second or third, but close to when the voicemail message is about to start. When you do, the first thing he hears are sniffles, then the sound of you clearing your throat.
Hello?
There’s a crack to it, which causes him to sit up straight against his place on the cold carpet. “What’s wrong?” he shoots fiercely on high alert. His insides are screaming, his heart is pounding, and he’s already picturing the worst. Was it Lily? Was it Penelope? “Talk to m—”
“I think I might’ve broken my leg.”
This definitely was not what he was expecting. “O-Oh. Okay then.” Static. “Well, are you alright? What happened?”
So you begin to tell him: how you were on your way to fetch Lily’s stuffed elephant—you had forgotten it outside—but that you missed a couple steps and landed with the harsh reality that you should’ve just left it alone, it’s not like she was asking for it anyways.
“This is so fucking stupid,” you sob before going quiet. He figures you’re probably busy focusing on the fact that you just cursed in front of him, and for some odd reason, he finds your panic endearing. “I don’t even know why I’m crying, I just know that I am.” A hiccup. “But enough about me—did you need something?”
He seems to have forgotten, tongue numb. He feels bad that you’re going through all this trouble alone. Sure, you’re being paid to do so, but it’s inhumane to have you suffering all by yourself when Kelly could have been there to at least give you a hand. Suddenly, the thought of his girlfriend irritates him.
“I just wanted to see how you were doing. Although…”
On the other side, you release a wet laugh. “My very best. I’m doing my very best, thank you for asking.” There’s a silence that follows, one where he can’t even distinguish any breathing, and for a second, he thinks he might’ve lost a signal. “I think I’m just a little stressed. Overstimulated.”
“Hey—”
“I’m not even blaming the girls for it, God no. But it just gets a bit too much at times. I reek of spit up. I can’t get this glitter to wash off no matter how hard I scrub. And my undereyes are darker than the actual pits of Hell.”
He’s heard this could happen. Baby blues, that is. Only, he never thought someone as independent as you could ever get it. He’s seen you with the girls, and you always seemed to have things under control. Always woke up with an easy grin, ruled the day with activities that made P forget she was studying for her upcoming exam, and all while feeding Lily homemade apple sauce you spent making the night before. How could he have been so selfish to overlook your distress?
“I shouldn’t be complaining to you about my job—which I love! I love my job, I swear I do!” you yelp. “Just—forget I said anything, yeah? I just needed someone to talk to…”
“And I just needed to hear your voice.”
What. The. Fuck.
In record speed, he facepalms, eyes screwed shut in a manner that makes his skin tight and raw. Why would he say that outloud? It’s not like he planned it anyways, it just sort of slipped out before he could stop. And whether he’s twisting with humiliation or not, you laugh it off.
“That’s very nice of you to say,” you mumble. “Almost makes me feel bad for lying to you.”
And just as before, he spikes up on edge. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, yeah. I feel bad for crying to you,” you respond with a soft chuckle. “Do you realize how humbling it is to sob to your boss over the phone? It’s a total nightmare, I tell you.”
“No, you never said crying, you said lying—”
The static scratches his ear viciously. “Crap. I hate to be rude, but I gotta go—Lily just woke up.” He hears the way you jog up the stairs speedily. “Call back tomorrow and I’ll make sure the girls are awake for you to see, alright?”
You hang up.
And he doesn’t know whether he’s reading into the situation too much, it wasn’t like he could see you or anything like that, but he never once heard any kind of wince that indicated pain.
Almost as if the fall never happened.
Which leaves him to wonder, when neither Kelly or him are around—who's watching their kids?
-
His phone buzzes the next day in the middle of an ongoing conversation. Lando’s filling him in on his recent endeavors and he wasn’t paying much attention to begin with.
“Maxie!” Penelope shouts as soon as he picks up. “I lost another tooth!”
“Wow, P, that’s great,” Max responds, smiling at the sound of her squeaky voice. His thumb slides over to FaceTime, to which she answers eagerly, showing off the small gap in between her baby teeth. He laughs. “Awesome.”
“That must be a couple euros, don’t you think?”
“Just about.” A beat. “Hey, where’s your sister?” Right on queue, Lily appears, dressed in all pink and a small hat over her head. She giggles as soon as she spots him. “There she is!”
It’s a dialogue he doesn’t understand, but he lets her speak it anyways, nodding up and down as if she’s holding a real conversation with him. Though, as soon as she slips the phone past Penelope’s grip and into her mouth, you’re quick to intervene.
“Alright, I think that’s enough,” you say with a small giggle, waving at him.“Thought I’d call you first. Just in case you forgot later on during the day.”
Max shakes his head. “I wouldn’t have, but that was a sweet gesture on your behalf, thank you.”
The entire interaction catches Lando’s attention, making him peer over, just enough to see, but not be seen. His eyes widen, mouthing—that’s your nanny? Max has to physically restrain himself from rolling his eyes.
“We were just about to go on a walk.” Lily’s tiny fingers tangle in between your hair, pulling down on it before you wince and gently free yourself. “Got the stroller ready and everything.”
“I’ll be on my rollerskates!” Penelope cheers, out of view, but he can hear all the ruckus.
You laugh, eyes crinkling with delight. “Pray for me.”
Already am, the young Brit whispers from his chair, theatrically pressing his hands together, watercolor eyes glimmering with a look only he seems to get whenever there’s a pretty girl around. Max aims a cold glare, making him snicker and continue scrolling through his phone, already accepting that their chat was over.
Hearing a click, he looks back towards his own screen just in time, noticing Lily is strapped in with an eager look in her eyes. He makes sure to snap a screenshot. “Please make sure Penelope doesn’t go off too far ahead. She has a tendency of doing so.”
All three of you exit the house, rays of sunshine causing you to squint for a second before placing a pair of sunglasses over the bridge of your nose. You hum in agreement. “She knows what not to do, trust me,” you respond, steps starting to pick up as Penelope glides besides you. “You see: I threatened to take away her dessert if she didn’t follow instructions.”
The Dutchman lets out a loud chuckle, and what he doesn’t see is Lando furrow his brows with a sense of surprise because never—ever—has he heard Max laugh quite like this. As if his worries don’t exist. As if he’s truly happy. Something unstrained.
Flirtatious, one might even say.
“You Clever Girl,” he says with a slick grin. “That’ll get her to listen—why haven’t I thought of that before?”
You nod, full with grace. “Most things slide past you, Max, that’s why.”
He squints, the image slightly pixelated, but it's quick to clear back up again. “Why’d Kelly not join you all?”
“She’s still asleep!” the young girl shouts over your shoulder, long hair blowing against the wind.
“Are you serious?”
You wince. “She got back home a bit late yesterday,” you fill him in. “She was at a—”
“Birthday party. Yes, I know, she told me.”
A flicker of secrecy shoots past your eyes as you nod slowly, almost unsure. “Right. Some kind of party is what she had said this morning before going off to bed.” Lily squeals. “Word of advice, Max?” Another loud sound. “You ought to start paying closer attention to things.”
With a slight frown, and as instinct, he turns around, spotting Lando sneak a peek over his shoulder, listening into something that has nothing to do with him. He shoots up against his seat, eyes narrowed with accusation. “What do you think you’re doing?”
The McLaren driver yawns, feigning boredom. “Nothing at all, why do you ask?”
“Go. Away.”
“Fine,” Lando mutters, deep beneath his breath and finally walks away, shoulders slumped.
Max shakes his head, eyes suddenly tired and heavy. He can tell you want to laugh at the encounter, but decide not to when he groans and runs a large hand across his face, tussling his hair along the way. “He eavesdrops as if his life depends on it, that boy.”
“Let him live,” you joke harmlessly. “He’s quite cute.”
“And taken,” he adds with a soft shrug. “Has been for the past few months, though, he fails to remember from time to time.”
“Aww,” you ponder. “What a shame.”
Before he could help it, an upcoming question blossomed over him, all of a sudden. He tries to convince himself that it’s nothing but an innocent curiosity, no more beyond that, but he also doesn’t really know that with complete certainty. “Do you, um…have a boyfriend?”
“I wouldn’t have been complimenting him if I did,” you retort. “I’m not a homewrecker.”
“I never thought of you as one,” he shoots out quickly. “I was simply wondering.”
“I don’t think you’re allowed to ask me about my personal life,” you sing, fixing your sunglasses when they tempt to slide down. The sound of wheels clicking reminds him that Penelope was close by, too. But why should he be worried about being heard? He isn’t saying anything wrong.
“Where’s the trouble in being curious?” he lets out sheepishly, feeling a warmth run up his neck.
Shoes crunch against the dirt as you continue to push the stroller. A trickle of sweat drips down your own neck as you quickly dry it off with the hem of your shirt. He’s quick to pull his gaze away for that one.
“Curiosity isn’t really the problem,” you say flatly. “It’s thinking you’re entitled to answers.”
He blinks, taken aback by your sudden bluntness. Just when he thinks he’s getting to you, something just always seems to happen, reminding him that you weren’t an easy character to unlock, although he still hasn’t figured out why.
“I shouldn’t have asked, you’re right,” he mumbles, not denying what you hold over him. Maybe he does think he deserves to know. Just a tad bit. Is that really the worst thing? “It’s just that…well. You never talk about your private life. What do you like to do during your days off, whether you have siblings or not, you know? That kind of thing.”
“Is that a requirement I should fulfill in order to keep this job?” you ask. “Please. Enlighten me.”
Christ, when did things start to spiral here? Everything was going fine just a second ago. He swallows nervously. “I-It’s not, I was just trying to unde—”
Ow!
The sound of Penelope’s cries quickly followed, loud and painful. Coming to a halt, you put the phone down, running out of frame. The call is starting to break up, but was it all a part of his delirious imagination when he heard Penelope sob out—
You pushed me over on purpose!
“Here. Let me see, P,” you say, ignoring her words. “You’re fine. You will be, at least. We just need to get you back home and sanati—”
And again. Just like the night before—the call falls through.
Blue eyes reflect back against the pitch black screen, breaths shallow with confusion. A cough is what ultimately gets him to look up, and against the door frame, Lando still stands, tall and firm, like he never really left.
The Brit clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “You’re nanny…she’s hot.” A hazardous pause. “But bloody creepy, mate.”
Max overflows with worry, fingers drumming against his lap.
“So it’s not just me who thinks so, right?”
-
This couldn’t be going any worse.
“We can’t just fire her because you’ve got a ‘gut feeling’—which by the way—isn’t a real thing, Max!” Kelly screams, skin pink with frustration over this constant back and forth. It’s exhausting, truly, fighting all the goddamn time, and always about the exact same thing: you. She pushes her hair back. “You’re just looking for any sort of reason to get rid of her at this point, aren’t you?”
“It’s not that!” he argues back like a bull with its horns. “It’s just…she’s just…an eerie girl, is all!”
She shoots a deadpan expression. “I happen to like that so-called ‘eerie girl’.”
“Pft, no, you don—”
“Yes! I do!” she hisses sharply, eyes dark with threat. “She’s good at her job. The girls love her. She’s the only one I talk to when you’re not around. What more could I want?” She’s frantic already, hands shaking with rage and hair messy. “She’s the perfect nanny!”
His voice gets stuck in his throat. Jammed. “Then explain Penelope’s fall, huh? I heard her that day. She said she was pushed over on purpose!”
“What little kid doesn’t blame others for their own mistakes?” Kelly retorts. “Plus, P is fine, is she not? She was rollerskating, Max. She’s a beginner. Accidents happen all the time!”
“Listen,” he spits out, closing the distance between them both, causing his girlfriend to flinch. “Just because you won’t look after the wellbeing of your daughter doesn’t mean I won’t be looking out after mine.”
The very little warmth that was left in her eyes slowly gave out in that very moment. And he didn’t even feel sorry about it.
“Vá para o inferno.”
With that, pushes past him. Leaving him standing there, alone in their shared bedroom.
-
It takes him a while to go back downstairs after that, but when he finally does, he finds you sprawled down on the floor, coloring next to Penelope. Lily lays on her tummy closeby, itching and kicking to grab a crayon, but fails poorly. You push her stuffed animal to her, watching as she squirms, biting down on its head.
“Purple or green?”
“Yellow,” Penelope answers instead, but still not tearing her gaze away from her part of the page. “Make it pastel.”
You nod, but more so to yourself. The RedBull driver doesn’t make a noise, barely even breathes properly, but it doesn’t matter. Lily has already seen him.
Pushing up against her chubby arms, the baby attempts to crawl to him, but gives up when he makes the move towards her. Max smiles fondly, picking her up into his arms and hovering over you and Penelope who continue as if nothing.
Make sure to not miss the bumblebee, you hum. It’s so tiny, you can barely even see it.
I see it, alright, she says with a giggle on the horizon. Actually, can you show me where it is again?
“How about some ice cream?” Max proposes, benign. “My treat.”
“Can you pass me the orange?”
“P…” he tries again. “Don’t you want any?”
“No, thank you,” she finally answers, blinking up at him once before looking back down.
His brows furrow with concern. “Why not? You love ice cream.”
“I just don’t want any right now, thank you,” she answers, this time much more harshly.
In an instant, his piercing blue eyes dart towards where you lay. “What’d you tell her?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
Ignoring you despite asking, the Dutchman squats down, leveled with the young girl and Lily perched atop of his lap. You continue on your side, scribbling. “What’s wrong, Penelope?”
He watches as her eyes begin to water, how her chin starts to wobble. His heart drops at the sight, reaching for her as an instinct, only to get pushed away. “Why don’t you and Lily just go by yourselves? She’s your real daughter, anyway.”
“What?” he croaks, shrinking back. “That’s not true—”
But she doesn’t give him a chance to reach the end of his sentence, just feverishly stands and runs off in the direction of her room. He was about to follow after her if it weren’t for you clearing your throat.
“Just…leave her alone. For the time being, at least.”
Irritation spikes within him as he hears you talk. Still. Coloring. As. If. Nothing. His teeth grind together. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell me what I can and cannot do.”
“It's not that you can or can’t,” you sing once before connecting your eyes to his, not daring to be the first one to look away now that you have him. “It's just that you shouldn’t.”
“What the fuck did you tell her?” he accuses with a trace of venom.
“I already told you, I didn’t say anything, it’s what she heard. Which was everything,” you defend. “In case you haven’t noticed, the walls around here are paper thin.”
“Oh God,” the Dutchman groans, placing Lily back down on her stomach. He fixes himself on the floor as well, head between his hands. “Fucking hell.”
“Should the flowers be teal?”
He looks up, face full with disgust. “Are you really asking me that right now?”
You shrug. “You’re worried over nothing. She’s six. She’ll get over it before you know it.”
“Yeah, but she shouldn’t have to because I shouldn’t have said what I said in the first place.” His shoulders droop as if he’s carrying a bag of rocks. “I was angry, I never meant to imply that Penelope was some nobody to me—”
“Ah, ah, ah,” you hiss—correct—and bring your finger up against his lips. “Thin walls.” He freezes beneath your touch, soft and slender. You don’t linger, though, just drag your hand down and go back to what you were doing. Max’s pulse must’ve stopped in between those very seconds. “How else could you have expected her to react?”
“I don’t know, but that doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t go up and check on her—”
“I already said, it's best you don’t,” you advise when he attempts to get up. “Let me do it.”
“No, really, I should be the one to ta—”
But you’re already standing, leaving him with no other option than to look up at you like some golden statue. It doesn’t help that you stick your hip out, a lazy hand laid over your waistline. “Have a little bit of faith in me, okay? I’ll smooth things over for you.”
And that you do.
But later, even when you finally get Penelope to come out for ice cream—Max drives, of course, and one would have thought nothing happened if they were to take a fast glance, overlooking her bloodshot eyes—he can’t help the uneasy feeling of it all.
That he knows you heard what he said about you too: so why didn’t you say anything about it?
And that, somehow, makes a chill run down his spine.
-
It happens two weeks later. He was back home for a few days.
Kelly has gone out with her sister, Penelope was at a sleepover, and Lily was taking a fast nap. He finds you outside, bare feet dipped inside the pool, and a cigarette lit in between your fingers. He nearly laughs at the sight, slightly surprised. Amused.
“Let me get this straight: you believe that ink poisons the blood stream, and yet—you smoke?”
Looking up at the sound of Max’s voice, your lips curve in an upward motion, disconnecting from the white stick. “That must make me a hypocrite then, right?”
“Hardly,” he hums. “It makes you human.”
You laugh, inhaling deeply before exhaling a large grey cloud. The sun has gone down a bit, but he can still see it. How it expands through the air and disintegrates into all sorts of directions. The baby monitor rests on top of your lap.
“Was I not one before?” you ask with a hint of mockery. He ignores you, focuses on the way you hold the blunt loosely. You wave him off. “Kelly said I could as long as it was nowhere near the baby. Fair deal, I suppose.”
“You’re quite the class act,” he comments carefully, gaze lingering with wariness. The silence hangs heavy and as thick as thieves. The sound of you kicking your legs against the warm water ripples a couple of times before you let out a cough. “Hey. Can I say something without you getting offended?”
“That would depend,” you respond. “How bad are you planning on hurting my ego?”
Max takes his time, weighing his words on the tip of his tongue before inching closer to where you sit. An arms length, really, but he was almost certain that he was beginning to taste the tobacco himself. His tall frame over yours is enough to make you look up, raising a neat brow, patiently waiting for him to speak.
“Everyone thinks you’re great. Kelly swears you’re her right-hand person. Penelope is obsessed over the fact that you know how to bake her favorite kinds of sweet treats. And Lily? Well. She’s only a baby. She loves just about anyone.” He pauses. “But tell me why…”
I just don’t see it.
You stare back blankly, taking another hit as he continues with a soft shake of his head. “From the very start, I didn’t buy it. Nope, never did. There were a few times I got close—so damn close—but somehow, you always either did or said something that reminded me why I couldn’t fully trust you.”
“I’m not responsible for that, Max,” you point out, plain and simple. “I could only do so much.”
“Of course,” he agrees. “But why don’t we start off with the truth?”
A small scoff erupts from you, almost mixed with something of a snort, like you found this entire interaction a complete waste of time. “Which is?”
Max narrows his eyes. “That we know each other, don’t we?”
“Jesus, this again?” you groan, tearing your gaze and rubbing your eyes sore. “Must I learn Dutch and explain to you once more that we don’t?” Reaching towards your neck, you begin to massage it as it starts to cramp from holding it up for so long. “What’s with you and insisting that we do?”
“Did we go to school together at one point? Were you a friend of Victoria’s?” he questions desperately. “I don’t understand—”
“You’re crazy,” you say, standing up to your full height and staring up at him with an eye twitching. “What is it about your past that makes you worried someone will come back and get even with you?”
His lips twitch.
An unsettling smile forms as you wag a steady finger up at him, like an owner training its dog. “You’re hiding something, aren’t you?”
Max flinches. “I’m not—”
“What is it?” you push eagerly with bright eyes. “What did you do?” The wind blows against your hair, kicking it towards your face, forcing you to squint before you push it away. “I promise I won’t tell. I’m quite good at keeping secrets.”
“This isn’t about me,” he finalizes with a threatening tone. “This is about you, and what you’re hiding.” The Dutchman reaches for your wrist, the one that holds onto the dying cigarette, and tugs you close enough to learn that you have a tiny mole beneath your left brow. It’s faint, but it’s there. “We’ve met before, and you know it.”
“Do I?” you taunt with a smug grin.
His blood boils as he rips away from you. “Stop saying shit like that!” he exclaims. “You know it, and I just—I just c-can’t seem to remember for the life in me!” His breathing pattern shifts. “When Kelly first introduced us—that day in the kitchen—you knew that I had recognized you, and you made it your job to throw me off. You. Played. Coy. You got the girls to adore you…so why can’t you just tell me what I did to you and why you’re here?”
There’s a way about you, something that makes his heartbeat quicken. How it drums harshly. He hears it. And he bets you can too.
With knitted brows and round eyes, you blink.
Pure. Corrupt. Innocent. Malicious.
And it sure as hell confuses the fuck out of him.
“You’re really starting to scare me, Max,” you whisper beneath your breath, nose pink.
Have you been sleeping enough?
-
The following morning, as he’s brushing his teeth, he comes to a shameful realization: he owes you an apology.
His flight had been unbearable the night before, he was exhausted beyond belief, and he took it out on you and blamed you for things that sounded outright absurd the more he replayed the events from a few hours ago. The way you looked at him with uneasiness, as if you truly figured he would have drowned you if it really came down to it. He was twisting with guilt the second you peered up from the stove, holding out a plate of pancakes.
“Eat them while they’re nice and warm,” you cheer like a ray of sunshine. “There’s maple on the table, but be careful. Lily spilled it, so it might still be a bit sticky.”
He blinks, partially out of barely waking up but also from how shocked he was with you acting as if nothing had occurred. Perhaps it didn’t. “Have you eaten?” he asks awkwardly, sitting down on an open chair.
You shake your head. “I was about to, though.”
He nods. “Where is everyone?”
“Well, Penelope left for school a few minutes ago, and Kelly took Lily to her check up.” Grabbing a plate, you serve yourself breakfast before claiming a seat next to him. “Can you hand me the bowl of fruit, please?”
This entire conversation was offputting. “Sure,” he responds, giving it to you with a tight smile. “I wish I would've woken up earlier and gone with them.”
“Mmm, yeah. But you arrived so late yesterday that Kelly thought it was best to just let you sleep in.” The fork clinks against your plate as you jam it into a slice of mango. “I’m sure they won’t be out for too long.”
The RedBull driver grimaces as his mind begins to race with humiliation. “Okay, can I just start off by saying that I’m sorry about—”
A soft sigh escapes past your berry tinted lips. “You don’t need to apologize.”
“Yes, I do.” He aligns himself to you, leaving you with no other choice than to look at him, seeing how serious he was taking this apology of his. “I shouldn’t have lashed out on you the way that I did, and for that, I’m sorry. I-I-I think I’ve just been away for too long, a-a-and I was partially delirious, I think, so I spoke utter nonsense that had no significant meaning. I was rude to have argued that you weren’t a good enough addition to this family, of course you are, are you kidding me?”
Blush feathers onto your cheeks with his compliment. “Thank you for saying that, but you really don’t have to. I figured your words weren’t meant to hurt my feelings.”
The tension on his face fades away once you confess to that, making him flash a sheepish look. “From now on, I’m on your team, just like everybody else.”
“Guess I’ll have to take your word for it,” you tease, bumping your knee against him as a silent truce.
He flinches at the most minimal touch of yours and gulps, already pulling away and sitting straight. “Let’s get along.”
“Haven’t we?” you question with a sense of confusion. “I mean…I thought we were?”
“Right. But I want to get to know you better.”
“What else is there to know?” you mutter, frowning. “I’m not quite as interesting as you might think.”
“That simply can’t be true,” Max notes with a funny look in his eyes, like he doesn’t believe you at all. “You’ve barely shared anything with us about your personal affairs.”
“I’m considerate enough to know what not to bore you with it,” you state. “It doesn’t matter, anyways.”
“It does to me,” he confesses in a soft whisper that makes your eyes narrow suspiciously and your lips part. “For the sake of knowing who’s living in my home.” This comes across as more of a lighthearted joke. “Have you always lived in Monaco?”
“Oh. Um. No?”
The Dutchman keeps a chuckle to himself. “You don’t sound too sure.”
“No,” you clarify. “I haven’t.”
He nods. “What was your life before this job?”
A moment passes by. “I used to work as a paralegal at a law firm.”
“Did you?” he asks with genuine interest now. “Did you like it?”
“At the time. Yeah.”
“But then?”
“I quit and became a nanny,” you respond back with a lame shrug.
Max hums in deep thought. “Would you ever leave and go back?”
“That’s a good question. But no. I don't think so. Living behind a screen isn’t really for me.”
“But changing diapers is?”
A gentle laugh echoes as you toss your head back and grip your chair to hold yourself from sliding off. “Must be!” His own lips twitch with a tempting smile and his gaze follows to where you cut your pancake into smaller pieces. “Must be…” you repeat.
“Do you think I’m a good dad?”
The dining room comes to an uncomfortable silence. You hadn’t expected this question of his, but now he had asked, and now you were staring at him as if he handed you a gun. “Who am I to determine whether you are or aren’t?”
“You can be honest,” he reassures you. “I won’t get mad.”
And it takes a long time for you to finally answer, but when you do, you don’t hold back.
“You’re halfway there.”
With that, you decide you’re done eating, walking your plate over to the sink and beginning to wash the porcelain dish as delicately as possible. You’ve already scratched too many.
Max’s stomach churns with the words that seem to live in the forefront of his mind. Soap slides down your arms before you rinse and dry off. “Why is that?” he can’t help but ask, blue eyes swirling with peculiar interest. “There must be some sort of explanation to it.”
“You said I could be honest?”
“Right.”
A slow grin stretches across your pretty face. “Yet you never said I could be brutal.”
His breath hitches. “So be it—be brutal with me.”
A steady beat. “You do love Lily and Penelope, that much is true. The only problem here is that you love them in theory. In pixelated photos. In static filled phone calls. In promises. But Max—children don’t live in theory. They live in moments.”
And you’re not in most of theirs.
His mouth runs dry as you continue. “Look—everything I know about love is not much—but I do know that it’s a feeling. Not something that can be scheduled. It’s in the way you’re able to recognize Lily’s cries. Is it because she’s hungry? Tired, perhaps? Is she looking for Kelly?”
Is she looking for you?
His palms begin to sweat.
“The reason as to why you even asked this question in the first place is quite simple—you doubt yourself. You know that what you’ve been giving them is mediocre care, but how long is that going to cut it? It’s easier to tell yourself that that’ll be enough, but soon they’ll grow up—and soon they’ll see for themselves…that you were never truly there.”
A droplet hits the sink.
Slowly, you face him, eyes calm, but there remains a heavy burden that seems to drag him down with you. “But hey. You’re making millions annually. That must suffice, no?”
Max swallows a rough patch, and it costs him. It travels like a piece of cardboard, but what else was he supposed to do? I mean, he asked for your perception, and how can he admit that it knocked him to the ground so fast? You knew how to do it, too. With your tone as sweet as honey, but as real as the fear in his eyes. Was he really living out his best years on track rather than being with his family?
“Funny, isn’t it?” you speak. “The things you forget, and the people who don’t?”
And for the first time—he sees it. He truly, truly sees it.
All the hatred in your eyes.
It flickers by so fast that he physically has to pinch himself to believe that it was ever even there in the first place. The way it flashes cruelly, similar to a lightning strike that was meant to hit him. It’s impossible to ignore now that he has a name for it.
Wrath.
Not the kind that disappears after a month or so. No. Rather the kind that lingers for years, the kind that engraves itself into your bones. This isn’t a simple strip of anger that fades, it’s one that roots deep in pain. As if you’ve been personally wronged in a way that would haunt you until your very last breath. It accuses him of something. Punishes.
He notices now how the girl standing in front of him isn’t a friendly face from his past. She’s an upcoming storm, with secrets that lay beneath her skin. And yet? No sense of fight or flight kicks in.
“You’re not crazy, Max,” you whisper, eyes sharp. “We do know each other…”
Max’s blue gaze flashes. His mind races.
He knew it. He knew it. He fucking knew it.
“But I won’t be the one to admit from where,” you say, breaking away with a deceiving smile.
And you know what? That might be what ends up making you lose your mind.
-
It’s a figment of his imagination at this point. He hears your voice when you’re not around, he sees your shadow at every corner, and he’s not even in the same country as you.
Blinking up at the ceiling—when really, he should be doing his warm ups—Max plays with a purple stress ball, squeezing hard and loosening his grip, then repeats the same pattern. His brain hurts from simply trying to remember—where do I know her from? Roads, there’s millions, but when did you cross paths?
And so begins his insanity.
“Do you recognize her?”
Pierre and Carlos squint at his screen, finding the sweet image of both Penelope and Lily next to you on a hammock. Kelly took it, sent it, and that’s what he decides to pull up when he spots his former teammates talking about wedding rings and adoption.
I think that’s a great idea, was the last thing the Spaniard is able to say before being cut short. Max doesn’t really know what exactly he was referring to, but he neither bothered asking.
“You know what? I think I do—”
“She looks familiar—”
He blinks feverishly at the confirmation coming from both of them. “Y-Y-You do?”
“Sure thing,” Carlos begins, brown eyes squinting at the picture one more time before nodding with certainty. “Who can forget such a pretty face?”
His fists tighten. “Alright then, where do you know her from?”
“The Christmas party, right?” Pierre chirps from his place. “I wanna say, twenty-sixteen, perhaps seventeen?”
“Seventeen,” Carlos confirms. “She was there that night.”
“Who is she?” Max pushes adamantly.
“You’re nanny, duh,” Pierre says with a lighthearted tone. “How’d she end up working for you, anyway?”
“Probably trusted her since they already knew each other,” Carlos butts in. “Jeez. Networking really does help, does it not?”
“I hadn’t recognized her!” the RedBull driver defends “All I know is that Kelly found a ‘good match' and hired her without consulting me first. Following day, she shows up at my doorstep and is learning how to french braid just because Penelope said so.”
“Well. Now you know,” Carlos responded, losing interest in the topic by now. “Hey, who wants a coffee?”
“I do—”
Banging his fist against the back of Pierre’s chair, Max lets out a frantic groan. “This tells me nothing! You two recall her looks—great, that’s wonderful, really—but who is she?”
“I’m not sure I’m following—”
“How did she get into that party? Was she a friend of someone's? A girlfriend? A—”
“So what if she was? Why do you care so much?”
“I care because—” Max says, voice filled with vexation. “She’s driving me crazy.”
Pierre’s lips twitch with amusement. “Woah. I didn’t know you had it that way…”
His implication makes him wither, makes him flinch. He clears his throat rather rudely. “I don’t have it any kind of way. She’s just…odd. She keeps saying and doing things that make me not want to leave the girls with her.”
“But Kelly’s there too—”
“Only, she hasn’t been,” the Dutchman quips. “She’s been acting weird as well, never home, so who can I trust with my daughter when I’m not around?”
They feel bad for him, he can see it in their eyes, slowly forming along with knitted brows. They exchange a look before Carlos releases a heavy breath. “Listen, I only remember her face because I had asked for her number, but I quickly backed off as soon as she said she was seventeen.”
Pierre nods. “I ran into her in the men's restroom, actually. She barely even looked up at me when she said—”
The line to the ladies room was too long to wait for, you mumbled, wiping away your tears.
The thought of you crying makes his chest tighten. “W-W-Why was she—”
“She never really got around to explaining. I can’t fully blame her. I was only a stranger.”
Max shut his eyes, shaking his head with confusion as he clicks his phone off. “Fine. So some jerk ruined her night eight years ago—what does that have to do with her coming back?”
“Well. Isn’t it obvious by now?”
The jerk is clearly you.
-
When he walks in through the door in the late hours of December eighth, he has nothing left to give but confrontation, and the only good thing about this was that Kelly had taken the girls to visit her parents in Brazil.
But you’ll join us in a couple of days, right? she had asked when he dropped them off at the airport.
Of course.
She nodded, curled hair tucked behind her ear as she took the chance to kiss him. You won’t last too long being alone. The nanny leaves tonight to Paris with her friends.
He forced his face to not react. Is she now?
A steady laugh almost escapes when she tilts her head back and quirks a sharp brow. Oh no. Don’t tell me you’re going to miss her.
What could he possibly have responded with? The truth? Nobody ever likes the truth, least of all, him. He hates it that he can hear you packing, the wheels squeak as you move throughout your room. He despises the fact that you won't be around, and not simply for the matter of taking care of Lily and Penelope anymore.
It more so had to do with the yearning question of: what now?
Walking towards the front door and putting your things aside with a flush colored face, he can tell that you’re surprised to see him here. Standing tall and ever so questionable. Your lips turn into something of a smile, almost as if you were expecting for this to be a prank.
“Do my eyes deceive me,” you tease with humor. “What are you doing here, I thought you were in Brazil?”
Max shrugs, playing coy. “Why hadn’t you told me you were going to Paris?”
You look taken aback, truly, shocked to hear his own wonder said out loud. “I figured Kelly would have. Does this come to a complete surprise to you?”
“Right. Well. Sort of,” he complains, dodging your stare now, looking down at your luggages as they seem to wait rather impatiently. A sudden urge came through, the need to burn them, simply so you wouldn’t walk past those doors, but honest to God, there wouldn’t be an ounce of care in you if he were to do just that. “I just wish you would have told me.”
“Do I owe it to you to make you the first to know?”
A moment lingers by. He doesn’t say much in between it, barely even blinks, but he’s looking at you now. Straight at you like nothing but his questions exist. Perhaps, that's really all there is.
“I know now.”
You align yourself straight with a playful expression, hands resting over your hip as if you’re ready to challenge him. Which is what you’re about to do, he’s perfectly well aware. “Are you having trouble explaining yourself in words, Mr. Verstappen?”
His jaw twitches once. “Why didn’t you just tell me? I really don’t see what the big deal would have been.” He shakes his head adamantly. “You were there that night. At Carlos’ farewell dinner, weren’t you?”
You quirk a brow smugly. “Well then, I recall something different—was it not Pierre’s welcome dinner?”
Max is really, really, really trying his best at keeping his composure, but he is not a God and there is only so much more that he can take. This was starting to feel like a bad idea. Having this conversation with you, that is. It could only ever end with something regrettable, why would he ever allow himself to be optimistic and think otherwise?
“To whatever it may have been,” he hisses. “You. Were. There.”
And finally, you accept it, smiling so…satisfied.
“I was there. I was there that night, you’re right.”
“Okay, okay, okay,” he whispers to himself, pacing around, nearly fidgeting. He stops right in front of you, looking you dead in the eye. “And eight years ago…I did something to you?”
“Nearly nine.”
The Dutchman doubles down. “Nearly nine, what?”
“In a few days,” you say with a gentle tone. “It’ll be nine years.”
He’s full of despair at this point, brows furrowed and pinched up all at once. His blue eyes have darkened into something impure, but what else could have been so beautiful to a girl like you?
You smile, reaching to brush his hair back. You feel him get tense, like a strained muscle of some sort, but he never once steps away. No. Instead, he finds himself leaning into your touch like some deprived sicko.
This is a humiliation ritual, he begins to think to himself as a cruel realization when his heart punches his chest hard, almost as if its intention was for him to lurch over with pain. But has it not always felt this way with you?
“Max,” you purr, softly rubbing your thumb against his temple now. “I’ll tell you what—”
“What?” he questions rapidly, desperate for quite literally anything you’re willing to give to him.
A slow smirk. “How about you tell me what it is that you think you did that night, and I’ll let you know if you get it right, huh? How does that sound?”
He’s well aware that you’re treating him like a dog. With rules you know he’s going to follow anyways, and with a firm voice that lets him know who’s in control.
It’s you—despite living in his home, despite making a living wage under his payroll, despite watching his daughters when he’s away for months on end—it’s only ever been you in control.
And so, his confessions begin.
“It was so long ago,” he mumbles, opening his mouth like it was already looking for yours. Pressing your hands to his chest now, you keep him place but still close. He blinks, tamed by that action alone. “H-H-How could I possibly remember?”
“Think,” you demand. “Look, I’ll even help jog up your memory. I’m thoughtful that way..”
And you kiss him.
Yes, you kiss him like a dirty soul that is intending to hang onto him until he can no longer stand on his own two feet. It’s so vicious, he can feel your fingerprints color his skin all over, as if warning him: This. This. This. This will stick to you because I said so.
His large hands grab at your sides desperately, like he’s trying to stay afloat. The sudden fiction makes you smile against his lips before tugging him towards the living room. He’s a mess, tripping over his own two feet, whimpering when you pull his hair as if directing him onto the right path.
He groans when he falls down against the couch with a harsh thud, blinking up to where you hover over him before claiming a seat on his lap, gaze dark and tempting. He shudders beneath your body at the mere sight. “I’m sorry, but I really can’t seem to re—”
“Would it help if I sucked your cock?”
Max blinks, dazed, before you climb off, already getting on your knees and unzipping his jeans. “Wait a minute, wait a minute—” But he’s just as good as gone the second your mouth wraps around his girth. “Oh God.”
Mmm, you moan at the taste of him, fluttering your lashes as you pump the rest of him with your hands. An upward motion that makes his eyes squeeze shut in a way that has him seeing colors. You giggle, stirring vibrations that certainly didn’t help his situation.
“Do you remember me now?” you whisper as you pull away, enjoying his demise.
As some weak attempt, his hands reach for the back of your head, holding you in place and keeping you from moving, but that doesn’t stop your tongue from licking a stripe down the base, eyes crinkling with amusement when he tenses up.
“I hooked up with a girl that night!” he practically pants out like a cloudy revelation he hopes is nothing but right. “In a bathroom stall, I wanna say…” Pressing a kiss down to his pink tip, you nod sleepily and he feels his insides burst with surprise. “That was you?”
“Nope,” you sing, finally pushing his hands away and sucking him back in, canine teeth scratching him every time you bop your head.
A loud hiss escapes once before clenching his jaw, but keeps his eyes on you. The way your cheeks hollow, the way you inhale like it costs you to keep up, just as much as him. And yet, he doesn’t quite reason how someone could look so holy while committing such a filthy act?
His inner thoughts come to a sudden halt when he feels your clammy hands press down against his thighs as you lean forward, deepthroating him.
Fuck, he croaks, mouth hung open in a silent O as his blue orbs connect with yours, filled with infatuation that surely sticks to your pink tongue. Breathing hard, you gag around his length for a minute before pulling away with a loud gasp, a string of saliva stretching as far as you go with a cheeky smile. Your hand continues to pump fast, mocking his moans like a record player.
“You’re so pretty when you’re ruined,” you praise, nodding along with him as his climax seems to build up rather rapidly. The Dutchman opens his mouth to speak, but falls short when you spit on his face, making him flinch before blinking up like a lost bunny, shocked. You giggle sweetly, jerking him off in one last hasty manner before he comes, thick ropes splurting and his groans echo. You smile, satisfied, pushing back against your heels, taking in the image of him gasping for air. “Christ,” you scoff. “If I had known you were this easy to break, I would’ve done it a long time ago.”
Max winces, avoiding your gaze as he rubs his eyes, thinking surely: This must be a dream, right? A nightmare, maybe? There was really no way of him not feeling embarrassed about what just occurred.
“If you hate me so much…then why are you doing all of this?” he asks with difficulty.
“Me?” you challenge with a frisky grin that stretches from ear to ear. “I said that?”
“You don’t have to.” His blue eyes falter into something frail, nearly grey. “I just…know.”
A beat.
Sighing—like he owes you a favor—you rise up to your feet and climb onto his thick lap, pushing your skirt up and sliding your panties to the side. He freezes when he feels your wet core slide against his cock, painfully hard. His stomach churns with anticipation.
“Well…” you start, gently cradling his face with one hand, and slipping him into your slippery hole with the other. “It’s because I hate you, that I’m also fucking you, Maxie.”
Taking everything there is to take, your breath hitches and his brain short circuits. You roll your hips as a lazy warning before resting your hands on his broad shoulders, bouncing. “W-What?” he stutters, holding you close when you arch your back with pleasure, mouth agape. “What do you mean by that?”
“I don’t get it,” you breathe out, a thin layer of sweat pasting your hair down against your face. Your cheeks are red, your lips are plump and pink, and he can feel his cock twitch inside of you. You frown dramatically. “I always thought you’d be a better fuck than this.”
It’s as if you had the intention of bruising his ego, and if so, you’ve achieved it. It strikes him without any given mercy, and it’s only until then, that he feels you awake something within him.
Fisting his grip on you even harder, the Dutchman rips you off of him, causing you to squeal before fixing you on all four on the coffee table right in front of you. It’s the perfect height too, right where he can slip back in and at an angle that makes his head roll back and your sounds break.
“How’s that?” he asks, feeling your core tighten. Looking back at you, he takes the time to admire the white ring that forms, the way it begins to slither down and in between your thighs. Max grunts, scooping it up on his index finger before licking it clean. The taste brings him to shame, feeling it slide down his throat like some delicious nectar. “So sweet…”
“Harder,” you instruct, glancing over your shoulder with a teasing smile that makes his heart stop for a minute. “Give it to me harder, Max.” A whimper. “I wanna feel how sorry you are.”
And although he has no clue as to what he’s apologizing for, he does it anyway. Thrust in deeper. Much more ruthless. He watches as your sweaty palms slips against the glass. Catches your reflection, beautiful features twisted with pleasure. A knot forms in the pit of his stomach, and surely you sense it too, because not long after, you start to push your ass back, looking for more.
“Oh, Maxie,” you whimper. “You feel so good inside of me.”
His visions blurs.
“And—and I feel so good around you…don’t I?”
“The best,” he assures you quickly, focused on his movements. “How could you not? You’re so w-warm and—tiny.”
You hum. “And you’re a good man, right?”
“Mhm!” He nods to himself feverishly, getting light headed at one point. “Ngh—mhm!”
“Well then—why would a good man ruin some else’s life?”
“F-Fuck!” he groans one last time before finishing deep inside of you. His breathing patterns struggle to align again as he looks up, finding you to already be staring back at him. He blinks when you glare, standing up and pulling your skirt back down. “I, uh, did what now?”
Your gaze flickers when he fixes his jeans before marching back to him, pushing him unexpectedly and causing him to stumble stupidly. “How could you?” you accuse with fury laced in your voice. “How?”
His eyes widen, startled, and lifted his arms up in defense. “I-I-I don’t understand!”
Tears threaten to spill as you stare up at him. “That night—nine years ago—we did meet. We did.” A beat. “I was visiting my brother at his new internship, don’t you remember?”
Max freezes. “You…”
“Yeah,” you hiss, hitting his chest repeatedly before he grabs your hands, fighting back when you dig your nails into him. “Me, you fucking jerk!”
He winces in pain, letting go of you as his skin begins to burn and numb up in one go. “I didn’t mean to!”
“Really?” you taunt, inching closer to him and cocking your head to the side. “You didn’t mean to?”
“I was only seventeen!” he tries to reason, flinching when your eye twitches. “I was just a teenager…”
“Ha!” you laugh out, sounding slightly deranged. Pushing your knotted hair back, you purse your lips before nodding towards him. “You thought you were the only one, or…”
Max recoils, memories flashing back to a time where he was new to the sport and didn’t know a lot of people. The other drivers, well, they didn’t count, and it was hard meeting anyone. At least, that’s what he thought.
He gulps. “When you’re y-y-young, you do dumb shit, alright?” Taking steady steps backwards, he finds that the distance between you both never decreases, and suddenly everything feels far too claustrophobic. “It was an accident.” He flinches. “And…I get why you’re mad at me. I do, I promise you that I do! But… I can’t change what happened eight years ago—”
“Nine.”
He nods robotically in agreement. “Nine. Nine years ago.”
Guilt tricks him back to you the second you drop down onto the floor, sobbing out like an injured puppy. In the most delicate manner, he levels down next to you and wraps his arms around like some safety net.
I’m sorry.
And just like that—you stop crying.
“Don’t be!” you cheer, pulling away and smiling warmly. “You did nothing wrong!” Max blinks. Wiping away at your wet cheeks, you shrug him off like it’s no big deal. “Seriosuly, Max, we’re good.”
His brows knit. “But your brother—”
“Holy shit, you really can’t remember a single thing from your past, can you?” you tease, giggling. “You’ve got the wrong person, mate.”
“But—”
“You’re thinking of Clarice and Nathaniel!”
“But I thought you—”
“How many people’s lives did you fuck up that night, Max?” you joke, leaning in to peck his cheek. “Help me up?” With his brain completely numb, he lends you a hand, assisting you. You pat his head as some form of gratitude before making your way back to the main entrance to where your luggage still awaits.
In a hurry, he jumps up and makes a beeline for you, pulling you by the wrist and forcing you to face him. He’s no longer looking remorseful, he’s no longer being gentle, no, now—now he’s enraged.
“Who the fuck are you?” he accuses, blue eyes dark with instability. “Huh? What do you want from me?”
You smile back softly. “Well, I want a boy, but I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”
His face drops in panic and the realization starts to settle.
“You can’t get pregnant,” he says, body running cold.
“Why not?” you ask with a subtle frown that makes him read right through you. “It’s science, isn’t it?”
“Don’t feed me with that kind of bullshit.”
“It’s not bullshit, Max,” you laugh out, breaking free from him and grabbing your suitcases. “Has no one ever told you the story of the Birds and the Bees?”
“I’ll pay you—”
“Tempting.”
“To have an abortion—”
Your eyes sharpen. “Super tempting.”
He releases a heavy breath, evidently agitated. “But you have to promise me that you’ll get it done right.”
“You’re quite the gentleman,” you say, letting out a sarcastic yawn. “And I appreciate the offer—sure, but I don't think it’ll be necessary.” Watching as you reach for the doorknob once again, the Dutchman rushes to keep it closed, forcing you to stay. You scoff, turning to face him. “Move.”
“You can’t do this to me,” he whispers, almost as if he were scared of the walls listening in on him. He swallows, blue eyes written with despair. “I have a family…”
“So what?”
“So—” he declares weakly. “You just…can’t.”
With your brows narrowed, you nod slowly, clicking your fingers. “You know what? You caught me in a good mood, and I’m feeling quite generous right now.” You beam. “I’ll give you another chance.”
He stares back blankly.
You hum. “Just tell me what you did to me nine years ago at that Christmas party, and I’ll do what you want me to do. I won’t run to the tabloids—I sure as hell won’t tell Kelly—and you’ll never see or hear from me again. Sounds fair?”
Max opens his lips, then snaps them back shut pathetically.
“I don’t know…” he mumbles beneath his breath, avoiding your gaze. “I honestly have no idea…”
Your eyes glimmer.
“No worries,” you answer back, voice clipped and bittersweet. Leaning close, you press your lips down onto his and smile when he melts against them like he couldn’t help it. You giggle, pulling away. “No worries at all,” you whisper into his ear, sensing a shiver from him when you do.
One fateful beat.
“You’ll have no choice but to remember me this time.”
Hi! My name is Al, and I created this fundraiser for my friend Muhammad in Gaza, since Chuffed is restricted by the Israeli government. He i
Hello my friends, I'm Mohammed, 19 years old. My dear brother/sister, thank you for your kindness and support 🙏💜. My father needs important surgery on his left eye. Please, my friends, help me 😭.
To make this happen, we need to raise the full amount ❤️🩹. The cost is around $1000, and we're still trying to reach the goal.
Any small donation or even a share can make a big difference in his recovery.
I'll keep you updated and share photos. Thank you for standing with us 👥💕.
You think the war is over, but every day the occupation targets civilians. Please, my friends 😭🫶🏼.
My friend,
Please… be there on time.
Time is passing… there are only a few months left.
Things have to go well.
Even a little means a lot.
If you can share this outside of Tumblr, please do and tell your friends, my friends ❤️🩹😭🫶🏼
My name is Hussam. I am a father, a husband… and I am trying to keep my family alive. 💔
Before the war, we lived a simple, peaceful life in Gaza. My wife and I were raising our six children—four boys, one girl, and our baby daughter who had not yet turned one. Our home was small, but it was full of laughter, warmth, and love. 🏡❤️
Then, in a single moment, everything was gone.
Airstrikes destroyed our home. The walls that once protected my children turned into rubble. I still remember the sound… the fear in their eyes… the way they held onto me as we ran for our lives. I couldn’t take anything with me—only my family. 😢💥
Now, we live in a fragile tent in a refugee camp. ⛺
The cold does not wait. The wind enters from every side. At night, my children cannot sleep—not because of noise, but because of hunger. My baby daughter cries in my arms, and I have nothing to give her. No milk. No warmth. Only empty hands and a broken heart. 🥶👶💔
As a father, this is the deepest pain—to see your children suffer and feel helpless.
Every day is a battle. I search for food. I try to keep our tent standing. I try to protect my children from sickness, fear, and despair. I am doing everything I can… but it is not enough. 😔
I need your help.
I want to be honest with you: during my last fundraising campaign, I was scammed. At a time when we had nothing, we lost even more. It broke me—but I refused to give up on my children. ⚠️💔
Now, I have created a new campaign with the help of a trusted friend, so your support can safely reach my family. I am asking you from my heart—please give us another chance. 🤝
Your help can save my children. 🙏
Even a small donation can mean: 🍞 Food for my hungry children
🍼 Milk for my baby daughter
💊 Medicine when we are sick
🧣 Blankets to survive the cold nights
Please, my friends… do not turn away.
If you cannot donate, please share my story. Your share could reach someone who can help save my family. 📢
Hussam is a father, a husband and a survivor.
From a father who is trying not to lose everything
Help Us Survive the Winter: A Desperate Plea for Sela and Our Future 💔🌧️🙏
The silence of a stalled campaign is a different kind of cold. As donations have dried up, the desperation in our tent has grown. I am writing this with a heavy heart, reaching out to anyone who can hear our plea. My family is at a breaking point, and we need your kindness now more than ever.
### Sela Cannot Wait Any Longer 😞🥺
My little sister, Sela, is only two years old. She has been fighting severe malnutrition, and though she is starting to recover, she is still so tiny and fragile.
Now, the freezing winter rains have become our greatest enemy. Our tent is badly torn, and every storm brings a flood inside. Our blankets and clothes are constantly soaked, and I watch Sela shiver uncontrollably in the bitter cold. I hold her to my chest to keep her warm, but I am terrified that the cold will take her from me before the hunger does.
Your donations go directly toward a sturdy, waterproof tent and the nutrition Sela needs to stay alive.
A Career Sold for a Crust of Bread 💻🚫
The war has stripped us of everything. I hold a Bachelor’s degree in Computer Engineering and have professional experience, but the starvation became so extreme that I was forced to sell my laptop just to feed my family. It was a devastating choice. Now, I am stuck in a cycle of survival that leaves no room for hope:
I spend my days carrying heavy water containers across ruins.
I spend my nights trying to start fires just to keep us from freezing.
I have no way to work, no way to study, and no way to pull my family out of this nightmare.
How Your Donation Changes Everything 💸🤲
I have launched a new campaign with a trusted friend after my previous one was unfortunately banned. Every dollar donated is a brick in the wall of our protection. We urgently need funds for:
Emergency Shelter & Food: To keep Sela dry, warm, and fed.
A New Laptop & Internet: To replace the one I sold so I can apply for remote software or data entry roles and provide for my family myself.
Medical Care: To ensure Sela’s recovery from malnutrition continues.
Please, if you can find it in your heart, donate today. Even the smallest amount is a miracle for us. If you cannot donate, please share this post—your voice might reach the one person who can help us survive.
Hi, my name is Max and I am raising funds for Mahmoud and his family who are living in Gaza. Please read his story below:
Hi, at first I love your stories! Can you please write a story with Toto and Christian´s daughter where they will have sex in CH´s house and get caught by Christian.
Thank you Anon!
The Desk Incident 🔥
🐺 main masterlist || The Desk Incident Series
PART 1 | PART2 | PART3
Toto Wolff x HornerDaughter!reader
Summary: When Christian Horner leaves for a business trip, you finally get a chance to see your secret lover — Toto Wolff, your father’s greatest enemy. A heated reunion at home turns into a risky, forbidden session right on Christian’s desk… only for him to return early and catch you mid-act. Chaos erupts, Toto laughs, you hide in his arms, and Christian faints. Twice.
Warnings: smut, oral sex, protected vaginal sex, forbidden relationship, dom/sub undertones, sexual content in a risky setting, humor, fainting parent, 18+ only.
Word count: 2.5k
You’re curled up on the living-room sofa, legs tucked under a blanket, a book in your hands, pretending to read, but really just trying to distract yourself from the ache of missing him. The house is quiet, too quiet without your father’s constant phone calls and pacing. Christian is somewhere in Switzerland or Austria, some “urgent business”, gone for several days.
You finally exhale, relaxing for the first time in weeks.
Then the doorbell rings.
You freeze.
No one is supposed to be here. The staff is off. Neighbours don’t visit. Your father is inanother country.
A second, sharper ring.
Heart pounding, you walk to the door, fingers trembling on the handle, and when you open it, every coherent thought in your head evaporates.
Toto stands there.
Tall, immaculate, impossibly composed in a dark jacket that clings to his shoulders, but his eyes, God, his eyes, burn when they fall on you.
And that smile.
That slow, wicked, hungry smile that always means trouble.
“Hallo, Schatz,” he murmurs, voice deep enough to melt your spine. “You said you were alone in the house.”
Your breath catches. Your knees nearly buckle.
You’d forgotten how massive he is in a doorway. How he fills the space. How he makes you feel small and wanted and claimed with just a look.
“Toto,” you whisper, gripping the doorframe because your legs don’t feel reliable. “You… you surprised me.”
He steps closer, just enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him properly.
“I missed you,” he says simply. Not soft. Not shy. A confession wrapped in dominance. “It’s been too long. And when you texted me that you’re alone…”
The smile sharpens.
“I took the jet.”
Your heart drops to your stomach.
“My father...”
“...is gone,” Toto finishes for you, one hand lifting to trace your jaw with his thumb. “And even if he weren’t… I would still be here.”
Your breath stutters.
“That’s dangerous.”
Toto leans in until his lips brush your ear, his breath warm.
“Schatz… wanting you is dangerous. Leaving you waiting for me is impossible.”
You swallow hard, pulse racing.
Then he steps inside without asking — towering, confident, smelling like cologne and cold air and the man who has been your secret since the first moment he touched your hand in the paddock.
He closes the door behind him.
The click echoes like a promise.
And when he turns back to you, his gaze drops to your bare legs under the oversized sweater, to the book you had forgotten upstairs, to the flush blooming on your neck.
“Do you know,” he says quietly, “how hard it was not to touch you the moment you opened the door?”
Your knees give a little, enough for him to notice, enough for him to smirk.
“Come here,” he orders softly.
And because you’ve missed him more than you want to admit, and because you’ve dreamed of this exact moment since the last stolen night in his hotel suite, you go to him without hesitation.
The moment your lips crash together, it stops being a greeting and becomes hunger. Toto kisses you like a man starved — deep, hot, claiming. His hands slide under your sweater, ripping it upward, pulling the fabric off your arms in one quick movement. You gasp, and he growls softly, mouth already on your neck.
Before you can breathe, he grabs your waist and lifts you. Your legs wrap around him instantly, your body remembering him better than your mind ever could.
“Where is your father’s office?” he murmurs against your mouth, voice dark and low.
You point down the hallway, barely managing a whisper: “Last door on the right.”
Toto doesn’t hesitate. He carries you there, kissing you hard the whole way, pushing you against the wall once, then lifting you again when you whimper into his mouth. You can feel how hard he is through his trousers; he can feel how wet you are through your panties.
When he opens the office door, that wicked smile appears again.
“Perfect,” he says. “I’ve wanted to do this since the day I met you.”
Then he lays you back on your father’s desk. Papers scatter, a pen rolls to the edge, but Toto doesn’t care. He steps between your legs, looking down at you with heat that almost burns.
“I’m going to take you on his desk,” he says quietly, voice thick with desire. “Right where he works. Right where he thinks he has control.”
The words alone make you wetter.
Toto drops to his knees in front of you, hands on your thighs, pushing them wide. He pulls your panties aside and inhales sharply.
“So wet for me already,” he murmurs. “You missed me that much?”
You nod, breathless. “Yes… Toto… please…”
He leans in and licks you — long, slow, deliberate — and your entire body shudders. His tongue moves with purpose, tracing every sensitive inch. Then he slides two fingers inside you, curling them just right, stroking exactly where you need him.
“Oh God—Toto—” you gasp.
“Good girl,” he whispers against your skin. “Come for me.”
His mouth returns to your clit, sucking just the way that destroys you. His fingers work faster, deeper. The pressure builds fast, too fast, your legs trembling around his head.
You try to hold it back, but there’s no point. He knows your body too well.
“Toto—” you cry.
And then you break.
The orgasm hits hard, ripping through you, your back arching off the desk, hands gripping the edge as you scream his name. Toto holds you through it, fingers still moving, tongue still teasing, making you ride it until your thighs shake uncontrollably.
He looks up at you, mouth wet, eyes dark with satisfaction.
“That’s my girl,” he says. “And I’m only getting started.”
He kisses you hard, hungry, and you taste yourself on his lips — sweet, sharp, filthy. Your hands go straight to his shirt, ripping open button after button until his chest is bare. Your fingers slide over hard muscle, the lines of his ribs, the warm skin that always smells like luxury, power, and something dangerously male.
His body is exactly how you love it — strong, solid, perfect. His cock is already pressing against your thigh through his trousers, you can feel how hard he is, and it only makes you wetter.
You fumble with his belt and trousers, freeing him, taking his cock into your hand. Hot, heavy, throbbing, you know he’ll be inside you any second. You stroke him slowly, your thumb brushing the sensitive tip, looking straight into his eyes. He growls into your mouth, pushing you harder against your father’s desk.
“My wallet,” he snarls, voice low and rough.
You bite his lip lightly. “What about it?”
He gives you a sly, almost feral smile. “I have a condom in it.”
With one hand he reaches for his trousers, with the other he grips your thigh, kissing you again. He pulls out his wallet, opens it, and takes out a condom.
“I’m always prepared when it comes to you, Schatz,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours.
And you know — right here, on Christian Horner’s desk, in the heart of enemy territory, you’re going to let him have you completely, no matter the risk.
Toto rips the foil open, rolls the condom on with hands that are rough and impatient, never taking his eyes off you. His body is between your thighs in an instant, the head of his cock nudging at your entrance. You’re so wet for him it’s almost embarrassing, almost.
With one deep thrust, he’s inside you, filling you completely. The stretch, the heat, the shock of finally having him, your breath leaves you in a broken gasp, his name slipping from your lips.
He groans, low and guttural, driving into you again and again. The desk shakes beneath your back. Your moans are loud, shameless, echoing through your father’s office, if anyone walked in, there’d be no doubt what was happening here.
Toto’s hands grip your hips, fingers digging into your flesh, keeping you pinned to the desk so you can take every punishing thrust. Your legs wrap tightly around his waist, heels pressing into his ass, pulling him even deeper. You want him to ruin you here, on this desk, to leave you shaking and breathless.
He grits out your name, voice harsh with need. “Look at me. You feel that? That’s how much I need you. That’s what you do to me.”
You can barely speak, pleasure threatening to split you apart. The way he fills you, the way his hips snap against yours, the obscene slap of skin on skin—it’s all too much.
“Toto—I’m—I’m so close—”
“Come for me, Schatz,” he growls, fucking you even harder. “Let me feel it. Right here, where anyone could find us.”
And as the pleasure crests, stars explode behind your eyelids. Your whole body tenses, every muscle drawn tight, then shatters as you come around him, crying out his name, lost to everything except the feeling of him, deep, relentless, claiming you as his.
Your orgasm is still crashing through you when you hear it.
The front door.
Keys.
Footsteps.
A familiar voice calling your name.
Your blood freezes.
“Toto—” you whisper, panicked.
But Toto grabs your hips and thrusts into you hard, one last time, groaning as he comes. His body tenses above you, spilling into the condom buried deep inside you.
And that is the exact moment the office door swings open.
Christian Horner stands there.
He goes dead white. Then alarm-red. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first, just air, a strangled choke, a sound like someone witnessing the end of the world.
Then...
“WHAT THE HELL—?! ARE YOU— MY DAUGHTER— TOTO BLOODY WOLFF— IN MY— ON MY— DESK?!”
He looks seconds from a heart attack, hands shaking, face purpling, eyes bulging like a man who’s just walked into his worst nightmare.
You scream and instinctively hide your face in Toto’s chest, burying yourself in his broad, warm torso. Your legs clamp around him, your arms clutch his neck as if you can disappear inside him.
Toto is still inside you.
Still deep.
Still holding you.
And he starts laughing.
A low, rich, uncontrollable laugh vibrating in his chest as he pulls you tighter against him, shielding you completely.
Christian sputters like an exploding kettle.
“STOP— LAUGHING— GET— GET OFF HER— GET OUT OF— MY— OFFICE— YOU— YOU— AUSTRIAN— DEVIL— I— I— CAN’T— EVEN—”
Toto finally lifts his head, still smiling, voice maddeningly calm.
“Christian… breathe.”
“DON’T TELL ME TO— BREATHE!”
He points at the two of you, trembling.
“I SWEAR—you’re both going to KILL ME—”
You cling to Toto harder, shaking with humiliation and adrenaline.
Toto strokes your back and murmurs, amused, into your hair.
“Well, Schatz… I suppose he knows now.”
Christian is still shouting half-words, half-breath, half-pure-cardiac-distress when Toto finally moves — slowly, very slowly — only because you’re clinging to him like a koala and not because Christian demanded it.
“Toto—PULL OUT!—” Christian yells, covering his eyes with both hands.
Toto raises an eyebrow.
“Christian, I will, but she’s currently holding me hostage.”
You squeak, mortified. “I’m NOT—!”
He smirks down at you. “Schatz, your legs are locked behind my back.”
You instantly try to unwind them, fail, and bury your face deeper in his chest.
Christian starts pacing in tiny, frantic circles.
“Oh my God. Oh my GOD. My daughter. My desk. That desk cost twelve thousand pounds! I sign CONTRACTS on that desk!”
Toto: “And now it holds memories.”
Christian: “DON’T SAY THAT.”
Toto tries to stand up, still holding you, and Christian SCREAMS:
“STOP MOVING! YOU’RE GONNA—YOU’RE GONNA—NO. NOPE. CAN’T— I CAN’T DO THIS—”
He turns around like he’s about to run into the garden and never come back.
“CHRISTIAN,” Toto says calmly, “if you faint, I can’t catch you. My hands are full.”
Christian shrieks, “I KNOW THEY’RE FULL! THAT’S THE PROBLEM!”
You peek over Toto’s shoulder, face flaming. “Dad… can we just... talk?”
“NO!” Christian whirls around, pointing an accusing finger at Toto. “YOU! Out of her! Out of my house! Out of England!”
Toto kisses the top of your head deliberately. “She invited me.”
Christian nearly passes out.
“YOU—” he wheezes. “YOU—YOU BETRAYED ME?!”
Toto shrugs. “To be fair, we started dating before she admitted it to you.”
“THAT MAKES IT WORSE!”
You whisper into Toto’s chest, “We’re dead.”
“Probably,” Toto says cheerfully.
Christian finally sinks onto a chair, head in his hands, mumbling in a broken voice:
“My daughter. With Toto Bloody Wolff. I need holy water. I need a priest. I need therapy. I need a drink. Actually... no alcohol. Alcohol will kill me faster.”
Toto leans over, still holding you close, and says in the most annoyingly polite voice:
“Christian, should we reschedule that meeting on Monday?”
Christian SCREEEAAAMS.
“NOOOOOOO! MY DAUGHTER… MY DESK… MY MORTAL ENEMY… !!
Toto sighs softly.
“Alright, Christian. If it helps your blood pressure, I’ll pull out now.”
Christian shrieks, “DON’T NARRATE IT!”
But you whisper urgently into Toto’s shoulder, “Please… let me down…”
He kisses your cheek, gentle despite the chaos. “Of course, Schatz.”
He holds your hips, steadying you, and finally, slowly, pulls out.
Christian emits a sound that isn’t human.
Something between a gasp, a sob, and a velociraptor.
Then his eyes roll back.
And he drops.
Full collapse.
Arms out.
Completely unconscious.
Toto blinks. “Ah. That’s unfortunate.”
You gasp, scrambling off the desk, grabbing Toto’s arm.
“Dad?!”
But he’s out cold on the carpet like someone unplugged him from the wall.
Toto crouches beside him, pokes him with two fingers.
Nothing.
Pokes again.
Still nothing.
“Huh,” Toto says calmly. “I think I killed him.”
“TOTO!”
He lifts his hands defensively. “By accident! Technically you caused the fainting. I merely triggered the timing.”
You glare.
He shrugs. “Fine. Ninety percent my fault.”
You kneel beside Christian, fanning his face.
Toto stands, pulling out his phone.
“What are you doing?!” you ask.
“Calling the team doctor,” he says. “Or an exorcist. Whichever picks up first.”
You slap his arm.
“TOTO!”
He pockets his phone, steps behind you, wraps his arms around your waist, and rests his chin on your shoulder.
“Schatz, relax. He’ll wake up. Probably angry. Very angry. Furious, actually. Maybe murderous.”
“Great,” you groan. “Fantastic.”
Christian suddenly twitches on the floor.
Toto tightens his grip on you. “Oh, good. He’s rebooting.”
Christian’s eyes flutter open. He sees Toto towering above him, and then sees you standing between his feet, flushed, hair messy, shirt barely on.
He whispers, horrified:
“…no… no, no, no… it wasn’t a dream…”
Toto grins down at him.
“Christian,” he says sweetly, “next time, maybe knock?”
too sweet - will smith x reader x macklin celebrini
too sweet playlist
—˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ in which macklin celebrini shares too much with his best friends girlfriend, and finds out she’s just too sweet to not taste, and maybe will doesn’t mind.
—chapters!
hot cocoa
banana bread
blueberry muffins
cinnamon rolls
ice cream
strawberry almond milk
—blurbs/headcanons!
these are not in line with the chapter timeline
reader x will texts (bc era)
readers instagram stories
more ig stories
ig stories 3
ig stories (more mack than will)
ig stories 5
the people connecting the dots ig post
canada down (smau)
beach baby (smau)
dilf sid cros (smau)
the cat (smau)
nsfw headcanons (18+)
nsfw headcanons (18+) (again)
too sweet fitspo
pre mack will x reader
follower tracker
—asks!
reader in wills cameos
is mack down bad?
willmack + reader on an offday
willmack and the olympics (mack winning silver and will not competing)
a hughes brothers universe with three connected stories. preferably read in the order listed below. 18+ Minors DNI ★ all fics include explicit smut. read more specific warnings under each link.
★ blurbs for the universe are found here! ★ mood boards ★
𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 – ten parts, wc: ≈ 107k FINISHED
★ quinn hughes x afab! reader with she/her pronouns
includes tropes such as: accidental pregnancy, slow burn romance, co-parents turned lovers.
𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 – one shot, wc: tbd
★ luke hughes x afab! reader with she/her pronouns
includes tropes such as: childhood friends to enemies to lovers, she fell first, he fell harder.
𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 – one shot, wc: tbd
★ jack hughes x afab! reader with she/her pronouns
includes tropes such as: neighbors to lovers, opposites attract.
