Doohan Sister Reader
F1 Driver Reader
Cadillac Formula 1 Reader
Hey Guys, I just wanted to say I am still super sorry with every chapter that takes longer than I used to be to get them out. I asm currently in the middle of the last 2 weeks of college, so lots of studying and prep for our huge Final Projects or Tests. On top of that my FSAE team and I are prepping to leave for the Big Competition three weeks from now. However, I do not want any of my chapters to lack in the love and work that I put in to writing them. So I will do my best to try and get them out more regularly, but I will not post anything early or with any less love than the last one. So should they continue to take longer please remember this. No one has said anything about this but I still want to make sure that everyone knows I am not done with this story, just a little busy right now. With that said please enjoy...
The gym lights flicker on just before sunrise, humming low above my head like they’re still waking up, too. My hoodie is heavy with sleep and my shoulder twinges the second I shrug it off, revealing the newer, thinner brace beneath. It’s progress — less restrictive, easier to hide under my clothes — but it also means I’m out of excuses. The world thinks I’m still resting. But rest never made me stronger.
I roll out my mat in the same corner of the performance room as always. Familiar. Quiet. Grounded. Axel lays just a few feet away, head on his paws, eyes tracking my every move like he knows this day is going to be rough.
Because it is.
Today is cardio and strength. And no cast means full-arm weight again. It’s the first real milestone — a make-or-break kind of day.
I sit on the mat for a moment, my back pressed against the cool wall. My fingers find the scar on my forearm, tracing it absentmindedly. A reminder.
The crash didn’t defeat me.
"Alright, warrior,” Diego calls, stepping into the room and clapping his hands once. He’s grinning, but there’s a crease between his brows — the one that always shows up when he’s worried about me. “Scale of 1 to 10. Pain?”
I crack a tired smirk. “About a 4. Maybe a 5 when I raise my arm too fast.”
He raises a brow. “And how much of that are you downplaying to look cool in front of us?” Slightly nodding towards Axel.
I glance over at my dog, who immediately perks up like he knows he’s being talked about. “A solid 60 percent.”
Diego laughs, but he kneels down next to me, softer now. “Y/N, you’ve made insane progress. But we’re still building up. You don’t have to prove anything today.”
“I’m not trying to prove anything,” I say, even though it’s a lie. “I’m just trying to… feel strong again.”
He doesn’t challenge me. Just gives a nod and offers his hand to help me up. “Okay. Let’s do this. But the moment I see that shoulder falter or your breath get shaky, we’re pausing. Deal?”
“Deal.”
The warm-up is fine. Easy even. Jogging laps around the indoor track with Axel trailing behind me like a shadow. My lungs are steadier than they’ve been in weeks. I feel… almost like myself.
Then we shift to shoulder presses.
“Let’s start light,” Diego says, passing me the small dumbbells — the baby ones, I tease in my head. I hate how small they feel in my hands.
“Come on,” I mutter to myself, planting my feet. “You’ve done this a thousand times before. Hell, you used to double this weight for warm-ups.”
“That was before your bones tried to throw a party and forgot to invite safety,” Nico pipes in from the corner where he’s leaning against a table, flipping through my training notes. “Let’s not reenact the crash scene here, yeah?”
I shoot him a look but secretly, I’m glad he’s here. He grounds me. Keeps me from letting the fire inside burn too hot, too fast.
I managed the first set. My form is shaky on the second. By the third, my shoulder screams. My breath catches.
Diego notices before I say anything. “Stop. Drop ‘em. Right now.”
I obey, lips pressed tight. My pride stings more than my shoulder.
“Sit,” he says, nodding to the bench. “Now tell me what your body’s saying.”
I slump onto the bench, sweat trickling down my spine. “It’s saying I’m not ready.”
He kneels again in front of me, tone low and honest. “No. It’s saying you need time. Which isn’t the same thing.”
Nico steps closer now too, crossing his arms. “You’re not failing by resting, Y/N. That’s the bravest thing you could do right now — listen.”
I exhale shakily, brushing my sleeve across my face. “I just… I don’t want them to worry. The boys. They were scared enough. If they knew I was training again, they’d—”
“—They’d be proud,” Diego finishes for me. “Because you're doing this smart. You're building up again. You’re not throwing yourself into a cockpit half-healed. You’re working for it. Quietly. Strongly.”
I don’t respond right away. Just nod and lean forward, elbows on my knees, eyes on Axel who’s still watching me with that serious, almost human stare.
“Just… don’t tell them yet,” I finally whisper. “Let this be mine a little longer.”
“Of course,” Nico says, his voice softer now. “Your story. Your pace.”
“Besides,” Diego adds, grinning again as he hands me a bottle of water, “when you finally show up at the garage again and toss your helmet on like nothing happened, they’re gonna lose their damn minds.”
I chuckle. “I can’t wait to see their faces.”
I pick the dumbbells back up before they can stop me. Not for another full set — just one more press. One more reminder that I can. I lift them once, clean and steady, before lowering them again.
“That’s enough,” Diego says gently. “Today, that’s enough.”
And for once… I believe him. Because I know I’ll be back again tomorrow. And the day after that. I’m not chasing the old me anymore. I’m building someone stronger.
—
I hadn’t realized how much I missed the scent of race fuel and burnt rubber until I stepped through the paddock gates again.
The buzz. The noise. The heartbeat of a track that never really goes quiet.
The second my shoe hit the pavement inside the circuit, it all came rushing back — that itch in my fingers to feel the steering wheel again, the thrum in my chest that didn’t hurt anymore but still pulsed with memory. I wasn't driving today — still under the "you're technically held together with sports tape and medical optimism" clause — but I was here.
That counted for something.
Nico was walking just to my left, sunglasses on, hands in the pockets of his black team jacket, looking every bit like my silent, slightly too-calm bodyguard. Meanwhile, Paul practically bounced beside me on the right, grinning like a rookie who’d been handed keys to a spaceship.
“I swear, I thought you were just a myth,” Paul said, shifting the duffel bag on his shoulder. “They said ‘Ghost will meet with you before FP1’ and I was like, cool, should I also expect a unicorn and a sentient AI?”
My voice changer cracked slightly as I tilted my helmet toward him. “Sentient AI would be less chaotic than most of this team.”
Paul snorted. “And here I thought you were gonna be mysterious and intimidating. You’re… kind of hilarious.” I shrugged beneath my oversized hoodie. “Don’t get comfortable. I bite.”
“That would explain never taking that helmet off.” he said with an exaggerated look of fear. “Let me just go prep for my debut with the racetrack cryptid watching me from the pit wall.”
“Exactly,” I nodded. “Your job today is to not crash my car, Aron. It likes being pampered.”
“Anything else I should know?” he asked, just as we turned down the garage hallway.
I smirked under the helmet, then nudged him with my elbow. “Lots. Don’t downshift too hard into turn six — it’ll get twitchy. There’s a subtle bump on the exit of nine, trust your rear to hold but don’t overcorrect. And if you talk back to Diego during the debriefs, I’ll personally short-sheet your bed for the rest of the season.”
Paul stared at me, eyes wide. I tilted my head playfully. “What?” “That was… disturbingly specific. How do you even know about short-sheeting beds?”
“Because I’m creative and mildly vindictive.” Nico coughed — poorly disguised laughter — and muttered, “He learned it from Oscar.”
I pretended not to hear him and turned my attention back to Paul. “You’re gonna be fine. I’ll be on the pit wall the whole time, headset on, translating Diego’s feedback into ‘Paul Speech.’ He’s been dying to lecture someone other than me.”
“Oh great, I’m the replacement victim,” Paul said, mock sighing. “But really, thanks. This means a lot, Ghost. Being the reserve is weird — you never know when you’ll actually be used. I thought I’d be invisible.”
I reached up and tapped the visor of my helmet, voice softening through the modulator. “Invisibility doesn’t mean unimportant. You’ve got this.” He smiled then, really smiled. That bright, pure grin that reminded me so much of Jack it almost stung.
“Alright, cool,” he said, straightening his posture like he was trying to match the height of his moment. “Let’s go make you proud.”
“Oh, you’re already halfway there,” I replied. “You didn’t trip coming off the shuttle. That’s one more point than I had on my first day.”
“Rude,” I said flatly through the voice changer, flipping him off.
We turned into the garage then, the loud hum of tools and chatter dimming the second we stepped through the threshold. The mechanics looked up, a few nodding in recognition as I passed, others just giving me that respectful kind of glance — Ghost’s back. Even if I wasn’t driving, I was here.
Paul peeled off to go suit up. I took a breath, looking over at my car — technically still mine, even if someone else would be behind the wheel for FP1. It gleamed under the overhead lights, waiting.
My fingers twitched. Soon.
Nico said something, but I didn’t hear him — not really. Because just then, the gravity of being back settled in my chest. Not pain. Not fear. Just this warm, solid weight of home.
And I didn’t even realize how tightly I’d been holding onto that until I let myself feel it again.
—
The hum of the garage had dulled to a low buzz after FP1 wrapped. Tools were put back in drawers, pit boards were stacked, and Paul was somewhere in the back being debriefed, grinning like a kid who’d just aced his first big test.
I stayed where I was on the pit wall, not wanting to really speak to the media or answer questions. I didn’t need to hide here. But, it still gave me that edge of comfort… a thin line between me and the rest of the world. Especially when emotions threatened to press a little too close to the surface.
“You looked good out there,” a voice said behind me — calm, familiar, warm.
I turned slightly, already recognizing Franco’s tone before my eyes landed on him. He gave me a soft nod, leaning his elbows against the barrier beside me, helmet tucked under one arm.
“I wasn’t out there,” I said, the voice changer wrapping my words in static.
He tilted his head, blue eyes sharp and quiet. “Didn’t say you were driving. I said you looked good out there.”
I paused. Then exhaled through my nose and pulled out the mic cord completely, letting it hang from the railing as I leaned forward a bit, matching his posture.
There was a moment of silence before I added, softer, “You know it hurt… at first”
He didn’t interrupt. Just waited.
“It hurt a lot to sit here and not be the one buckling in. To know that the car — my car — was about to be driven without me. And that I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. Couldn’t fix it. Couldn’t fight it.”
My hands clenched slightly at the memory — the ache in my ribs still faint under the surface, the scar on my arm pulling a little under the hoodie.
“I kept thinking about how many races I might miss… how slow recovery’s felt. How I used to fly in that thing. And now I’m grounded. Watching. Coaching. Like I’m some kind of whisper in the background of my own team. Truly a ghost by name. ”
Franco didn’t say anything. He just reached out and tapped his knuckles lightly against mine — an anchor.
“But…” I said, slowly, breathing in deep. “Then Paul started talking. Asking me questions. Getting excited. Like… full-on spark-in-his-eyes excited. And I realized I could still be part of it. Just from here. From the wall. From the headset.”
I looked down at my gloves, flexing my fingers. “He listens. Like really listens. And seeing him figure things out… watching him light up after his first laps? I don’t know. It felt… right. Not perfect. Not the way I wanted to be here. But right… okay.”
Franco nodded once, voice soft. “You’re still racing. You never stopped.”
I looked at him.
He smiled faintly. “Just because you’re not in the seat doesn’t mean you’re not driving this thing forward. He wouldn’t be out there doing so well without your help. You’re shaping him. You’re shaping this whole team.”
The words hit me harder than I expected.
My throat tightened a little behind the helmet. “I think… for the first time since the crash… I don’t feel broken being here. I feel like I still have a purpose. I want Paul to do well. I want him to prove himself. I want him to have the chances I had. And if I can help him get those… then maybe this isn’t all just pain and waiting.”
Franco reached up then and gently knocked on the side of my helmet. “That’s the champion mindset. And the good teammate mindset.”
He grinned. “Even with the scary voice mod.”
I huffed a laugh. “It’s for dramatic effect.”
“You’re terrifying,” he deadpanned. “Inspiring, but terrifying.”
We both chuckled, the kind of laughter that eases tension like a pressure valve finally letting go.
Then Franco leaned back and said quietly, “It’s okay to feel both, you know. The pain and the pride. You’re allowed to miss it. And you’re allowed to find joy in what you can do right now.”
I swallowed hard, but nodded.
“Thanks,” I said. “For saying that.”
“Always,” he replied, and for the first time that day, I let myself take my helmet off — slowly — and just breathe.
He didn’t look surprised. He didn’t stare. He just offered a genuine smile, no different than the one he gave me when I was Ghost.
“You’ll be back in the car soon,” he said. “But until then? This version of you — the strategist, the leader, the teammate — is just as badass.”
I blinked at him, then smiled.
“Don’t tell Diego or Nico that. It’ll go to their heads, like some mother duckling they might pull me from my seat.”
Franco smirked. “My lips are sealed.” I smiled back before following him back across the pit towards the garage.
—
It was race day when the others finally found me.
Sure, they knew I was here. The media had caught glimpses of "Ghost" in the paddock all weekend, whispers and blurry photos circling online. But catching me for a real conversation? Actually pinning me down? That was a whole different challenge to them.
Until a very familiar flash of papaya orange caught me out.
I was tucked away in a quiet corner behind one of the hospitality buildings, sitting on a crate, sipping from a water bottle, my legs stretched out in front of me.
A shadow fell over me, and I looked up — only to see a smirking Oscar Piastri standing there, arms crossed.
“Well, look who I finally found," he said, tilting his head at me with a grin. "Thought you were supposed to be taking it easy during your injury. Yet here you are. Hiding like a delinquent.”
I didn’t get a word in before he stepped closer, peering dramatically at me.
“I hope you at least have your brace on under that hoodie," he teased, tugging playfully at the sleeve. "Would hate to have to carry you back to the medical center and explain to the physios why you’re broken again."
I scoffed behind the voice modulator, batting his hand away. "Relax, Mum," I said dryly. "Brace is on. Doctor's orders. I’m being good."
Oscar chuckled, dropping down onto the crate beside me with a quiet oof, bumping his shoulder lightly against mine.
"I dunno if sitting here in your emo corner counts as being good," he quipped. "But it’s good to see you. Missed you, you know."
I smiled — small, hidden — but it was there.
"Missed you too, mate."
We sat there for a beat, the sounds of the paddock — tools clanging, fans yelling, engines roaring in the distance — fading into a quieter hum around us.
"You look good," Oscar said suddenly, voice softer now. "Healthier. Stronger."
"Feel stronger," I admitted, fiddling with the hem of my hoodie. "Still a long way to go. Still can’t race yet. But it’s... better being here. Even if I’m not in the car."
Oscar nodded, watching me with that patient, careful look he only ever used when he dropped the sarcasm.
"I’m proud of you," he said simply.
Before I could say anything back — feeling dangerously close to getting a lump in my throat — another familiar voice floated over to us.
"There you are!"
I turned just in time to see Charles approaching, helmet in one hand, hair a little messy from pulling it off, suit half-zipped down. His face was lit up with relief, though there was a thin line of worry etched between his brows too.
"I have been looking everywhere," Charles said, crouching in front of us, resting his elbows on his knees so we were eye-level. "You are impossible to find sometimes, you know that?"
"Occupational hazard," I joked lightly, voice still crackling with the modulator.
Charles huffed a laugh, but then his gaze softened as he studied me.
"You are really here," he said, almost to himself. "And you are doing well."
"Trying," I said honestly. "It... wasn’t easy at first."
Oscar nodded beside me, nudging my arm. "But she's kicking ass. You should've seen her, Charles. Advising Paul like a damn pro. Ghost engineer era unlocked, I can’t wait to see what they can do during the race together."
Charles smiled — a real, warm smile — and reached out to squeeze my hand where it rested on my knee.
"I am proud of you, mon amie," he said. "More than you know. It takes a lot of strength to be here. To stay when it hurts."
I swallowed hard, the weight of his words pressing gently into my chest — not painful, not overwhelming. Just... steadying.
"I needed to be here," I whispered. "For the team. For myself. Even if it’s just helping from the wall. It feels like... I'm still part of it."
"You never stopped being part of it," Oscar said quietly.
Charles nodded, squeezing my hand once more before letting go. "And you never will."
For a moment, the three of us just sat there in the shade, the chaos of race day spinning on without us. It didn’t matter. It could wait.
Because here, hidden behind the noise, tucked into a small, forgotten corner of the paddock, I was reminded that even when I couldn’t drive, even when my body wasn’t at a hundred percent — I wasn’t alone. And that was enough. For now at least.
—
The race was chaotic.
From the second the lights went out, my heart thundered in my chest, the noise of the engines vibrating through the pit wall. I sat perched on a high stool right beside Diego, headset snug over my helmet, live feed on the monitors in front of me.
Paul's voice crackled through the radio — tight, a little anxious. His first F1 race. His first real chance. He'd qualified P14, and while it was a hell of a debut, he wanted more. We all did.
"Focus up, rookie," I murmured into the radio, voice softened by the modulator but still carrying the firmness I knew he'd hear. "Eyes forward. Breathe. You’re better than half the grid out there."
"Copy," Paul answered, clipped but trying to sound calm. I could hear the nerves anyway, layered under every word.
The first few laps were brutal — midfield battles that could turn ugly fast. Paul held steady, sharp and clean even under pressure. But he hesitated at key moments — lifting just a fraction when he could’ve pressed the attack.
"Car ahead is struggling with rears," I said, low and steady in his ear as Diego fed me data. "Watch him out of Turn 7. You’ll have him on exit."
A beat.
"Okay," Paul breathed. "Okay, Ghost. I trust you."
I smiled behind the visor, chest tight with pride.
And sure enough, two laps later, Paul slipped past in a beautifully patient move, climbing to P13.
The race ebbed and flowed, the pit stop cycle throwing chaos into the midfield. Every time Paul's focus wavered, I was there — guiding without overwhelming, steering him without grabbing the wheel.
"Car in front weaving under braking. He’s nervous. You stay clean. He’ll crack first."
"Brake balance forward two clicks. Save your fronts, we’re gonna need 'em later."
"Trust your exit speed. You’re faster in S2. He can’t stop you if you set it up early."
It was like music, almost — this silent, invisible dance we did together, woven between the roar of the engines and the crackle of the radios.
Lap by lap, Paul clawed his way forward. P12. Then P11.
When we hit the final stint, fresher tires on and the car lighter on fuel, Diego leaned toward me, excitement flashing in his eyes.
"One more position," he said into my private channel. "We get points."
I keyed my mic again, calm even though my heart raced like mad.
"Paul. Eyes up. P10 ahead. You are faster. You are faster. Stay close. Pressure him."
Paul’s breathing was heavier now, the strain of the race wearing on him, but he responded instantly. "Copy, Ghost. I’m on it."
I watched, fists clenched, as he chipped away at the gap — lap after lap, tenth by tenth.
Finally, into Turn 4, he made the move — bold, late on the brakes, perfect.
P9.
Inside the points.
The final few laps were a blur of adrenaline, shouting, encouragement.
When the chequered flag waved, Diego practically threw his headset into the air beside me, and I couldn't hold back the yell that ripped from my throat over the radio.
"YES, PAUL! YES! THAT’S HOW YOU DO IT!" I screamed, voice cracking with pride and joy.
Over the team radio, Paul whooped, the pure exhilaration pouring out of him.
"OH MY GOD, THANK YOU, GHOST! THANK YOU!" he shouted, breathless. "I COULDN'T HAVE DONE IT WITHOUT YOU!"
"You did that," I said, grinning so hard my cheeks hurt under the helmet. "You kept your head, you fought smart — you earned this, Paul. You earned every bit of it."
He was still yelling and laughing as he pulled the car into parc fermé, tires screeching slightly. The mechanics and engineers around us were clapping, cheering, and I stood frozen for a moment, overwhelmed.
He did it. We did it.
I pushed through the crowd toward the car, heart hammering.
Paul barely waited for the car to cool down. As soon as he wrestled himself out of the cockpit, he tore off his steering wheel, slammed it into its mount, and sprinted toward me.
"Ghost!" he shouted, voice hoarse with emotion.
I didn't even have time to react before he threw his arms around me, nearly knocking us both off balance.
Our helmets clashed with a loud crack, making both of us stumble a little, but neither of us cared. Paul clung to me like a lifeline, arms tight around my back, helmet pressed to mine.
I wrapped my arms around him in return, gripping him just as hard, laughing breathlessly even as something in my chest squeezed and ached with pride.
"You absolute legend," I said, voice trembling. "I'm so proud of you, Paul. So, so proud."
He pulled back just a little, enough that our visors almost touched.
"Couldn't have done it without you, Ghost," he said again, voice thick. "You believed in me when I wasn’t sure I could do it."
"I knew it from the start," I said quietly. "You just had to see it for yourself."
For a moment, the noise of the world faded away — the shouting, the music, the celebration. It was just the two of us, standing there in the middle of it all, holding onto each other like it mattered.
And maybe it did.
Maybe it mattered more than either of us could say.
Doohan Sister Reader
F1 Driver Reader
Cadillac Formula 1 Reader
Sorry for such a long wait everyone, things got super busy as my formula sae team got busy in preparation for an open house event. But I am back to planning and writing again. So to treat you all, here is an extra long and extra fluffy chapter for you.
The pen was starting to slip in my hand, not because it was too heavy or awkward, but because my palms were sweating. Stupid. It was just paperwork. Just another clipboard in another waiting room. I’d filled out dozens of these over the last few months—medical forms, release waivers, press permissions, rehab evaluations. But this one? This one felt different. This one felt… important.
The room was warm and quiet, filled with soft light and the faint scent of cedar. A dog barked in the distance, and I flinched slightly before reminding myself this was a safe place. I stared at the question on the page:
“What are you hoping to find in a dog?”
It should’ve been easy to answer. A companion. A little joy. Something to come home to after the chaos of racing and interviews and headlines I didn’t ask for. But more than that—something steady. Something that didn’t care about what the media said or the footage that kept replaying of the crash. Someone who didn’t ask questions, just stayed close when the nights got long and the thoughts got loud.
I scribbled down the first honest thing that came to mind:
“A partner. A friend. Someone who understands silence.”
When I handed it back, the woman behind the desk smiled softly like she’d read between every word I hadn’t said. “We have a little tradition,” she told me as she stood. “Our dogs… they choose you. Not the other way around.”
I followed her out of the cozy little office, heart pounding like I was about to walk into qualifying again. Except this time there was no helmet. No track. Just the sun-warmed backyard of the facility—and maybe a future waiting for me in the grass.
The gate opened and chaos greeted me in the most beautiful way. Dogs. All kinds. Bouncing, wagging, barking, rolling in the dirt. A pair of fluffy mutts ran straight for me, tails spinning like windmills, and I crouched down (as much as my shoulder allowed) to let them sniff and slobber and welcome me with happy energy I hadn’t felt in ages.
I was so distracted by them, I almost didn’t notice him.
He was standing off to the side—still, quiet, watching. A large German Shepherd, dark coat shining in the sun, ears perked, stance alert. He didn’t charge or bark or demand attention. He observed. Me. And when our eyes met, something… shifted. I didn’t know how to explain it, even now. But my heart settled. Not in a romantic way or a cheesy movie moment way, but in a deep, grounding way. Like a boat finally anchoring.
He took a few careful steps forward, his eyes locked on mine the whole time. Every inch of him radiated calm focus. And then—without hesitation—he leaned his full body gently into my leg. Solid and warm.
I let out a shaky breath, blinking hard. He didn’t nudge for pets, didn’t lick my face. He just… stayed. And that’s what I needed.
The trainer’s voice came from behind me, just a touch surprised. “Well, would you look at that. That’s Axel. He’s a bit of a legend around here.”
I looked down at him. “He’s perfect.”
“He’s more than that,” she said, stepping beside me. “He’s trained for emotional support. PTSD, anxiety, trauma cases. He knows when to give space and when to stay close.”
I blinked at her. “Wait—he’s already trained?”
She nodded. “Fully certified. And… he’s got something extra, too. Axel’s also trained in protective behavior. Not attack, just defense. He’s not aggressive unless you give the signal.”
I glanced down at him again, his head now resting gently against my thigh like he’d been mine forever.
“What kind of signals?”
“Two code words,” she explained. “If you say ‘susto’—which means ‘scare’—he’ll alert. Stand between you and whoever’s setting him off. He’ll bark, stiffen posture. Warn. But he won’t escalate especially when you say ‘hecho.’ That ends it. Brings him back down.”
“And if I don’t say anything?”
“He’ll decide based on your body language,” she said gently. “But he’s incredibly intelligent. He won’t act unless he senses real danger. You’re always in control.”
It took me a second to swallow the lump in my throat. This wasn’t just a dog. This was… security. This was someone who could help me feel safe again—not just emotionally, but physically. Someone who would see the fear I tried so hard to hide and stand in front of it for me.
“Axel,” I whispered, dropping to my knees beside him. “You okay with me?”
He looked up at me, then leaned in and licked my chin.
I laughed for the first time in days.
Later that day, after the bonding test and paperwork and basic command refreshers, Axel climbed into the passenger seat of my car like it was already his. He rested his head lightly on my thigh as I drove, his eyes flicking to mine every so often like he was still checking—you alright?
Back at my apartment, I didn’t feel nervous. I didn’t feel alone. Axel followed me through the rooms, nose twitching at the corners of my cluttered shelves, finally settling on the couch where I curled up next to him with a blanket and a box of leftover cookies.
He didn’t need to talk. Didn’t need to ask me how I was doing. He just stayed close, warm and steady.
When I whispered, “Thank you for picking me,” he let out a soft huff and nudged his head into my chest, the rhythm of his breathing syncing with mine.
And for the first time since the crash, I finally felt like maybe—just maybe—I could start to put the pieces back together again. With Axel beside me, I wasn’t just a ghost of myself anymore.
I was home and I felt safe.
—
I hadn’t been this nervous to sit in a doctor's office in a while.
It was strange, the way my heart fluttered—not from fear of bad news, but from this intense pressure building behind my ribs. The kind that came when you wanted something so badly to be okay, even though you weren’t sure you were allowed to hope yet.
Axel sat at my feet, tail thudding softly against the cool tile floor every now and then. He had this way of grounding me without needing to be commanded. Since we found each other, he’d been the constant shadow at my side, somehow always knowing what I needed even before I did. I glanced down, brushing my fingers behind his ears. He leaned into the touch, big brown eyes blinking up at me with an ease that made the moment feel less clinical, less sterile.
I heard the doctor before I saw her—her steps were confident, familiar. She stepped in with a tablet in one hand and a bright smile already on her face, and I felt a little piece of my tension start to unravel.
“Let’s check that shoulder first,” she said warmly.
I nodded, carefully beginning the familiar routine of unstrapping the restrictive brace I’d worn since the crash. My movements were slow, cautious. Not because of the pain, but out of habit—like if I moved wrong, everything might break all over again.
Axel stood up as I shifted on the exam table, his body brushing against my leg like he was offering backup support. I murmured a quiet “Hecho,” and he sat back down obediently.
The doctor’s fingers were gentle but thorough as she rotated my arm, checking each angle and joint. She paused to inspect the scars still healing near my collarbone—burns from the fire that had licked my suit. They weren’t as red anymore, not as raw, but I still flinched sometimes when the fabric of my shirts caught them wrong.
“You’ve made incredible progress,” she said finally, stepping back. “Inflammation is down. Mobility’s coming back faster than I expected. You’ve been doing the work.”
I smiled, a small one, but it was real. “Tell that to my frozen shoulder on day two of PT.”
She laughed, then reached into a drawer and returned with a smaller brace—sleek, more discreet, and definitely not the kind that made strangers on the street give me worried looks.
“This is your next step,” she explained, helping me guide my arm into the new brace. “Still no heavy lifting, and take care with how you sleep. But this will give you a lot more comfort. Should fit under clothes easily too.”
It was strange how something so small could make me feel almost normal. I flexed my arm slightly, feeling the way the support hugged just right.
Then came the next part.
I followed her down the hall to radiology, Axel once again sticking close. He waited patiently outside the door, nose pressed against the glass like he was supervising. I swear he’d taken his guardian job to heart the moment I adopted him.
The x-ray process was quick—routine by now. The techs barely needed to direct me anymore. I held still, breathed when they told me, and walked out already rehearsing worst-case scenarios in my head.
Back in the exam room, I waited. Axel laid down this time, head resting on my boot, tail occasionally tapping when I reached down to stroke his back.
When the doctor returned, she didn’t make me wait.
“Your fracture is healing beautifully,” she said, turning the tablet toward me so I could see the clean lines of my bone coming back together. “No shifting. No complications. You’ll be out of that cast next week.”
I blinked. “Really?”
She nodded. “From there, we’ll work on gradually building weight back up. If everything keeps going this well, you will be back in the car by the second race.”
A breath caught in my throat.
Two weeks, only missing 1 race.
It had been just under a month since the crash, and two weeks from now, I could be in the car again. Not just thinking about racing—doing it. Feeling the wheel in my hands. Hearing the engine vibrate through my bones.
I didn’t realize my hands had clenched until Axel nudged me with his nose. I opened them slowly, fingers still stiff in the cast, but the ache didn’t bother me today.
From the corner, Nico’s voice chimed in.
“Perfect,” he said, already typing into his phone. “I’ll update Diego.”
I raised an eyebrow, grinning. “You mean my personal stalker-slash-trainer?”
The news brought something else to the surface—something I’d been meaning to share with my audience, but hadn’t found the right time or words. Maybe this would be the moment.
Before Deigo, my training was impersonal. A faceless contract with a faceless trainer. Someone paid through an agency who thought I was a woman training for marathons or maybe motorsport-adjacent racing. They didn’t know who I was, and they didn’t ask. It was sterile, minimal, safe. I had to stay under the radar, even in my own recovery.
But now… I didn’t have to pretend anymore.
Diego had been with me every step of this journey. He was the one who learned every layer of my body and how it healed. The one who researched PT for burns and race-related shoulder injuries and helped build regimens that weren’t just effective—they fit me.
He wasn’t just in my corner. He was the reason I’d gotten out of bed those first few painful mornings.
“Think I’ll tell them soon,” I said quietly. “About Diego.”
Nico’s face softened. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “Feels like the right time.”
I pictured it—something casual, maybe a vlog or a behind-the-scenes reel.
“Hey, guys. So this is Diego. He’s been my radio engineer for a while now but he finally finished his certification and got to take over full time as my personal trainer too. He’s helped with my recovery since day one, and you’ll probably see him more often now not just as my radio engineer but my trainer too. He’s a pain, but he’s my pain.”
That would be enough.
No need to dive into the years of hidden injuries or the lies I’d had to spin to stay safe. No need to talk about how close I’d come to losing everything when the car went up in flames. They didn’t need the trauma to understand the truth.
They just needed to know I wasn’t alone anymore.
And as we left the doctor’s office, sun spilling onto the sidewalk like a warm exhale from the sky, I felt it—real, true forward momentum after weeks of feeling stuck in one small dull world.
—
When Nico dropped me off at my apartment, the world outside felt quieter, softer. Axel, the big German Shepherd who’d chosen me over all the other dogs at the trainer’s, was curled up in the backseat, looking as calm and collected as he ever did. We’d been through a lot in the past few days—vet visits, paperwork, a long flight to get him here—and now, after all that effort, he was finally home.
"Thanks for the ride," I said, giving Nico a grateful smile as I got out. I adjusted the strap of my bag over my shoulder, Axel following close behind. He trotted up beside me, calm as always, his eyes scanning our surroundings like he was making sure everything was okay. There was something so reassuring about him.
Nico caught my eye, his grin widening just slightly. “You’re sure you’re good here? No help with anything?”
“I’ve got it covered,” I said with a chuckle, even as I gave the apartment door a quick glance to make sure everything was still in order. “I’ve got a puppy now, Nico. What else do I need?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Right, you’re all set with your emotional support dog. Perfect time to leave you alone, huh?” His voice was teasing, but there was an undercurrent of affection in it.
“Everything’s fine,” I assured him, giving Axel a scratch behind the ears as the dog followed me up the stairs. Axel looked up at me, his tongue hanging out in a grin, but his gaze stayed steady and protective. It was so comforting to know that I had a partner who not only had my back but was also going to be with me all week.
As we made our way inside, I unpacked a few things while Nico made sure I didn’t forget anything. I made a mental checklist: clothes packed, medication in my bag, a fresh set of shoulder braces and wraps in my suitcase for the arm and shoulder, Axel’s travel gear ready. Everything was done. It was all going according to plan.
Then, a soft knock at the door interrupted my thoughts.
I opened it, and immediately I was met with the loud, boisterous voices of Ollie and Kimi.
“Surprise, surprise,” Ollie grinned, stepping inside without hesitation, “Look what we’ve got, a delivery of sunshine and—”
His voice trailed off as he froze mid-step, his eyes going wide.
Kimi stepped in right behind him, also stopping when he caught sight of Axel. The atmosphere in the room shifted, a quiet awe filling the space.
Ollie slowly crouched down, his eyes filled with surprise and delight. “You... you got a dog?”
I nodded, unable to contain the excitement bubbling inside me. “Yeah, his name’s Axel. I didn’t tell you guys because I wanted it to be a surprise. I figured he could keep me company during the break, you know?”
Axel, ever the cool customer, just stood there, his tail gently swaying behind him. But I could feel him observing both Ollie and Kimi carefully. It was like he was weighing them, deciding if they were worth his trust.
Kimi, as usual, didn’t waste a second. He took a step toward Axel, his movements slow and deliberate, letting the dog smell his outstretched hand. Axel sniffed once, then twice, before he gave a little huff and nudged Kimi’s palm with his nose. That was it. Kimi smiled, his eyes lighting up in a way that made my heart warm.
“He’s already fond of you,” I teased.
Ollie grinned, and then—just when I thought Axel was going to ignore him—he walked over to Ollie, sitting at his feet, looking up with those big brown eyes like he was silently demanding attention. Ollie laughed, scratching Axel behind the ears. “Okay, okay, I admit it,” he said. “I’m in love.”
“I’m in love,” Kimi chimed in, looking at me with a grin. “But mostly because Axel’s clearly already won me over.”
Axel huffed again, letting his body relax as I sat on the couch, gesturing for them to join me. The dog nestled up beside me, one paw stretched lazily over my foot. There was something so comforting about having him with me in this moment. Something that settled the edges of my mind, grounding me in a way I hadn’t realized I needed.
“Alright, now we’re ready to go,” Ollie said, looking around the apartment for a final check. “The Tahoe’s outside. Kimi’s manager is driving, and he’s got everything planned so we don’t have to worry about anything. Plus, we saved you the entire back seat. No choosing who sits with who.”
“That’s really nice of you guys,” I said, smiling.
We made our way outside, Axel following me closely as Kimi opened the back door of the blacked-out Tahoe. Axel hopped up first, with a little help from me. It seemed like everything with him just worked in a way that made everything else feel easier.
The ride to the airport was uneventful, in the best way possible. Just the soft hum of the engine, the cool leather seats, and Axel’s calm presence beside me. Kimi and Ollie chattered about nothing and everything, making plans for the trip, throwing out ideas for hikes and beach days.
But when we arrived at the airport, that’s when the magic of the day really began. As we stepped out of the vehicle, a group of discreet security guards greeted us, ready to whisk us through the back entrance, out of sight of any curious fans. The boys were still relaxed, enjoying the anonymity, and I could see the joy in their eyes as we moved seamlessly through the terminal, Axel quietly trotting by my side.
Once inside the VIP room, I breathed a sigh of relief. The tension I’d carried with me—about being recognized, about keeping Axel’s presence under wraps—finally melted away.
“So,” Ollie said, settling onto one of the plush chairs. “Four whole days of nothing but fun and relaxation. Just us. No interviews, no press. What’s the first thing we’re doing when we get there?”
“We’ve got a boat ride planned, remember?” Kimi chimed in, putting his feet up and cracking open a bottle of water. “Lunch to sunset. Then some hiking, maybe?”
“That sounds perfect,” I replied, leaning back, watching Axel curl up on the floor beside me, his eyes half-closed in contentment. “Anything that doesn’t involve me breaking my arm again.”
“Nothing too crazy,” Ollie reassured me. “But we’re going to hike up the Alps. Get some stargazing in, cook a few meals together, maybe hit the beach.”
I smiled, the thought of it all making me feel lighter. A boat ride, a relaxed hike, some stargazing under the clear French sky… and Axel, right there with me the entire time.
I closed my eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply.
“This is going to be perfect,” I murmured.
And as the boys began talking about their plans—about markets to visit and secret coves to find—I knew that this trip wasn’t just about escaping for a while. It was about finding peace in the little things. With them. With Axel. And that, to me, was everything I needed.
—
The low hum of the plane was oddly soothing, a steady white noise that matched the gentle vibration under my seat. We were about halfway across the ocean now, headed toward a much-needed break tucked away in the French Riviera. Our little group had lucked out with first-class cubbies, each of us in our own private pod. I was tucked into mine, Ollie in the one just to my right, and Kimi across the aisle, both only a few steps away.
Axel lay in the aisle between us, his big body curled up right where the stewardess had said he should be—close enough to reach me instantly, should I need him. It made me feel safe in a way I hadn’t realized I needed. Just knowing he was there was like anchoring myself to solid ground, even when we were flying above clouds.
I had reclined my chair into its flat position a little while ago, one of the many luxuries of these fancy pods. The blanket draped loosely over my legs, and my headphones sat gently over my ears—no music playing, though. I just wanted it to be a little quieter and I allowed Axel to hop up onto the makeshift bed with me.
Axel’s head rested beside mine now. My hand was tucked into his soft fur, slowly stroking behind his ears, the way he liked. His calm breathing matched mine, and soon, sleep began tugging at the edges of my mind.
That’s when I felt it.
A gentle touch brushing through my hair—fingers sweeping a few loose strands away from my face. Soft, careful. I didn’t move. I kept my eyes closed, my breathing steady, curious what would come next.
“She looks like she’s finally relaxed,” Ollie’s voice whispered.
I could hear the soft rustle as he leaned back in his chair, clearly thinking I couldn’t hear them through my ‘music.’
Kimi responded, just as quiet. “It’s still wild. A couple months ago… I didn’t think we’d get to do this. Not like this. Not with her here.”
My heart ached gently, but not in a bad way. I held still, letting them talk.
“I used to stay up, watching the crash over and over again, trying to convince myself that I shouldn’t have to worry anymore, that I wouldn’t wake up and she wouldn’t be here anymore.” Ollie murmured.
“Yeah,” Kimi said. “I’d wake up from nightmares where she just… didn’t make it. Couldn’t shake it off for hours.”
There was a pause, the kind that weighed heavy with old fear.
“But now look at her,” Kimi added, voice softening. “She’s got a dog who practically worships her, she’s healthy, and she’s laughing again. We can’t take that for granted.”
“No,” Ollie agreed, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “I still worry, though. Every time she winces or disappears for a second too long. I hate how scared I still get.”
“Same,” Kimi admitted. “But I’ll take the worry if it means we still have her.”
My eyes burned a little. I blinked them open, letting my hand press just a little firmer into Axel’s side. He shifted closer in response, letting out a quiet whuff.
“I think she’s dreaming,” Ollie whispered.
Kimi chuckled softly. “Probably dreaming about being bossy and beating us at go-karts again.”
“Yeah, she’d better not heal that fast.”
They both laughed quietly, and I finally opened my eyes completely, turning just slightly toward Axel. I let out a little sigh and stretched, just enough to make it look like I was coming out of sleep.
Ollie immediately leaned over the partition. “Hey, hey, you good?”
I gave him a lazy half-smile. “Just comfy,” I murmured, voice still sleep-thick. “Axel makes a good pillow.”
Axel gave a very smug sigh, like he knew exactly what we were talking about.
Kimi leaned forward, his arm resting over the edge of his pod. “Did we wake you up?”
I shook my head slowly. “No. Just the best nap in weeks, that’s all.”
Their shoulders eased. The air between us was gentle now—filled with affection and warmth, with all the words they didn’t need to say out loud. I didn’t call them out on what I heard. I didn’t need to. Just hearing it had been enough. A quiet reminder of the bond we shared.
Axel pressed his nose into my wrist, and I rubbed his ears, mouthing a silent “thank you” to the best boy.
With the low lights dimming around us, and the clouds stretching endlessly beneath us, I settled back into my little cocoon. And for the first time in a long time, I felt like everything might just be okay.
—
The villa looked like it had been pulled out of a daydream.
Tucked into the side of a gentle slope and kissed by the French seaside breeze, it had an effortless charm — stone walls bleached by years of sun, pale-blue shutters framing the windows, and ivy crawling up one side like nature had given the place a warm embrace. Inside, it smelled like lemon soap and linen. The kind of place that made your shoulders drop the moment you stepped inside.
I stood in the doorway to my room, suitcase half-unpacked, just soaking it all in. Axel had already made himself at home, nose twitching at every corner before plopping dramatically on the foot of my bed. His soft eyes met mine, almost like he was saying, "Yep, this'll do."
"You're right," I said aloud to him with a small smile, reaching down to give him a scratch behind the ears. "This'll definitely do."
My room had huge windows that overlooked a gravel path winding through wild lavender and olive trees. The bed had cozy cream blankets and a little wicker bench at the end. I took my time folding things into drawers and hanging a few outfits I knew I’d want later. Even with the weight of a shoulder brace and a half-healed fracture, I felt lighter than I had in months.
Kimi and Ollie were still unpacking down the hall—though by the sounds of it, “unpacking” might’ve involved more laughing than organizing. I was halfway through smoothing out the last T-shirt in my drawer when I heard the soft thud of something hitting a wall followed by Ollie yelling, “That was not my fault, that shelf just hates me!”
Smiling, I stepped out of my room, letting the peace of this place settle into my chest like warm honey. I made my way into the kitchen—sunlight pouring across the counter, curtains fluttering slightly in the ocean breeze—and started thinking about dinner. Something simple. Something comforting.
Opening my phone, I browsed the local market's website. It had everything—fresh produce, cuts of meat, artisan cheeses, and even a little wine section. My mind was already building the meal as I jotted a quick list in the notes app:
Three nice, thick steaks
Yukon gold potatoes
Green beans
Cheese for the casserole
Milk, butter, and sour cream
Maybe a little wine…?
Definitely dessert.
As if on cue, I felt a presence over my shoulder.
“Are you plotting something dangerous?” Ollie asked, chin practically hovering next to my head. His hair was sticking up like he’d run through a wind tunnel, and he still had one sock on.
“I’m feeding you, actually,” I replied with a smirk.
“Ah. That’s extremely dangerous. I might fall in love,” he said with an exaggerated sigh, flopping dramatically onto the nearby barstool.
Kimi entered behind him, far more collected, but still with that telltale smirk that said he’d heard everything. “Did I hear the word dessert?” he asked, walking toward the fridge to check if we had eggs. He opened it and laughed. “We have... two lemons, a bottle of water, and half a cucumber.”
“Then it’s settled,” I said, grabbing my phone and the handwritten list. “We’re going shopping.”
Ollie clapped his hands. “The grocery squad is a go.”
Kimi rolled his eyes, but he was already slipping his shoes on.
Before we left, I grabbed Axel’s travel leash—one of the things I’d secretly ordered in preparation for this trip. The soft leather fit nicely in my hand, and Axel immediately perked up, trotting to my side like the perfect gentleman. I’d checked the rules a dozen times before bringing him, even booked an upgraded ticket just so he could fly cabin with me. He’d already earned his place here, and the villa was pet-friendly. He was part of my family now.
Ollie noticed the new leash, raising a brow. “Someone came prepared.”
“You think I was leaving him behind after only three days?” I asked, eyes twinkling. “Please.”
The walk to the market felt like something out of a dream. Narrow cobblestone streets, the occasional hum of a moped passing by, and the scent of fresh herbs from nearby window boxes. We took our time—laughing, pointing out little shops, Axel getting far too much attention from people who couldn’t believe such a big dog looked so soft.
The market was a little open-air plaza tucked between two streets, overflowing with color and warmth. We split up, everyone taking part of the list. Ollie became that guy who had to sample every cheese. Kimi debated between three types of steak for almost ten minutes. I picked out green beans and potatoes while Axel sat patiently beside me, tail thumping quietly.
We regrouped by the bread stand, bags in hand, sun warm on our backs.
“Mission success,” Kimi announced.
“Operation Dinner Domination has commenced,” Ollie added, fist-pumping the air like we’d just won a race.
Back at the villa, we turned on soft music and started cooking.
Axel laid in the corner of the kitchen, keeping one eye on me at all times. Ollie insisted on whipping the mashed potatoes. Kimi took over the cheese grating with intense focus, like it was a matter of national pride. I handled the steaks, searing them just right and letting the aroma fill the space.
The casserole bubbled in the oven, the potatoes were fluffy and rich, and the green beans were sautéed with a bit of garlic and butter. The kitchen became a beautiful mess—bowls stacked in the sink, spoons everywhere, but laughter filling every corner.
Dinner was magic.
The table was lit by candles we found in a drawer, and the sunset poured golden light across our plates. We sat together, eating like we hadn’t in ages, passing dishes back and forth, Axel quietly getting the tiniest bite of steak under the table as a reward for being the best-behaved boy.
At one point, I leaned back in my chair and looked at the two of them—Ollie mid-laugh, Kimi rolling his eyes but smiling anyway—and I felt something bloom quietly in my chest.
Peace. Real, soul-deep peace. I couldn’t wait to see what the rest of the week would bring.
—
The air was crisp the next morning, the kind that whispered promises of adventure.
I’d woken up to the sound of birds and the faint rustle of trees outside my window. The villa was still quiet when I slipped out of bed, Axel padding at my side, his tail already wagging like he was excited for whatever the day held.
By the time the boys were up and dressed, the sun was creeping higher into the sky, casting long golden beams across the living room.
“Still down for the trail?” Kimi asked, slinging a lightweight backpack over his shoulder. “Unless you’ve decided to spend the day napping instead.”
“I do love a nap,” I teased, grabbing my water bottle, “but I love proving you wrong even more.”
Ollie snorted as he laced up his shoes. “Someone woke up feisty.”
“Feisty looks good on her,” Kimi added, and I felt the warmth crawl up the back of my neck, pretending not to hear him as I turned to check Axel’s gear instead.
The hike wasn’t too long—about an hour and a half up, winding through forested switchbacks and stretches of rocky ledges that offered postcard-worthy views of the surrounding hills. The trail was quiet, only the sound of gravel under our feet and the occasional bird overhead. Axel led the way confidently, stopping every now and then to sniff around and look back at me like he was making sure I was still okay.
We paused at the summit, where a flat stretch of land overlooked the valley below. You could see the tiny speck of our villa in the distance, just between the trees.
The wind tugged gently at my hair as I stood at the edge, arms folded, watching the clouds drift. Then I felt Kimi step beside me. He didn’t say anything at first, just handed me a bottle of water and stood close enough that our shoulders almost touched.
“You know,” he said after a beat, his voice lower, softer, “you’ve been smiling more this trip.”
I glanced over at him, eyebrows raised. “Is that a bad thing?”
“Not at all.” He looked down at me, eyes warm. “It’s just… nice to see it again.”
That quiet honesty settled deep into my chest.
We stayed up there until the sun dipped low, painting the sky in pinks and soft oranges. When night finally started creeping in, Ollie pulled out a blanket from his backpack and spread it on the ground. We all laid back, heads close together, watching as the stars began to appear one by one.
Axel curled up next to me, his head resting on my hip.
“There’s Orion,” Ollie pointed, tracing the constellation with his finger.
“I always thought stars looked closer together in movies,” I murmured, my voice barely louder than the breeze.
“That’s because movies don’t show you this,” Kimi replied quietly, reaching over and tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered for a second longer than they needed to.
I didn’t say anything, but I didn’t look away either.
The silence between us wasn’t heavy. It felt… full.
—
The next day felt like something out of a vacation beach magazine.
Blue skies stretched endlessly overhead, and the ocean sparkled just beyond the cliffs. After a lazy breakfast and a round of teasing about who had snored the loudest (it was definitely Ollie), we grabbed towels and made our way down the narrow trail from the villa that led to a semi-private beach.
It was small, the kind of place the locals probably kept to themselves, tucked between two rocky outcrops that hugged the shore.
I kicked off my shoes and let my toes sink into the warm sand. Axel darted toward the water with a joyful bark, skimming the waves and circling back like a four-legged lifeguard.
“God, I missed this,” I whispered, mostly to myself.
Kimi was beside me again. “The beach or the peace?”
“Both,” I said, turning to smile at him. “Though this view doesn’t hurt either.”
“You mean me?” he asked innocently, striking a ridiculous pose that made me laugh.
“You wish.”
We spent hours exploring. Ollie found a tidepool and named every crab he saw. Kimi and I wandered a bit farther, following a narrow stretch of rocks until we found a tiny cove hidden just out of view. It was beautiful—clear turquoise water, soft white sand, and just enough space for two towels and Axel to sprawl out under the shade of an overhang.
I sat down with a content sigh, brushing sand off my knees. “You think we’ll remember this ten years from now?”
Kimi didn’t answer right away. He sat beside me, our legs barely brushing. “I hope so,” he said finally. “But if we don’t, maybe we’ll just have to come back and do it all over again.”
That earned a real laugh from me. “You’re assuming I’d willingly vacation with you again.”
“You love me already,” he said smugly. “You just don’t know it yet.”
By the time the sun began to sink, we made our way back to the villa—sun-kissed, sandy, and carrying a ridiculous amount of shells Ollie insisted were "rare treasures."
That night, we gathered in the hot tub under the stars.
The water was warm, the jets bubbling quietly, and soft music played from someone’s speaker. Axel dozed on the deck nearby, completely at peace. We talked about everything and nothing, stories from when we were kids, favorite races, movies we still hadn’t seen. My shoulder brace was off for the night, tucked safely on a chair, and I felt free. Light.
“You’re glowing,” Kimi said, voice low and playful.
“I’m in a hot tub, its sweat bud,” I replied, nudging him with my foot under the water.
“Sure,” he grinned, leaning closer, “but I don’t think it is.” The look in his eyes told me he meant it. And for once, I didn’t deflect. I just smiled, heart warm and full. Whatever this was, whatever it was becoming — I wasn’t afraid of it.
—
The ride back from the airport was quiet. All three of us were sunk deep into the soft seats of the Uber, still a little sun-kissed, a little sleepy, and not quite ready to say goodbye to the calm we’d found at the villa. Axel had his head in my lap, paws twitching occasionally in a dream, maybe chasing butterflies or sniffing the sea air that still clung faintly to my hoodie.
When the car pulled up to my building, I turned toward the boys with a small smile.
“Wanna just… crash at my place tonight?” I asked softly, almost shyly. “It’s kinda late and I still have those giant air mattresses I used last time.”
Ollie and Kimi exchanged a glance, then nodded together. “Yeah,” Kimi said with a shrug. “One more night. Let’s drag out the peace a little longer.”
Inside, I got to work setting up. The air mattresses puffed up slowly, filling the open floor space in my room, one on either side. Axel wandered around while the boys brought their bags in and changed into comfy clothes, the atmosphere light again—easy.
It felt safe. Cozy. Like home was a little less heavy with them in it.
We stayed up for a little while just talking, laughing over villa memories and ranking who cooked best (I won, obviously), until the yawns caught up with us. Lights off. Axel curled at my side.
That night felt still.
The kind of stillness that usually came after something beautiful, like the final flicker of a candle before it goes out. My room was quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioner and the occasional huff from Axel as he adjusted where he lay on the floor beside my bed. The boys were stretched out on the air mattresses—Ollie closest to the door, Kimi near the window—and I could hear them breathing slow, steady, fast asleep.
I thought I was, too.
But then—
The dark started shifting.
In the dream, I was strapped in again. Back in the cockpit of the car. The high-pitched whine of the engine screamed around me, almost like it was crying. The track ahead blurred, sun glaring through the visor, and then—impact. Metal crunched and bent around me like foil, my body jolting in the seat with a violent force I felt in my bones. The car spun, flipped once, then twice. I could feel my arm snap—could hear the muffled screaming through the helmet. Mine.
The world around me slowed, stretching the seconds. Smoke poured into the cockpit, and I was upside down. Trapped. I tried to breathe. Tried to move. But my harness held me tight, the air thick and suffocating. And then I heard it—scraping. A fire crackling too close. Something sparked.
I screamed. I begged. Please. Someone help me. I don’t want to die like this.
“Y/N?!” a voice called—but it sounded warped, distant. “Stay with us, come on—!”
I knew that voice.
Ollie.
And then another. “We’re coming! Hold on, Y/N!”
Kimi.
But in the nightmare, I couldn’t see them. I was alone. Always alone.
The panic swelled, my lungs collapsing under the weight of memory and fear, and I thrashed against my restraints in the dream until I heard a sharp bark.
Axel.
Another bark. Louder. Urgent. Close.
My eyes flew open.
I was gasping, soaked in sweat, the sheets tangled around my legs like the belts in my car. My heart was racing so fast I could barely breathe. I blinked rapidly in the dark and saw Axel beside me, paws on the edge of the bed, his eyes wide and locked on me. His body was rigid, ears forward, focused like he knew exactly what had happened.
But I wasn’t alone.
“Y/N?” a voice said softly. Not dreamlike this time. Real. Present. “Hey… hey, it’s okay.”
Kimi.
I turned slightly, barely processing the warm hand on my shoulder, grounding me. Then I saw Ollie too, sitting on the other side of the bed, his face full of concern. Both of them were crouched beside me now, eyes searching my face, their own sleep clearly interrupted.
“I’m here,” I croaked out. My voice felt raw, like I had been screaming. I probably had.
Axel let out a soft whine, then gently nudged his nose into my arm, curling closer to me once I reached out to touch him. He settled again against my side, like a sentinel resuming his watch.
I looked between the boys and then away, the shame creeping in like smoke after a fire.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” I whispered.
“Don’t,” Ollie said immediately, his voice still laced with sleep but firm. “You sounded terrified. We didn’t even think twice.”
Kimi’s expression was softer than I’d ever seen it. “Was it the crash?”
I nodded once, feeling the dam behind my eyes start to tremble. I’d kept this to myself for so long—thinking if I didn’t speak it, maybe it would go away. But it hadn’t. And now they knew.
“I… I relive it sometimes,” I admitted, my voice breaking. “Not every night. But enough. I dream about the fire. The spinning. The pain. The sounds. I always wake up at the same point… trapped. Screaming.”
Neither of them said anything right away.
Just silence—and then the bed dipped beside me as Ollie carefully crawled up and sat near my legs, while Kimi moved to sit at my other side, their presence warm and steady.
“You’ve been dealing with this alone?” Kimi asked gently.
“I didn’t want to make it worse. For anyone,” I whispered. “You were both already so scared. I didn’t want to keep dragging it out.”
“You’re not dragging anything out,” Ollie said, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “You nearly died. You’re allowed to have scars we can’t see. It’s not weakness.”
“It’s survival,” Kimi added, his hand reaching for mine, steady and calm. “You got through the worst of it. But you don’t have to heal from it alone.”
Tears slipped down my cheeks without me realizing. Axel licked one gently from my jaw before settling down again with a soft sigh, satisfied now that I wasn’t shaking as much.
I sniffled and gave them a watery smile. “He’s trained for this. For PTSD, anxiety, general emotional support. But I guess I didn’t expect him to know exactly when to wake me up.”
“He loves you,” Ollie murmured, shifting to lay beside me now, one arm loosely over my waist. “Just like we do.”
Kimi laid down on my other side, gentle, careful. “We’re not going anywhere, Y/N. Tonight or any other night. Got it?”
I nodded again, my throat too tight to speak.
The three of us, tangled in quiet and emotion, let the moment breathe. Axel rested against the curve of my legs. Ollie’s fingers softly traced circles on my back. Kimi’s hand held mine, firm and warm.
I didn’t know when I drifted back to sleep, but this time, there was no crash.
Doohan Sister Reader
F1 Driver Reader
Cadillac Formula 1 Reader
Yes this has two titles, I couldn't pick one cause both are perfect. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this chapter as I thought it was time for a break from most of the extremely heavy angst style writing and topics. Story Y/n needs a break too right? So enjoy this extra sweet fluffy chapter! (Also I know I said in the update that none of the romance will be described to be a specific driver - but some driver interactions may seem romantic within specific chapters - if its not the driver you want y/n to fall for then pretend the interaction is in a more platonic light than potentially romantic one)
I had fully expected the first week of my mandatory break to be soul-crushingly boring. And not just the kind of “bored scrolling on your phone in bed” boring—no, this was a special kind of frustration. The kind that claws at your skin and makes your chest ache because you know there’s work to be done, training to be completed, sim sessions to suffer through, and races to be run… but you’re stuck. Grounded. Benched.
The doctors told me I’d only miss one race this season, which—on paper—should have brought me some peace. But it didn’t. Because every second I wasn’t behind a wheel felt like I was being peeled away from everything I loved. I couldn’t even enjoy the distractions I normally turned to in moments like this. Reading was hard with my dominant arm injured, playing any of my instruments or sim work was out of the question, and even cooking—something I did just to feel normal—was off the table unless I wanted to risk re-tearing the stitches, popping my shoulder back out before the tendons have healed back over it, or even just put too much stress on the forearm fracture.
I hated it.
I hated relying on others. I hated how slow everything suddenly felt, like the world had pressed pause for me and only me, while everyone else got to keep going. I hated the silence of my apartment. The empty hours. The ache that wasn't just physical but emotional—rooted in the idea that I wasn't useful, wasn’t doing anything. That somehow, this forced pause was proof I wasn’t strong enough to keep up.
And so, when I sent a simple message to the group chat I had with the boys—just something like “If anyone’s around this week, I could use a hand, I guess…”—I didn’t expect anything to really come from it. I’d barely hit send before the notifications started flooding in.
Within an hour, they’d sent me a color-coded schedule. One of them would be with me every day—just to hang out, help when needed, or keep me company. And if by some miracle none of them were available, Nico, my ever-patient manager, would step in for the day.
At first, I dreaded it. I assumed they’d hover, fuss, and treat me like I was made of glass. I thought being babied would make everything feel worse—like I was confirming all the fears that I’d become too fragile to be the version of myself I’d worked so hard to be.
But they surprised me.
They didn’t force help on me. They didn’t smother me in pity. Instead, they came over like it was just another afternoon, acting like nothing had changed unless I asked them to. And somehow, that was what I needed more than anything. It didn’t feel like they were coming to take care of me—it felt like they just wanted to be with me.
And in those moments, I didn’t feel broken anymore.
Each of them brought something different to the table—something comforting, something uniquely them. Little acts of care that didn’t feel overwhelming or patronizing, but thoughtful, effortless, and real.
I didn’t expect to enjoy any of it. But I did.
And now, thinking back on each day of this first week, I can’t help but smile. Because each of the boys gave me a piece of myself back without even realizing it.
Charles was the first one, naturally. He had insisted, texting the group chat three times the night before to make sure no one else would try to swap with him. “I’m going first. Non-negotiable.” It made me laugh more than I had in days, and honestly, knowing it would be him kind of made everything feel… easier. Charles had a calm about him—gentle, warm, grounding. Like a deep breath you didn’t realize you were holding until you let it out.
He showed up right on time, two coffees in hand and a paper bag from my favorite bakery tucked under one arm. “For the champion in recovery,” he said with a soft smile, leaning in to kiss the top of my head before I could even mutter a sarcastic thank you.
From the start, the day felt weirdly domestic in a way that both comforted and unnerved me. Charles moved through my apartment like he’d lived here his whole life—kicking off his shoes by the door, putting the pastries on a plate instead of leaving them in the bag, and checking in on me constantly with soft touches and even softer words.
“Need anything? A pillow? Blanket? Another croissant?”
At some point, I was seated on the couch, cradling the warm mug between my legs while he shuffled through my bathroom cabinet in search of my brush.
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” I called, already dreading the answer.
“I know,” he answered simply. “That’s why I’m doing it.”
I heard him walking back before I saw him—his footsteps light but purposeful. When he rounded the corner, brush in hand and a scrunchie looped around his fingers, I gave him my best unimpressed glare.
“You’ve planned this.”
“I might have practiced,” he admitted, crouching beside the couch with a playful grin. “Carlos has long hair too, you know.”
“You practiced brushing Carlos’ hair?”
He winked. “That’s not important.”
I rolled my eyes but turned around, letting him settle onto the couch behind me. My injured arm stayed close to my chest, and I winced slightly trying to shift, but Charles noticed instantly. His hand came to my good shoulder with a tenderness that stole the air from my lungs.
“Relax,” he murmured, voice low and smooth. “I’ve got you.”
And he did.
His fingers threaded into my hair, separating gentle sections before beginning to brush. His touch was delicate, each stroke deliberate and slow, like he was afraid of hurting me or pulling too hard. The brush moved through the tangles patiently, occasionally catching on a stubborn knot, but Charles never tugged. Instead, he used his fingers to work them out, fingertips grazing my scalp just enough to make my eyes flutter shut.
“Feels nice, hmm?” he teased quietly, clearly noticing how still I had gone, how I was just breathing and existing beneath his touch.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Because it felt too nice. Too comforting. Too intimate.
And then he laughed—soft and warm, the kind of laugh that made you want to curl up inside it.
“You’re going to fall asleep,” he said. “Then I’ll have to carry you to bed, and you know I’ll complain the whole time about my back.” I turned just enough to shoot him a crooked smirk. “You act like I don’t know you’d gladly carry me anywhere.”
His eyes met mine, and for a moment, neither of us said anything. The air between us settled—quiet, safe.
He finished brushing with a final little tug and then gently pulled my hair back into a low ponytail, securing it with the scrunchie. His fingers lingered just a second too long against the back of my neck, and I swear I felt the warmth of his breath before he leaned back. “There,” he said softly. “Perfect.”
Later, while I was napping with my legs stretched across his lap and his hand absentmindedly tracing patterns on my shin, I realized something.
He never once treated me like I was broken. Not even for a second. He just made sure I didn’t have to do it all alone. And that meant more than I could ever put into words.
The second morning of recovery started a little differently.
I didn’t wake up to pain, or to the dull frustration of being limited by my injuries. No. I woke up to the faint clatter of pans and the unmistakable scent of something warm and buttery drifting in from the kitchen. My brow furrowed as I blinked awake, arm still tucked securely in its sling, a blanket half-hanging off the bed. It took me a few seconds to remember that no—I hadn’t left the stove on. I hadn’t even cooked in days. I mean, I couldn’t even if I wanted to.
Oscar.
Of course.
I should’ve expected it. He had the spare key from a couple months ago when I struggled with my panic attacks the most and he’d insisted on “emergency access” in case. Plus, the boys had agreed on him hanging out with me today.
I pushed myself up slowly, groaning at the dull ache in my side. My ribs still hated me for breathing too hard, and my forearm protested every time I shifted. I considered calling out to him, but the sounds in the kitchen only got louder—along with what I assumed was him humming softly to himself.
Padding out of the bedroom with one socked foot and the other dragging a blanket behind me, I turned the corner to find Oscar in the middle of what I could only describe as controlled chaos.
The counters were littered with ingredients—half-used eggshells in a bowl, pancake mix in a measuring cup, a bottle of orange juice open and half-poured into a glass, and Oscar standing in the center of it all, wearing one of my aprons like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He hadn’t heard me yet. I watched him lean down to check the skillet, spatula in hand, eyes narrowed in pure concentration. He flipped a pancake with the kind of careful deliberation usually reserved for high-speed turns on a track.
And the best part?
Nothing was burnt.
Yet.
I couldn’t help it. I laughed—a soft, surprised burst of sound that startled him just enough to make him jump and spin toward me.
“You’re not supposed to be up yet!” he exclaimed, eyebrows shooting up. “I was going to surprise you.”
“You did,” I smirked, leaning against the doorway. “Surprised you haven’t set off the fire alarm.”
Oscar rolled his eyes, cheeks dusted a light pink as he returned to the stove. “You’re hilarious. I’m actually doing fine, thank you very much.”
“You’re doing great,” I teased, eyes twinkling. “Even if it looks like a tornado hit my kitchen.”
He gestured dramatically with the spatula. “A small price to pay for gourmet breakfast.”
I walked over slowly, settling into one of the barstools with a wince as I adjusted my arm. Oscar glanced over immediately, eyes scanning me like he could somehow absorb the pain for me if he just stared long enough.
“Hey,” he said gently. “Don’t even think about helping. You just sit there and look pretty, alright?”
I blinked.
The words were said with a teasing lilt, but his eyes held something quieter. Something real. Something sincere and steady.
“I mean it,” he added, softer now, pouring the last of the batter into the pan. “Let me take care of you today.”
I didn’t argue.
Because the truth was, Oscar was one of those people who didn’t need to be loud to make you feel safe. He didn’t hover. He didn’t pity. He just existed beside you, making space for you to breathe without asking anything in return.
Once the pancakes were done, he plated them carefully—fruit on the side, syrup in a little ramekin like he’d seen me do once. Then he brought the plate over like it was a five-star meal, setting it down in front of me with a proud grin.
“You made this?” I asked, trying not to look too impressed.
“Every last slightly-lopsided pancake,” he replied.
I took a bite. It was fluffy, warm, and surprisingly good. My eyes flicked up to his and I nodded once. “Not bad, Piastri.”
“I’ll take that as a Michelin star.”
Later, after we’d eaten and he’d forced me onto the couch with a blanket and another coffee, I caught him washing dishes without being asked, sleeves rolled up, humming again under his breath. Oscar made even the dull ache of healing feel a little bit sweeter.
On the third day, Max arrived like a storm disguised as calm.
No dramatic entrance. No teasing comments or sarcastic remarks like I half-expected. Just a knock on the door, a quiet “It’s me,” and then the gentle thud of his backpack hitting the floor as he stepped inside like he’d done it a thousand times before.
I hadn’t realized how much my body had begun to ache from sitting awkwardly all morning until Max gently guided me back to the couch, fixed the pillows behind me, and placed a blanket over my lap—tucking it in with a care that didn’t match the usual intense persona he carried on race weekends.
“What?” I asked, arching a brow as he stood above me with crossed arms, eyes scanning me like he was memorizing a damage report.
He shrugged. “You look tired. And grumpy. That’s my job, not yours.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m fine.”
“Uh huh.” He didn’t look convinced. “Have you taken your meds yet?”
I blinked.
Shit.
He sighed, pulling out his phone and tapping the screen once before showing it to me. “I set alarms. You’re officially on the Max Verstappen Recovery Program.”
“You’re kidding,” I said, eyes widening slightly.
“Nope.” His voice was steady, almost playful, but there was something under it. Something fierce and unwavering. He reached into the side pocket of his bag and pulled out the familiar orange bottle, the one I always seemed to forget in my frustration with being… well, this version of me.
The version that needed help just to function.
“I was gonna take them—”
“Sure you were,” Max said, cutting me off with the smallest quirk of a smile.
I opened my mouth to protest, but he stepped closer, expression softening as he crouched in front of me. His fingers reached up, slow and careful, and tilted my chin gently so I had no choice but to look at him.
His blue eyes—always sharp, always focused—held something different now. Something quiet. Protective. Real.
“No excuses,” he murmured. “You don’t take care of yourself, I’ll do it for you.”
The pill bottle was pressed into my hand, and for a second, I just sat there, stunned into stillness by the tenderness in his voice.
This was Max. Max who never sugar coated. Max who rarely let emotion crack through the armor of being a two-time world champion. And yet here he was, setting alarms to make sure I didn’t forget my meds. Holding my gaze like the sky might fall if I didn’t take care of myself. Acting like my well-being was the only thing that mattered in the world right now.
I swallowed the pills without another word.
“Good girl,” he said softly, before standing and ruffling my hair in the most annoyingly affectionate way possible.
“You’re lucky I can’t punch you right now,” I muttered.
“You’re lucky I know that.”
Later, he sat beside me, our legs tucked under the same blanket as we watched mindless TV. He kept half his focus on the screen and the other half on me, occasionally checking the time or asking if I needed anything. Not hovering—but always there.
Not once did he make me feel like a burden.
Just someone worth showing up for.
And in the safety of that simple, quiet evening, I let myself lean just a little into him—into the warmth, the presence, and the overwhelming peace of being taken care of by someone who rarely let the world see how much he actually cared.
—
The knock on the door came earlier than expected, just as I was halfway through the frustrating, one-handed battle of pulling on my hoodie. The pain in my shoulder had flared up again, throbbing in time with my heartbeat, but I wasn’t about to call for help—not yet. I was stubborn, if nothing else.
“Don’t rush,” Franco’s voice called from the other side of the door, light and teasing. “I come in peace. And with croissants.”
I smiled despite myself.
By the time I shuffled to the door and opened it, he stood there grinning, one brow raised and a paper bag balanced in one hand. His hair was a little windswept, sunglasses still on, as if he’d sprinted over without a second thought.
“Morning,” he greeted, stepping in. “I hear we have a mission today.”
I sighed and tilted my head. “Please don’t tell me Nico sent you with a checklist.”
“Something like that,” he chuckled, setting the croissants on the counter and pulling off his sunglasses. “He wants people to see you. Remind the world that ‘Ghost’ is still very much alive and kicking.”
“Barely kicking,” I muttered, glancing down at my wrapped arm.
Franco didn’t miss a beat. “Barely is still enough.”
He was already moving toward the hallway, grabbing the gear bag I hadn’t even asked him to bring and pulling out my helmet. He held it like it was something sacred, brushing his fingers along the top before turning toward me.
“C’mere,” he said softly. “Let me help.”
I hesitated, but he gave me that warm, patient look—the one that always made me feel safe, even when everything else was chaos. So I stepped forward, and he carefully guided the helmet on, making sure nothing tugged too hard against my injury. His fingers brushed my skin as he adjusted the padding, gentle and deliberate, and I caught the way his eyes softened when he saw me wince.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah,” I whispered. “Just hate feeling like this.”
His hand paused against the side of my jaw, thumb grazing lightly before he pulled back. “You’re allowed to hate it. Just don’t let it convince you that you’re weak.”
Once I was dressed—slowly, awkwardly, with Franco helping me get the shoulder support back on without making a production of it—we headed out to the team headquarters. Just like Nico wanted, everyone got a chance to see that “Ghost” was up, alive, and recovering. Franco stayed by my side the entire time, making it seem natural, like he was just there because he wanted to be. Though I am sure he did want to be with me, just not here where I could easily mess something up in my healing.
He didn’t treat me like a porcelain doll. He let me lean on him if I needed to, but never hovered or made me feel helpless. Just present. Grounding.
After enough smiling and pretending to be perfectly fine for the cameras and the team, we ducked out early. “You’ve earned the rest of the day off,” he said, nudging me with his shoulder as we got into his car. “What’s next? Grocery run?”
“God, yes. If I eat another instant noodle cup I might scream.”
We wandered the aisles like two university students who barely knew how to shop for real food. He made fun of my oddly specific snack preferences, and I teased him for the fact that he apparently can’t function without a very particular kind of olive oil.
When we got home, we cooked together—well, I supervised while Franco did most of the cooking, reading the instructions with exaggerated concentration. He looked so serious trying to make the sauce just right, even though it was something so simple. I sat at the counter, legs swinging slightly, letting the domesticity of it all sink in.
The soft sound of the simmering pan, Franco humming under his breath, the occasional “Try this and tell me if it’s too salty”—it was the kind of quiet intimacy I didn’t realize I’d been craving. It wasn’t about being cared for, it was just… being with someone who wanted to care.
By the time dinner was done, my arm was aching again and I was half-asleep at the table. Franco cleaned up without asking, humming that same soft tune he’d had going all day.
Before leaving, he leaned down and gently bumped his forehead against mine. “Tomorrow’s Lando's shift, but text me if you need anything. Or if you just want more pasta.”
I didn’t say anything until after the door clicked shut and the apartment returned to stillness.
Then I whispered it to the empty space he left behind: “Thank you.”
And I meant it more than he would ever know.
I had barely rolled out of bed when my phone buzzed. A FaceTime call from Lando. Not a text. Not a “hey, you up?” warning. Just a full-blown, front-camera assault first thing in the morning. I sighed, rubbing the sleep from my eyes and accepted the call.
Lando’s face filled the screen instantly—grinning, eyes bright, clearly way too awake for how early it was. “Good morning, sunshine!”
“You are way too chipper for this hour,” I groaned, flopping back into the pillows.
“I’ve got a surprise,” he said, practically bouncing in place. “Nico gave the okay. I got you cleared for something fun today.”
I blinked. “Cleared for what?”
“Quadrant. Video shoot. You and me. Karting track. But—” he raised a finger, “—don’t freak out. You’re not racing. You’re coaching. Like a proper boss. You get to wear your helmet and everything. Total mystery. Maximum ‘Ghost’ vibes.”
My heart fluttered at the thought. It wasn’t racing, not exactly. But it was a toe back in the world I loved. A toe that wouldn’t risk undoing the progress I’d made. A smile crept onto my face despite the dull ache in my shoulder.
“I’m in,” I whispered.
“I knew you’d say yes!” Lando grinned like he’d just won a bet with himself. “Be ready in an hour. I’m picking you up.”
Exactly sixty-two minutes later, Lando was in my apartment—letting himself in with the spare key Oscar had reluctantly given him, armed with a large quadrant hoodie and one of my helmets already polished and tucked under his arm.
“You’re a menace,” I told him as he helped me pull on the hoodie. “You know that, right?”
“Yeah, but I’m your menace today,” he shot back, grinning as he gently fixed the collar so it wouldn’t irritate the sling. Then, softer, more sincere: “You look badass. Even with one arm fully out of commission and the other only half as bad.”
He helped me with the helmet, adjusting the straps like he’d done it a hundred times. His fingers were careful, brushing under my jaw as he worked.
“There,” he said when he was done, stepping back to admire his work. “Ghost is back.”
The shoot was at a private karting track, nothing too intense, but buzzing with energy. Lando had already worked it out with the Quadrant team: he and I would each coach one half of the group for the day. It wasn’t about speed or competition—it was about chaos, laughter, and low-stakes fun. And somehow, even though I wasn’t driving, it felt like coming home.
Lando stuck close to me but never hovered. He made it look natural, like we were just teammates riffing off each other—his chaotic jokes balancing my deadpan commentary. He made sure I had a stool to sit on whenever I needed, slipped water bottles into my hand without saying a word, and every once in a while, he’d shoot me a look across the track—a grin that asked you okay? without needing the words.
And every time, I’d nod. Because I was.
One of my favorite moments was when a member of his team spun out dramatically and Lando nearly lost his mind laughing. I leaned into his shoulder, laughing just as hard, and he slung his arm around me without hesitation. It was instinctual. Natural. Like it had always been this way.
By the end of the shoot, we were both exhausted but glowing. He helped me out of my helmet and immediately fluffed my hair like a brat.
“You were incredible today,” he said softly, his voice almost lost beneath the fading roar of the track. “You know that, right?”
I nodded, cheeks warm. “It felt good. To just... be seen again. Even if no one really saw me.”
“But I did,” he said, eyes soft. “And you were you. All day.”
We rode home with the windows down, wind tangling our hair, laughter still lingering in the car like an afterglow.
That night, as I lay in bed with the ache in my shoulder reminding me I still had a ways to go, I smiled. Because today, I wasn’t just recovering. I was living. And Lando made sure I didn’t forget what that felt like.
—
When the knock came at the door, I knew it was Ollie before I even peeked through the peephole. There was something about his timing, always perfect without trying. He knew when to give space, and when to break the silence.
I opened the door and he immediately grinned, holding up a bag of pastries like some sort of peace offering.
“I bring sugar and distraction,” he said.
I chuckled and stepped aside to let him in. “That’s my favorite combo.”
He kicked off his shoes at the door and wandered inside like he’d done it a hundred times—which, honestly, he had. My apartment didn’t look like much now that I was practically living on the couch full-time, but it was still my space. My comfort zone. And today, it felt better with him in it.
“I figured we could start looking at places,” he said, setting the pastries on the coffee table and flopping down onto the rug like it was his natural habitat. “Kimi already sent me a voice memo from a mountain he hiked up at 6 a.m. to tell us how much he wants to freeze to death next week.”
“Oh god,” I groaned, easing onto the couch with a soft wince. “If he tries to make me hike, I swear I’ll fake a rib puncture.”
Ollie snorted. “I’m already making the executive decision to veto snow.”
He leaned back on one arm, looking up at me with that lopsided smirk of his, and for a moment, I forgot about the weight in my chest. About the way healing felt more like surviving these days. About how this break was supposed to be a rest, but mostly felt like punishment.
But then we passed the hallway later on our way to grab my laptop, and it all came crashing back. He stopped. I didn’t have to look to know why.
The display shelf by the hallway had always been a quiet little timeline of my career—my first F4 helmet, the one I won my first karting championship in, and a couple others from standout races. But now… now there was another.
My most recent one.
The one from the crash.
Still blackened at the edges. Still scarred by fire and dirt and desperation. I hadn’t touched it since it was returned to me. I didn’t know why I left it there—maybe to remind myself I survived. Maybe because I hadn’t figured out how to hide it.
Ollie stood frozen, staring at it like it had personally insulted him.
I turned to say something, anything to break the tension, but then he spoke—and it hit like a punch to the ribs.
“You kept it like that?” His voice was quiet. Unsteady.
I nodded slowly. “Yeah. I... I guess I couldn’t bring myself to clean it. It feels like—like proof that I got out, you know? That I made it.”
He didn’t look at me. “I thought you didn’t.” My breath caught.
His hands were balled into fists again, just like they had been in the medical room.
“You were moving,” he said, voice raw. “I saw you crawling out. I kept telling myself, she’s out, she’s out—she’s gonna be okay. And then it exploded again. I only saw it in my mirrors. Just... flames. You disappeared. I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t go back. I didn’t know if you were—”
His voice cracked. I stepped forward, gently placing my good hand on his arm. “Ollie.”
“I couldn’t do anything,” he whispered. “I just kept driving and praying they’d pull you out in time.”
“You don’t have to carry that,” I murmured. “You didn’t leave me. You were racing. You didn’t abandon me.”
He finally turned to look at me, and there it was again—that same look from the hospital. Like part of him still hadn’t let go of the moment he thought I was gone. “I’m here,” I said softly. “I made it. And you’re here, too.”
He didn’t say anything, just let me pull him into a hug. He wrapped his arms around me carefully, holding tight but not too tight, like he didn’t want to cause more damage.
We stood there for a long moment, the silence more healing than any words could’ve been.
When we pulled apart, his eyes were a little glassy, but his voice had steadied. “Okay. No more crash talk for today. We’ve got a vacation to plan.”
“Finally,” I said with a smile, wiping at my cheek. “Something that doesn’t involve ice packs or medical tape.”
Back in the living room, I curled up on the couch with a blanket, and Ollie sat on the floor beside me, laptop open between us. He pulled up a tab with about ten bookmarks already waiting.
“I did some scouting. Don’t worry, I filtered out anything colder than 10 degrees.”
I laughed. “You’re a saint.”
“Obviously,” he said with a grin. “First up: this little seaside villa in Cinque Terre. Gorgeous view, private terrace, walking distance to gelato.”
“Sold.”
“Wait, wait—next one’s even better,” he said, scrolling to a cozy mountain cabin in Switzerland. “Fireplace. Hot tub. Comes with a dog named Muffin, apparently.”
I gasped. “Muffin??”
He grinned. “Now you’re invested.”
We kept flipping through options, laughing and bickering like we weren’t two people who’d almost lost each other. At some point, we ended up side by side on the couch, sharing a pastry and debating which place had the better vibe for “healing, but make it cute.”
By the end of it, we had a list narrowed down and a tentative plan to leave in three days with Kimi.
And for the first time since the crash, I felt something like normal again. Not just alive—but living.
—
I didn’t realize how nice it would be to have Kimi around until he showed up with an armful of empty duffel bags and a determined look in his eyes.
“No offense,” he said, stepping inside and immediately kicking the door shut with his heel, “but your packing system is a crime. This time, we’re doing it properly.”
I blinked at him, leaning against the doorway of my bedroom in an oversized hoodie and a sling. “Hi to you, too.”
“Hi,” he replied, grinning in that boyish way that made it hard to stay annoyed. “Now sit down and point at things. I’ll do the rest.”
And he did.
Without hesitation, Kimi opened drawers, folded clothes, sorted toiletries, and somehow managed to get all my essentials into a suitcase in a way that looked almost... aesthetic? I couldn’t decide if he was just naturally organized or if he’d learned how to be useful from traveling nonstop with F2. Either way, he didn’t need to be asked. He just did things. Quiet, capable, and oddly comforting.
“You’re scarily efficient,” I said as he zipped up the second bag.
He shrugged. “You need comfy clothes, beach things, and at least one outfit in case we go somewhere nice. Everything else is overthinking.”
“I am overthinking,” I muttered.
“I know,” he said, eyes flicking to mine, teasing. “You always do.”
That made me roll my eyes and throw a sock at his head. He caught it without looking, like some kind of casual ninja, and smirked. “Is that your way of saying thank you?”
“Sure. Also, you’re lucky I can’t throw properly right now.”
“I’m lucky either way,” he said quietly, almost too casually—but the way he said it made me freeze for half a second. I opened my mouth, ready with a sarcastic reply, but he was already standing, stretching his arms behind his head like nothing had happened.
“Alright,” he said. “We need food before I start unpacking things out of boredom.”
We ended up ordering our usual takeout from the Chinese place two blocks down. Kimi set up camp on the couch while I shuffled over with the food, and even though I knew I looked like a gremlin in sweatpants and messy hair, he didn’t blink. Just scooted over, fluffed the pillow next to him, and patted it.
“C’mon, your side of the couch looks lonely.”
I plopped down and groaned dramatically as I got comfortable, which earned me a quiet laugh from him.
“You’re so needy,” I joked.
“You love it,” he shot back, unbothered. Then he handed me my drink without even looking. Like he knew exactly which one was mine.
We ate in comfortable silence for a while, trading bites and throwing in the occasional “this is so good” or “okay that chili sauce is illegal.” After eating, Kimi picked up the controllers and waved mine in front of my face.
“I updated your save file. You’re welcome.”
“You what?”
“You were stuck on that one level. I fixed it.”
“Are you trying to one-up Oscar’s breakfast day?” I asked.
“No,” he said, eyes bright with amusement. “I’m trying to make sure you never get rid of me.”
Again, the words landed softer than they should have, sitting somewhere in the back of my mind like a puzzle piece I hadn’t quite figured out.
The night went on like that—lazy and warm and full of inside jokes. We played a few rounds of our favorite co-op game, him carrying us through the boss fights and me screaming every time we nearly died. When the controller finally dropped out of my hand and I leaned my head against the couch in defeat, he just chuckled and tugged a blanket over both of us.
“Movie time,” he said, already scrolling through the streaming options. “You get first pick. But choose wisely, because I will complain the entire time if it sucks.”
“I thought you were supposed to be helping me heal, not raising my blood pressure.”
“Stress builds character,” he deadpanned.
I laughed, sinking deeper into the couch. We eventually settled on an old comfort film, and somewhere between the opening credits and the halfway point, I felt my eyelids growing heavy. Kimi didn’t say anything when I rested my head lightly against his shoulder. He just shifted slightly so I could fit better and kept watching, one arm resting casually along the back of the couch.
He smelled like clean laundry and citrus shampoo and something that was just Kimi—familiar, steady, safe.
As I started drifting off, I heard him say something under his breath.
What YOU NEED to KNOW for Future Chapters - Phantom on the Grid Series
Hello Everyone, I hope you have enjoyed the way this story has been going. I know I have enjoyed seeing the comments/reactions to each chapter/update. Now, I have finally figured out my plan for how I am going to integrate a bit more romance leading into the ending of this story. (Which is still undecided on how many more chapters I can pull out until the official ending btw!)
Every time I want to throw in a bit of romance for y/n, I will be using only he/him pronouns to talk about her love interest. I will not be stating the name, if I need to you may see something like _______ instead. This is to allow you to fill in the unknown part with which ever driver is your favorite, or which ever you want her to fall for.
I will be super vague on anything that could be too defining of a feature for him as well. An example would be (probably) not describing anything physical about him. (Unless I think of a way to do it without making it sound specific to any of the guys)
I will also probably be adding two more drivers to her super close grid family at some point. I just need to figure out the best candidates of the current drivers that could bring a new perspective or storyline for y/n. (A loophole to make this story last longer....)
Anyways, with that all explained. Please get yourself prepared for the long awaited beginning to her romantic side storyline. The growth she will go through from here will hopefully make up for all the angst she had to go through first.
Doohan Sister Reader
F1 Driver Reader
Cadillac Formula 1 Reader
My heart stopped. The anger, the confusion, the hurt—everything evaporated like a puddle on a hot day. Just two seconds ago, she had been yelling at me, arguing, standing her ground. And now—
Now, she had collapsed, her body dropping like a lifeless doll into Lando’s arms. Her limbs slack, her face fogged with exhaustion and something worse. Something I didn’t want to name.
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
The world around me spun as the others rushed in, their frantic voices blending into the chaotic storm of my thoughts. They carried her to the bed, Oscar barking orders, Lando shaking as he fumbled for his phone. The medics arrived, pushing past me, their muffled yelling beating against my ears like waves crashing in a storm. Yet I stood there. Frozen. Rooted to the spot where she left me.
My sister. My baby sister. The person I had known my entire life, yet suddenly, I realized—I didn’t know her at all.
A firm grip landed on my shoulders, pulling me back, guiding me out of the room. The door shut behind me with a soft click, and I turned, meeting the calm but unreadable eyes of Nico Rosberg.
“We need to sit down and chat,” he said, his voice as steady as ever. Next to him, Oscar nodded, his usual patience tinged with something more serious.
I swallowed hard, my head spinning, but I nodded and followed them down the hall.
Minutes later, I found myself in an empty meeting room. The air felt thick, pressing down on me as I dropped into a chair. Oscar quietly locked the door before taking a seat across from me, while Nico remained standing, his eyes studying me. Calculating.
“I need to ask you something,” he said finally, his voice devoid of any emotion. “And I need an honest answer.”
I clenched my jaw, bracing myself. “What?”
“Can we trust you to keep this a secret?” His gaze pinned me in place. “You can talk to her, and to those who already know, but you cannot tell anyone else. Not even your parents.”
My stomach twisted.
“Why has she kept this from us? Why couldn’t she tell me?” The anger started to creep back in, the hurt simmering beneath my skin.
Nico sighed. “I can explain what I know, but only if you swear to keep her secret.”
I rolled my eyes. “Fine. I’ll even sign a document if that’s what it takes.”
Nico smirked faintly. “Perfect.” He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket, scribbled something down, and handed it to me along with a pen.
I barely glanced at the words before signing. My hands were shaking, but I didn’t care. I needed answers.
As soon as I handed the paper back, Nico tucked it away and exhaled, his posture relaxing just slightly.
“I’ve only been her official manager for this season, but I’ve been helping her behind the scenes for much longer—thanks to your uncle.” He paused, letting the words settle before continuing. “From what he told me, and from what she’s told me herself, your sister started racing when she was old enough to compete—just like you. She looked up to you. Wanted to be just like you. But your parents…” He shook his head. “They weren’t happy with her choice. So they convinced her to quit the sport she loved.”
I sat still, the weight of his words pressing against my chest.
“She was only twelve,” Nico continued. “And in that season she was forced to sit out, she fell into a deep depression. Your parents… they didn’t just discourage her. They controlled her. Moulded her into what they believed she should be. It was your uncle who saw her for who she truly was. He gave her a way out.”
My heart started to crack.
“For years, he helped her race in secret. Using a nickname. Crafting excuses to get her away from your parents. She climbed through the ranks—Formula 3, IndyCar, and now, here. She always wanted to tell you. But in the beginning, she was doing better than you. And she didn’t want to take away from your achievements. Didn’t want you to feel overshadowed.”
The words hit like a slap to the face.
“But as time went on, that changed,” Nico added. “She saw how much you trusted your parents. And she knew—if she told you, she was risking everything. She was afraid you’d tell them. That you’d betray her without meaning to.”
I felt sick. My mind reeled with the weight of everything I had just learned.
Then Nico’s phone buzzed, cutting through the silence. He checked the screen, his expression darkening. “They’re transporting her to the hospital.”
He turned and left without another word.
I barely noticed.
Oscar locked the door behind him and sat back down across from me, his eyes softer now.
“This is a lot,” I muttered, resting my elbows on the table and rubbing my face.
“Yeah,” Oscar said simply. “I get it.”
I let out a humorless laugh. “We used to be so close. Did she really think I’d hate her for being better than me? That I’d sell her out?”
Oscar’s expression hardened. “That’s what you’re stuck on?”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
He sighed, rubbing his temples. “I forgot how brainwashed your parents made you.”
I scoffed. “I’m not brainwashed.”
Oscar leaned forward, his eyes burning into mine. “Really? Then tell me this—do you think it’s normal for parents to groom their daughter from the age of twelve to be the perfect wife for a rich or powerful man? To have a list of potential suitors ready the moment she turned eighteen? Some of them twice her age?”
My breath hitched.
Oscar kept going. “Do you think it’s normal to strip a kid of everything they love, force them into a mold, and make them feel like they’re less than human?”
I couldn’t answer. I didn’t want to.
But in the silence, the realization came crashing down.
I had been blind.
Blind to what she’d gone through. Blind to how twisted our parents really were. Blind to the fact that she hadn’t just been keeping a secret—she had been surviving.
Oscar stood, pushing his chair back. “I’m not going to say anything else. This is her story. When she’s ready, she’ll tell you the rest. But until then?”
He met my gaze, his expression unreadable.
“Think about it.”
Then he walked out, leaving me alone in the silence, lost in the wreckage of everything I thought I knew.
—
Barely three days had passed since finding out about her, and every second I could, I spent it reliving our childhood. Thinking of every time she might have tried to reach out to me and I was too lost in my own life to realize. The memories came in waves, each one pulling me under with the weight of my own blindness.
The first one came in sharp and clear—the day she was supposed to start karting for her second season. She had been so excited, bouncing on her toes as we stood in the garage. Her small hands clutched the edges of her suit, eyes wide with the kind of wonder only a kid with a dream could have. I remember feeling proud of her, excited that she wanted to follow in my footsteps. But then, our parents had stepped in.
"You really think this is a good idea?" Mom had sighed, giving Dad a look. "Racing isn't exactly... ladylike."
"She should be focusing on things that will actually help her future," Dad had added. "Not wasting time pretending to be her brother."
I laughed then. Not cruelly, but without realizing how those words might have felt to her. I shrugged and said, "Maybe they're right. Racing’s pretty intense, and you never really showed interest before."
I remember how her face fell, just for a second, before she plastered on a fake smile and nodded. "Yeah... maybe it's not for me."
But it had been for her. It had always been for her.
The second memory hit even harder. A couple of years later, she had pulled me aside in the hallway, her fingers twisting in the hem of her dress.
"Jack," she had whispered urgently, "do you ever feel like they love you more? Like... no matter what I do, it’s never enough?"
I scoffed, ruffling her hair. "Don’t be stupid. They love us both. Maybe you’re just overthinking it."
The way her shoulders had slumped, the way her lips had pressed together like she was trying not to cry—I should have seen it then. I should have known that it wasn’t just sibling jealousy, but something deeper. Something breaking inside of her that I refused to acknowledge.
The third memory wasn’t as direct, but now it stood out like a flashing neon sign. A family dinner, one of the rare occasions when we were all home. Dad had spent the entire evening talking about my racing, my progress, my potential.
"Jack is going to do great things," he had said, pride thick in his voice. "I have no doubt."
She had been sitting across from me, her plate barely touched. At one point, she had opened her mouth like she wanted to say something, but Mom had cut her off with a simple look. And just like that, she had shrunk back into herself. Not one person had asked about her dreams, her passions. It was as if she didn’t exist beyond being ‘Jack’s little sister.’ And I had let it happen.
And then, the worst one. The night before she left. I hadn’t known it at the time, but looking back, it was so obvious. She had come into my room, standing awkwardly at the door like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed.
"I think I’m going to do something crazy," she had said, her voice light, but her eyes serious. "And I just need to know that you’ll still be my brother no matter what."
I laughed, scrolling through my phone. "What, are you eloping or something?"
She sighed, shaking her head. "Forget it. It was stupid."
And then she left. And the next day, she was gone. Our uncle taking her away to some boarding school in London.
I had failed her. Over and over again, I had failed her. Not because I had meant to, not because I didn’t love her, but because I had been too wrapped up in myself to see how much she was suffering. How much she had been forced to bend and break just to fit into a version of herself our parents had crafted.
My phone buzzed, shaking me from the depths of my regret.
If you're ready to talk, meet me at this address in an hour.
I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed my keys and ran out the door, my heart pounding with something between fear and hope. I had spent years ignoring the truth. But not anymore. It was time to make things right.
—
Pulling into the parking lot for the apartment complex, I sat staring up at all the floors. Wondering if she would have chosen the top floor like our parents molded her to be, or if she had followed her own opinion and went for one of the few just below. The girl I remember used to tell me her dream of a nice apartment. Not on the top floor, but a few below that—she still wanted a pretty view but didn’t want to be too high up, where she would be considered stuck up.
I gripped the steering wheel, my knuckles turning white. My stomach twisted with nerves, the weight of guilt pressing down on my chest so hard it hurt to breathe properly. Three days. It had only been three days since my entire world flipped on its head. Since I realized just how blind I had been to the person who mattered most in my life. And in those three days, all I could do was think. Think about all the times I should have seen it—the pain she hid behind the mask of the perfect daughter, the way our parents had stripped her of her true self, the way I had let them.
I thought about the last time I saw her. The fight. The accusations. The way I let my emotions get the better of me and threw words at her like weapons. I had been angry. So, so angry. But she had been worse—broken, exhausted, and hurt beyond belief. And I had made it worse.
I should have been the one protecting her. Instead, I had been the one to hurt her.
What if this was it? What if she only texted me to cut ties? What if I had already lost her, and this was just a formality?
I swallowed down the panic and forced myself to move. My hands shook as I turned off the engine, the click of the key pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts. I had to do this. I had to face her.
The elevator ride felt like the longest of my life. My reflection in the metal doors showed the same nerves I felt—the tense shoulders, the tight jaw, the way my fingers kept flexing like I was preparing for some kind of fight. But there was no fight to be had. I wasn’t here to argue. I was here to listen.
The hallway to her apartment was quiet, but with each step, my heartbeat grew louder, pounding in my ears. I stopped in front of her door and hesitated. A deep breath. Another. Then I knocked.
The door swung open after a few seconds, and the breath I had been holding escaped me in a sharp exhale.
She looked… awful.
Her left forearm was in a cast, and the other was strapped in a shoulder brace, making her movements stiff and careful. Bruises still lingered along her skin and the stitches peeked out from the loose neckline of her sweatshirt up the side of her neck stopping right around the center. I had known she was hurt, but seeing it like this made it real. The crash had nearly killed her, and I had spent the past three days focused on my own guilt instead of the fact that she was alive.
And yet… she smiled.
A real, happy smile, like none of what had happened had managed to take away that light from her. Like she wasn’t angry at me. Like she was still my little sister, standing in front of me, waiting for me to say something.
“Hey,” she greeted, her voice soft but not strained. “Come in.”
I stepped inside without a word, my throat too tight to respond. The living room was warm and familiar, decorated with personal touches that screamed her. Framed photos lined the walls—pictures with friends, some racing shots, a few of her standing on podiums. A life I had never known existed until now.
Then, I noticed them.
Max and Charles sat on the couch, both watching me with unreadable expressions. Charles looked neutral, like he was reserving judgment for later. But Max? Max was glaring, his eyes locked onto me like he was daring me to screw this up.
I hesitated, unsure of where to sit, unsure of what to do. My hands clenched into fists at my sides before I forced them to relax. My body language screamed nervous, and I knew it. Max knew it too—he looked almost satisfied with my discomfort.
She moved past me with a slight wince, heading toward the kitchen. “Give me a second, I need to finish making my smoothie,” she said.
I wanted to offer to help. I wanted to say something. But I didn’t know if I had the right to.
So instead, I sat down, feeling the weight of Max’s glare and the silence that stretched between all of us. And then, we waited as the occasional sound of opening and closing cupboards came from the kitchen.
The silence sat heavy in the room, thick like a storm cloud about to break. I could feel Max’s eyes burning into the side of my face, the weight of his judgment pressing down on me. Every part of me screamed to shift, to look anywhere but at him, but I forced myself to stay still. To take whatever was coming.
Max wasn’t someone who wasted time with pleasantries. He was all sharp edges, a man who never hesitated to say exactly what he was thinking. And right now, what he was thinking was how much he hated me.
"You’re lucky she wanted to see you today." His voice was calm, too calm. Like the quiet before an explosion. "Charles and I told her to wait a few more days. Thought maybe you should sit with your stupidity a little longer. Thought maybe you should really feel what it's like to be ignored by someone you care about.”
I flinched at the words.
Max leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring straight through me. "But she said no. Said she wanted to talk to you. Today. And between making her suffer a little longer for your mistakes or letting her be happy during what little time off she actually has, we’d rather let her be happy.”
My hands curled into fists against my jeans. Every word was a knife, cutting through layers of guilt I already felt drowning in.
"So, I’m going to make one thing very clear for you, Jack." Max’s voice dropped lower, sharper. His fingers tapped rhythmically against his knee, slow and deliberate. “You don’t argue. You don’t fight. You listen to what she has to say. And if I hear one word out of your mouth that sounds like an excuse, if you get loud with her, if you so much as look at her the wrong way…” He let the words hang for a second, his head tilting slightly as a humorless smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.
“Then I’ll be happy to take care of you myself.”
I swallowed hard, my pulse hammering in my throat.
The threat wasn’t an empty one. I could see it in his eyes—the promise that he would follow through if I gave him even the smallest excuse.
I wanted to say something, to promise that I wouldn’t, to swear up and down that I would sit there and take whatever she had to say without a single protest. But before I could find my voice, Charles shifted beside him.
Max tensed for a second like he wanted to keep going, but when Charles turned to him, giving him nothing more than a sharp glance, he fell silent.
The look Charles gave him wasn’t anything obvious. No words. No movements. But whatever silent conversation passed between them, it worked. Max let out a sharp breath through his nose, shaking his head, before leaning back against the couch with a scowl.
The room didn’t feel any lighter.
“That’s enough, Max,” Charles finally spoke, his voice calm and measured. He turned his gaze on me then, and I barely had a second to brace myself before he continued.
“Max wasn’t wrong.”
I nodded stiffly, unsure if I was supposed to respond or just let him continue.
“I don’t think you understand just how much you hurt her,” Charles went on. His voice wasn’t angry like Max’s had been, but something about it felt worse. Anger could be burned through, but this? This was something colder. Something controlled. Something terrifying.
“She needed you, and you turned your back on her.” His words weren’t loud, but they cut just as deep. “You want to feel guilty? Good. But don’t sit here and act like that makes up for anything.”
I could feel myself sinking into the couch.
“She wants to talk to you. That’s the only reason you’re still here.” His voice was still calm, still measured, but there was something off about it now. A slow shift, the same way the air changed before a storm hit. "But if you raise your voice at her, if you say something that makes her regret letting you through that door…”
He tilted his head slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line.
"Max won't be the only one to take care of you. I will too."
I barely breathed.
Charles was quiet. Collected. Precise. But there was something unsettling about the way he delivered the words. The way he sat there, relaxed, like he hadn’t just made a promise that chilled me to the bone.
I swallowed, my throat dry. “I—I won’t. I swear.”
Charles didn’t respond right away. He just held my gaze for another long second, as if deciding whether or not to believe me.
Then—
“Max!”
Her voice rang out from the kitchen, cutting through the tension like a blade.
Max was up in an instant, his frustration vanishing in a second at the sound of her calling for him. "Coming!"
His footsteps echoed down the hallway as he left the room, disappearing around the corner.
That left me alone with Charles.
The air felt suffocating, like the oxygen had been sucked from the room. I sat there, stiff and unmoving, my hands pressing against my legs to keep from shaking.
Charles exhaled slowly, like he was letting go of something. Then, his gaze found me again.
“Do you understand now?”
I nodded.
His lips twitched slightly, almost like he was satisfied with my reaction. But it wasn’t a smile. It was something else. Something unreadable.
“Good,” he murmured.
Then—
Soft footsteps.
The tension snapped as she reentered the room, stepping into my line of sight.
And just like that, Charles was neutral again. Like nothing had happened.
Like he hadn’t just spent the last few minutes making sure I understood exactly how unforgiving they were willing to be if I so much as stepped a single centimeter out of line.
Max and Charles lingered for a few moments longer, neither fully trusting to leave, but knowing it was what she wanted.
“We’ll leave you two to talk,” Charles said, his tone neutral, though there was an edge of warning beneath it.
Max was less subtle. His sharp eyes met mine, and he tilted his head just slightly. “One yell,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “And we’ll be back.”
The weight of the unspoken and you don’t want that hung in the air.
But Y/N just smiled at them, warm and appreciative. “I’ll be fine. Thank you, both of you.”
They hesitated only a second longer before nodding and disappearing down the hall, the door to her office clicking shut behind them.
Silence settled between us.
I felt it in my bones—the heaviness, the years of distance, the unsaid words stretching between us like an ocean. But I couldn’t let her speak first.
I wouldn’t.
“I’ve had time to think,” I said, my voice softer than I intended. I forced myself to sit up straighter, to look at her. “To think about what I remember, what I missed, and what I never bothered to see.”
Her expression didn’t change, but she was listening.
I exhaled slowly, steadying myself. “And I hate myself for it.”
She blinked, but still, she stayed silent.
“I was blind,” I admitted. “Every time you tried to tell me, every moment you hinted at what was really going on—I didn’t listen. I didn’t see you the way I should have. And now, I need to understand. I need to know everything. The truth. No matter how hard it is to hear.”
For the first time since I got here, her face softened, something flickering in her eyes that I couldn’t quite place.
Then, she let out a breath and nodded.
“You know,” she began, her voice softer than I expected, “ever since we were kids, I idolized you.”
I blinked. That wasn’t where I thought she’d start.
“I wanted to be just like you,” she continued, a small, sad smile tugging at her lips. “I wanted to be as cool, as fearless, as free as my big brother.”
The ache in my chest grew.
“But our parents never wanted that,” she said, fingers idly toying with the sleeve of her brace. “You could be whoever you wanted, chase whatever dream you had, and they would cheer you on.”
Her hand tightened slightly on the fabric of the throw pillow in her lap. “But me?” She let out a quiet, breathy laugh—one that held no amusement. “I had to be perfect. Their perfect little princess. I had to be delicate, traditional, feminine. I had to learn how to be the kind of woman that wealthy men wanted. Because that’s all I ever was to them—an investment, a bargaining chip to keep our family climbing the social ladder.”
My stomach twisted violently.
“They let me race for one year,” she murmured. “One. And only because they thought I’d come crawling back, begging to be their good little girl again. They expected me to hate it. To break down, to realize that racing wasn’t for me, wasn’t for girls.”
She paused for a moment, looking down at her lap.
“And when I didn’t? When I loved it? They started playing their games—pushing, pulling, tearing me apart until I believed it myself. That I wasn’t good enough. That I would never be good enough. That the only person worth supporting was you.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came.
“And I gave it up,” she said, finally looking back at me, her eyes shining with something too complicated to name. “For you. Because I was twelve, and you had been doing it longer, and I thought maybe… maybe that made it fair.”
I felt like I had been punched in the gut.
“But it wasn’t fair, Jack.”
Her voice was quiet, but the weight of it crushed me.
“Do you have any idea what that did to me?” she asked, her tone barely above a whisper. “I lost the one thing I loved—the one thing that made me feel alive. And for weeks, I hated you for it. I blamed you.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat, shame clawing at my insides.
“Until Uncle saw what I had become,” she continued, voice steady but heavy with something deeper. “How I was drowning in silence, how I was folding in on myself just to survive. He was the only one who saw it. The only one who actually cared.”
She exhaled slowly. “He helped me start karting again when I turned thirteen. He kept my secret. He let me have something that was mine.”
Her fingers traced absent patterns against the fabric of the pillow, gaze unfocused. “And now, look where his love got me.”
She didn’t need to say more.
I clenched my fists, willing myself to stay still, to take every word as I should—without defense, without excuse.
Her gaze lifted again, locking onto mine. “But you?” she said softly. “You don’t get to act like you’re the one who was hurt. You don’t get to play the victim.”
I flinched, but I deserved it.
“Because every single thing I have done—every lie, every sacrifice, every moment I made myself small—was for you. For you.”
Her breath was shaky. “I played their perfect daughter so they wouldn’t drag you into the mess. I let them pretend I was their ideal little girl so they wouldn’t take it out on you.”
She closed her eyes for a moment before continuing, voice quieter now. “And when I started beating you? When I got faster, better?” A faint, sad smile crossed her lips. “I told no one. Not a single soul. Because I didn’t want to take the spotlight from you—not even for a second.”
She let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, but not quite. “Because I knew what it felt like to be invisible. To watch every single thing I accomplished get brushed under the rug, forgotten, ignored, because you had done something—anything—that they decided was more important.”
I felt sick.
Every memory I had of her childhood—of our childhood—was different now. I had been so blind, so utterly and painfully blind, to the girl standing in front of me.
She had given up everything for me. And I had never even noticed.
Silence stretched between us.
I felt my throat tighten, my hands gripping my knees as I forced myself to breathe.
“…That’s the truth, Jack.”
And just like that, the weight of everything she had carried for so long settled between us.
Heavy. Unavoidable. Real.
I looked at her then, really looked at her, and for the first time in years, I saw my little sister—the one who used to chase after me, who used to smile like I hung the moon, who had once believed I was someone worth looking up to.
And all I could think was that I never wanted to let her down again.
I swallowed hard, my throat tight, my chest aching with a weight I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to lift.
And then, before I could stop myself, the words tumbled out.
“I’m so sorry.”
My voice cracked, raw and uneven, and for the first time in my life, I didn’t try to hide it.
“I—God, Y/N, I have been the worst older brother on the planet. Ever.” My hands clenched into fists against my knees, my knuckles turning white, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except this moment—except the fact that I had to get this out, that she had to hear me.
“I failed you,” I said, voice thick with guilt. “Again and again and again, I failed you. I should have seen it. I should have known. You were always right there, right in front of me, screaming for help in ways I never even bothered to hear.”
My breath shook as I looked up at her, eyes burning with unshed tears.
“You deserved better,” I whispered. “Better than them. Better than me.”
She didn’t say anything at first, but I could see the hesitation in her eyes—the doubt, the years of self-preservation that made her wary of believing me, of trusting that I truly meant it.
But I did.
I meant every single word.
“And I promise you,” I continued, forcing myself to hold her gaze, to let her see just how much I ached for what I had done, “I will be better. I will do better. For you. Always. I will be there for you whenever you ask—no, before you even have to ask. Because you shouldn’t have to. Not anymore.”
Her lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to say something, but she stayed silent. My heart clenched in my chest. I had spent years being blind, being selfish, being everything a big brother shouldn’t be. But not anymore.
“I need you to know something else,” I said, voice trembling as I tried to get the words out. “How I reacted after your crash…” I let out a shaky breath, running a hand through my hair, looking away for just a second before forcing myself to face her again. “That wasn’t what I really thought. Not even close.”
My jaw clenched, my nails digging into my palms.
“I don’t know why I reacted that way. I don’t know what the hell was wrong with me, but it was stupid, and I—God, I hate myself for it.”
Y/N blinked rapidly, looking away, and I could tell she was trying not to cry. I wished she wouldn’t. I wished she would scream, that she would yell, scream, hit me—anything to make me feel at least a fraction of the pain she had endured for years.
“I should have been there for you,” I whispered. “I should have been the one fighting for you, the one making sure you weren’t alone, the one telling everyone else to shut the hell up because you deserved better than whatever bullshit they were spewing.”
My breath hitched, and I looked down at my hands.
“But instead, I made it worse. I made everything worse. And I will never forgive myself for that.”
Silence settled between us for a moment, heavy but no longer suffocating. It wasn’t the kind of silence that built walls between us anymore—it was the kind that cracked them open, raw and vulnerable, laying everything bare.
Then, to my surprise, she let out a soft breath—almost a laugh, though it wasn’t quite happy.
“Jack…” she murmured, and I flinched, waiting for the blow, waiting for her to tell me that sorry wasn’t enough, that I had already ruined too much.
But instead, she reached forward, hesitantly placing her hand over mine.
My breath caught in my throat.
“I don’t need you to feel guilty, at least not like this” she said, her voice quiet but sure. “I just need you to mean what you say. I need you to prove it. Not just today, or tomorrow, but always.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded. “I will.”
She studied me for a long moment, and then, finally, she gave me the smallest, softest smile.
I let out a shaky breath and, before I could stop myself, turned my hand over so I could squeeze hers. It was the first time in years that I had felt like her brother. She squeezed my hand back.
I let out a choked laugh, running a hand down my face. “You know,” I said, voice still shaky, “I used to think that I was protecting you by not getting involved. By letting Mom and Dad handle things the way they wanted. I thought that was the right thing to do.”
Y/N’s smile faltered, her eyes darkening with something softer, something sadder.
“You weren’t protecting me,” she murmured. “You were just looking away.”
I flinched. But she didn’t let go of my hand. And somehow, that was enough to keep me from breaking apart completely. “I’m here now,” I said, voice quiet but certain. “And I swear to you—I will never look away again.”
Y/N inhaled sharply, like she was trying to hold something back. And then she nodded. I exhaled, my shoulders finally, finally relaxing.
It wasn’t everything. But it was a start.
I stood, feeling lighter, different. Determined.
“I’ll see you soon?” I asked, hesitant. Y/N smiled again, this time a little more sure. “Yeah.”
I nodded. Then, without another word, I turned and left, walking out the door with a purpose I hadn’t felt in a long, long time. This time, I wouldn’t fail her. Not now and Not ever again.
—
Watching Jack walk out the door, I felt something shift inside me—something fragile but real.
It wasn’t a grand moment of instant healing, no cinematic wave of relief crashing over me, but rather a slow, quiet mending. Like the first stitch in a wound too long left open, raw and aching. It would take time, I knew that. But for the first time in years, it felt truly possible.
I had braced myself for a fight, for yelling, for him standing his ground in our parents’ corner, throwing their words at me like daggers. I had prepared for the worst—prepared for him to tell me I was overreacting, that I needed to move on, that they were right, and I was just the problem child.
But instead, he had caught me completely off guard.
He had come to me with guilt. With regret. Not the kind you put on just to smooth things over, but something deeper, something that had been gnawing at him long before he even stepped through my door.
Someone else—someone who hadn’t spent years trying and failing to reach him, someone who hadn’t seen the real him before—might say he was gaslighting me, manipulating me into trusting him again just so he could hurt me down the line.
But I knew what I saw.
The look in his eyes, the way he carried himself, the way his voice wavered, as if he was afraid to even breathe wrong in my presence—this wasn’t the same person who had turned his back on me.
This was the boy I had once trusted with everything, standing in front of me again. Hesitant. Uncertain. But real. Himself.
And for the first time, I wondered if maybe—just maybe—he had been suffering too. If maybe he had been trapped just like me, shaped and bent into something unrecognizable under the weight of our parents' expectations. If maybe he was only just now beginning to see it, beginning his own road to realization.
It was almost laughable. It had taken me nearly dying right in front of his eyes for him to finally open them.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. The weight of it all sat heavy in my chest, but it didn’t hurt as much as before.
The front door had barely clicked shut when I heard another door creak open behind me. I rolled my eyes before I even turned around.
Two familiar faces peeked out from my office, their wide, curious eyes locked onto me like two overgrown children sneaking out of bed past curfew.
Max and Charles.
They grinned the moment I turned to look at them, the warmth in their faces softening the last of my tension. Neither of them hesitated as they stepped fully into the living room, each claiming a spot on either side of me on the couch. They didn’t press me immediately, but I could feel their quiet scrutiny, the way their gazes searched my face, scanning me for the answer before I even gave it.
I sighed. I knew they wouldn’t let this go.
“It went a lot better than I expected,” I admitted, leaning back against the cushions. “I can honestly say he really thought about everything. He feels guilty. Deeply guilty. He knows what he let our parents put me through, and he hates himself for it.”
Max and Charles exchanged a look—one of those silent conversations they somehow always had without speaking. Suspicion lingered in their expressions, doubt clouding their eyes.
Max turned back first, arms crossed, gaze sharp. “Are you sure you can trust what he says?”
I hesitated, not because I doubted myself, but because I understood why they were skeptical.
“I believe him,” I said carefully. “The version of him that walked in—it was the brother I remembered racing with my first year. The brother who stood up for me in the paddock, even when it meant going against our parents. Before they got to him, before he was brainwashed into whatever version of himself he’s been for the last six years.”
I reached for the small framed photo on the coffee table, brushing my fingers over the glass.
It was an old picture—our first family 1-2 finish. Jack on the top step of the podium, me on the second. His arm slung around my shoulders, both of us grinning like we had the entire world at our feet.
I swallowed past the lump in my throat.
“The boy in this photo,” I murmured, “he was the most raw, the most real version of himself. Untouched by criticism, unburdened by expectations. That’s the same person who walked through my front door today.”
I set the photo down, inhaling slowly. “And it was him who walked out, too.”
Max and Charles didn’t say anything, letting me speak at my own pace.
“It’s going to take time for him to earn back what he lost in me,” I continued, voice steady despite the emotions swirling inside me. “But this… this was a start. And for the first time, I feel hopeful for the future with him.”
Silence settled over us, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was understanding.
I reached out, finding both their hands and intertwining my fingers with theirs. My thumb traced absentminded circles against their skin, grounding myself in the warmth of their presence.
“But no matter what happens, I’m not tied down to the idea of what he was supposed to be for me anymore,” I said softly. “If he were to walk back through that door right now and say he didn’t actually want to try, that he still hated me, or whatever bullshit negativity he could throw at me… I wouldn’t feel anything.”
Their hands instinctively tightened around mine.
“Because I have you,” I whispered, looking between them. “And the rest of the boys. I have a family. A real family. One that I chose, one that chose me. I have people in my corner, people who will always be here for me, no matter what.”
Max’s jaw tensed, and he quickly looked away, but I caught the soft pink hue dusting his cheeks.
Charles, on the other hand, made no attempt to hide his emotions. His eyes glistened, his lips parting slightly, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. He didn’t have to.
The way he squeezed my hand—gentle, reassuring—said enough.
I let my head rest back against the couch, closing my eyes for just a second, allowing myself to breathe.
For the first time in a long, long while, I wasn’t looking backward.
This next chapter has been really difficult (you will understand why once I post it later) Its taken a lot of thought even after I have been trying to sprinkle it into earlier chapters to make it easier when I finally came around to this. So I hope you all enjoy it once I finish it and have my buddy read and check it for me.
If it is not posted tonight then it will be posted tomorrow! Keep an eye out for it soon!!
Doohan Sister Reader
F1 Driver Reader
Cadillac Formula 1 Reader
This is the Crash from the last chapter, the difference here is you will see "in the moment" reactions and perspectives of the other drivers from her grid family.
Max Verstappen
I was chasing down Norris, only a few meters ahead. My entire focus was locked on him, the world narrowing to the rhythm of our fight. Then, like a firefly cutting through the night, a bright glow burned at the edge of my vision.
A fire.
A quick glance in my mirror sent my heart plummeting. Flames licked at the air, thick smoke billowing like a storm cloud. I scanned the track behind me, searching—before, there had been an Alpine, a Cadillac, and a McLaren. Now, only one of them remained.
“Big crash, it’s a bad one. Get your delta positive. They’ve red-flagged the race—just get back to the pits.”
The words from my engineer barely registered. My pulse hammered against my helmet, my hands tightening on the wheel. I wanted to ask—Who? Who was it? But I was too scared to hear the answer.
Even from across the track, I could see the fire raging, its smoke painting the sky. As I approached the wreckage, my stomach twisted. Shrapnel was scattered across the asphalt, a violent testament to the impact. But then I saw it—the Alpine, somehow almost untouched, sitting eerily still farther down the track.
And then, my eyes flicked back to the fireball.
The medics were dragging a body from the wreckage.
Lifeless.
My breath caught as I took in the scorched suit, the barely recognizable helmet—one I knew all too well.
My throat tightened. My grip on the wheel went numb.
Please, please let her be okay.
Hope was all I had left.
Charles Leclerc
The fire burned bright in the distance, only a few turns ahead. My pulse skyrocketed. A car. Someone’s car.
My grip on the wheel tightened as dread clawed at my chest. My mind raced through every name, every friend still on track. Who was it? Who could I lose today?
My radio crackled to life.
"Red flag. Big crash. It's either the Alpine or the Cadillac."
My breath hitched. That meant Pierre—or…
Franco.
Or—
No.
Y/N.
I swallowed hard, my hands trembling even as I kept the car steady. Pierre was definitely the alpine as Jack was behind me. That left only one unanswered. The thought sent a sharp pain through my ribs, my body rejecting the possibility before my mind could even process it.
Franco had become a good friend, a presence I had grown to enjoy on the grid. But Y/N? She was different. She was precious in a way I couldn’t explain, someone who saw me—truly saw me—in a way few ever could. Someone who understood the weight of this world the way I did.
I could only pray it wasn’t her.
Or if it was—please, let her be alive.
I reached the scene, my stomach twisting violently as the wreckage came into view. The Cadillac was buried in the barriers, its body torn apart by impact. Flames engulfed it, thick black smoke rising like a terrible omen.
Then, movement—someone trying to crawl out.
A sudden explosion sent another wave of fire surging upward, forcing them back. My heart stopped. A medic rushed in, dousing the flames with an extinguisher as others pulled the driver free.
And then I saw it.
The dark maroon helmet with neon highlights.
A strangled sound left my throat, a cry to the gods—to the universe—to whoever was listening.
Do not take her from me.
Lando Norris
I was in the lead again, Max hot on my tail, pushing me to the absolute limit. Every sector, every turn, I fought to pull away, eyes flicking between the track ahead and my mirrors.
Then, in the split second I checked for Max—
A blast.
A fireball.
Smoke curled violently into the sky from Turn 11, the black cloud swallowing the horizon. My stomach lurched as I looked again. Before, there had been a pack of cars behind Oscar and Max. Now—
Now there was no one.
The world seemed to stop.
My radio crackled, my engineer’s voice calm in a way that only made my anxiety spike.
“Terrible crash at Turn 11. They’ve red-flagged the race. Get your delta positive and return to the pits.”
My fingers tightened around the wheel. My throat felt dry.
“Who is it?” My voice came out hoarse, barely a breath. “Who’s in the fireball?”
A pause. Too long. Way too long.
Finally, the answer.
“One of the Cadillacs. It was hit by an Alpine.”
I felt my entire body go cold.
No. No, no, no.
I didn’t speak, couldn’t speak, as I rounded the corner and the wreckage came into view. The Cadillac was a crumpled husk, barely recognizable as a car, flames raging from every broken piece.
And then—
Another explosion.
I flinched so hard I nearly lost control, the fire bursting higher as medics rushed in. And that’s when I saw them—
A body.
Being dragged from the wreckage.
A helmet, unmistakable even through the smoke.
Dark maroon. Neon highlights.
A choked sound left me, something between a sob and a curse.
“No, no, no—FUCK!” My voice cracked, panic drowning my thoughts. “Please be okay. Please, please—please.”
I had forgotten to mute my radio.
“Lando,” my engineer cut in, voice firm but gentle, “get to the pits for us, and we’ll find out whatever you need to know.”
Like this was some childish tantrum. Like I wasn’t watching my worst nightmare unfold right in front of me.
I didn’t respond. I couldn’t.
I just stared at the wreckage, silently begging whoever controlled fate to let her live.
Because if she didn’t—
I didn’t know how I was supposed to go on without her.
Oscar Piastri
I was locked in my own battle, managing tires, keeping an eye on my delta, and focusing on the gaps ahead. The race had settled into a rhythm—until my engineer’s voice shattered it.
“Red flag. Massive crash at Turn 11. Get your delta positive and return to the pits.”
I blinked. A crash?
I hadn’t seen anything. Hadn’t noticed a thing.
My fingers tightened on the wheel. “Who is it?”
There was a pause.
Too long.
Finally, the answer.
“We believe it’s a Cadillac and an Alpine.”
The blood drained from my face.
Cadillac.
Her.
I barely heard the rest of the message, my mind suddenly a storm of static. The next few corners blurred. I wasn’t even driving on instinct—I was just trying to breathe.
Then, I came around the bend.
Smoke.
Fire.
And what used to be a car, now just twisted metal and embers.
I went utterly silent.
The radio crackled again, but I didn’t process the words.
Because I saw her.
Being dragged from the wreckage.
Burned patches on her suit.
Helmet still on, but her body limp.
My heart slammed against my ribs, but I still couldn’t make a sound. Couldn’t think beyond a single, desperate thought—
I cannot lose her like this.
I didn’t know if she was breathing. I didn’t know if she was even alive.
I just knew that if she wasn’t—
Nothing else would matter.
Franco Colapinto
Pierre cut over too close.
Too damn close.
I barely had time to process it before her car was sent flying, flipping violently through the air, metal scraping against metal, sparks bursting like fireworks before she slammed upside down into the barrier.
And then—fire.
In the split second it took for the flames to explode from the wreckage, my world went silent.
The roar of the engine behind me became nothing more than a dull hum, a meaningless noise against the fog in my mind.
Was she dead on impact? Still fighting? Trapped in the inferno?
I didn’t know.
I just knew that I needed to get back to her.
I wanted to fly through the corners, my grip on the wheel so tight my knuckles ached. I prayed—please, please, let me see her standing there when I come back around.
Maybe she’d be pissed, arms flailing in that dramatic way she always did, gesturing at Pierre with that pinched hand motion she subconsciously picked up from Kimi.
I could almost see it. Her eyes burning with frustration, but still—still looking like the adorable, pouting puppy she always managed to resemble.
But that vision—that hope—was shattered the second I rounded back to the wreckage.
She wasn’t standing.
She wasn’t raging.
She wasn’t even moving.
Her body had just been pulled from the flames, medics swarming around her. She lay there, her suit charred in places where the fire had tried to consume her, her helmet still on but tilted slightly to the side.
She looked lifeless.
And in that moment—so did I.
My heart stopped.
My body turned to ice.
Numbness spread through me like poison as my mind refused to process what I was seeing.
No. No. No.
This couldn’t be happening.
This wasn’t happening.
But no matter how much I willed it to be a nightmare—
She wasn’t moving.
And that broke me.
Ollie Bearman
I had no idea what had happened.
One second, the race was going on as normal. The next, the red flags were out, and my engineer’s voice was cutting through my radio.
“Big crash at Turn 11, return to the pits. It’s serious.”
My heart lurched. I didn’t see it—I had been too far behind—but I could see the plume of smoke rising in the distance, thick and black against the sky.
I swallowed hard. God, please let them be okay.
As I approached the wreckage, his grip tightened on the wheel. The remains of a car were barely recognizable against the barrier, crumpled and burning, but then—
Movement.
My breath caught as I saw a figure crawling out. It was her.
She was alive.
A wave of relief crashed over me so suddenly it nearly made me dizzy. My chest swelled with something—something unspoken, something I had never dared to acknowledge before, something that had always just been there when I looked at her.
But she was okay.
She was getting out.
And then—
The car exploded.
A second blast, even bigger than the first.
My scream caught in my throat as fire engulfed her.
One moment, she was there—fighting, surviving.
The next, she was swallowed by the flames.
My vision blurred, my body going numb as pure, unfiltered terror ripped through me.
No. Not her. Not her.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. My whole world narrowed to the fire, to the medics rushing in, to the desperate hands pulling her out.
But she wasn’t moving. She wasn’t—
My hands shook violently on the wheel, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it might break.
She was gone. She had to be. That kind of fire, that kind of explosion—no one could survive that. And yet, I still found himself clinging to hope.
Hope that I would see her smile again. Hope that I would hear her voice calling my name like she always did, light and teasing, the way it made my chest ache in ways I could never explain.
Hope that I hadn’t just lost the person who meant more to me than I had ever let myself admit.
But as I drove past, all I could see was the scorched remnants of her suit.
And all I could feel was the breaking of my heart.
Kimi Antonelli
The moment the crash happened, I knew it was bad.
I was right behind Franco when it happened—too close, too helpless as I watched her car get sent airborne, flipping over and over before it smashed into the barrier.
Then the fire erupted and my blood ran cold.
"Red flag, red flag, massive crash at Turn 11," my engineer’s voice crackled through the radio. "Kimi, return to the pits." I barely registered the words.
My hands were locked around the wheel, gripping so tight my fingers ached. My heart was hammering against my ribs, my mind struggling to process the sight in front of me.
It was her. It was her.
I wanted to stop. To do something. But I couldn't—I could only drive past, eyes fixed on the flames licking hungrily at what remained of her car in my mirrors.
Then the car exploded again. The blast swallowed her whole, fire surging around her cockpit.
“No!” I shouted, my voice hoarse and broken, but no one heard me.
I couldn’t do anything but keep driving, blinking rapidly to clear the stinging in my eyes.
I swallowed hard.
She had to be okay.
She had to be.
The thought of losing her—of never hearing her laugh again, never seeing the way she scrunched her nose when she was annoyed, like a little bunny. Never feeling the way she just understood me—was unbearable.
I wasn’t ready for a world without her in it.
By the time I circled back around, the panic had taken over completely.
She was on the ground now. Unmoving.
The medics worked frantically around her, but she wasn’t responding.
My chest tightened, my stomach twisting violently as I forced myself to keep driving past. I wanted to stop. To run to her. To shake her awake and tell her she had to be okay.
But I couldn’t. I could only drive past and pray. Pray that this wasn’t the last time I’d ever see her. Because if it was—
Hello Everyone! I decided that I really did want to story to end with some sort of romance. So after a lot of thought on how I would do this, I was thinking I could do a "choose your own ending" sort of thing.
This would mean that I will continue writing the rest of these chapters with all of her chosen grid family having flirty/romantic moments like I have so far. Then once I get to the end of her story, I would make a long chapter for each driver full of the romance I would expect between the two.
Let me know if this sounds like a great plan or if I just need to pick one driver and build their relationship already. This plan was built off the idea that I wanted everyone to have their favorite driver and it allows me to write more than I planned originally.
Doohan Sister Reader
F1 Driver Reader
Cadillac Formula 1 Reader
33 pages or 12519 words later and I have finished this action packed emotional chapter to the story of Ghost. Please enjoy.
The past week had been a whirlwind of laughter, late nights, and the kind of deep, unshakable comfort that only my grid family could provide. After everything I had been through, it was exactly what I needed—a chance to breathe, to heal, and to remind myself that I wasn’t alone. And, surprisingly, I had gained one more friend along the way.
Max had spent the better part of the last month trying to convince me to finally let Charles Leclerc into my world—to let him meet me, the real me, not just the masked version he had only ever seen from a distance. I had resisted at first, hesitant to break down yet another carefully built wall. But Max had always been persistent, and in the end, I gave in.
The next day, Max showed up at my place with Charles in tow, looking far too pleased with himself. And Charles? The moment he saw me—really saw me—the shock on his face barely lasted two seconds before it was replaced by something else. Adoration. Amazement.
He had grinned, telling me how much he had already heard about me from Max, how he had hoped for a long time to forge a connection with me, even if he had never expected to see the person behind the helmet. And somehow, just like that, conversation flowed effortlessly between us. Hours passed in a blur of stories, jokes, and learning about each other in a way that felt both new and familiar at the same time.
At some point, without even realizing it, my family drama spilled out. The pain, the hurt, the anger I had carried for so long—it all came tumbling from my lips before I had the chance to stop it. I barely had time to regret it before Charles moved, wrapping me in a firm, reassuring hug.
He didn’t pretend to understand everything. He didn’t try to offer meaningless platitudes. Instead, he spoke with quiet honesty, telling me that while he might not know the pain of being rejected by his parents, he did understand the ache of loss. He knew what it was like to have someone who had supported you through every step of your career never get to see the dream come true—to race in Formula 1 without the one person who had always believed in you standing by the barriers, watching.
At that moment, I knew. Charles understood me. Just like the others, he too found something within me that he understood better than anyone else.
And now, as I stepped out of my apartment, bag slung over my shoulder, ready for another race weekend, the weight I had been carrying for so long felt just a little lighter. My grid family was waiting. The paddock was calling.
—
The start of another race weekend always brought a familiar mix of excitement and nerves, the kind that settled deep in my chest like an old friend. But today, there was something else—something off. A strange unease sat awkwardly in my stomach, gnawing at the edges of my focus. I couldn’t quite place it, but I pushed it aside. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. This was the last weekend before the summer break, and I was determined to make the most of it.
As I strolled into the paddock, the usual swarm of media gathered behind their designated barriers, cameras clicking and rolling, capturing every moment. They never called out for me, never asked for a wave or a smile. With my face hidden behind the helmet, I was more of an enigma than a personality to them—just another image to add to their coverage. That suited me just fine.
I was making my way toward my garage when I heard my name being called from behind.
“GHOST! WAIT UP!”
I turned, already recognizing the voice before I saw him. Charles Leclerc jogged toward me, a bright smile on his face, and at his side trotted a small, energetic pup. My lips curled into a smile of my own—though, of course, he couldn’t see it.
Once he caught up, Charles beamed, gesturing toward the little ball of fur at his feet. “This is Leo,” he introduced. “I remember you mentioning getting an emotional support dog, so I thought you might like to meet him.”
I crouched down, offering my hand, and Leo wasted no time in bounding into my arms, his tiny tail wagging furiously as he sniffed every inch of me. I cooed at him, running a gentle hand over his soft fur, and he responded by attempting to climb into the oversized hood of my hoodie.
Charles chuckled, watching as Leo squirmed, determined to make himself comfortable. “If you do go through with getting one, I’d recommend a small breed—it’ll make traveling a lot easier.”
I nodded in agreement, still distracted by the little pup, who had now successfully wedged himself halfway into my hoodie.
A voice called for Charles from the Ferrari garage, drawing his attention. With a sigh, he reached out to scoop Leo back into his arms. “Well, good luck out there today. I’m sure we’ll get a chance to talk more later.”
I gave him a nod in return, watching as he jogged off, Leo happily nestled against his chest.
Shaking off the lingering warmth of the moment, I turned on my heel and stepped into my own garage, ready to focus on the race ahead.
—
My heart pounded against my ribs as his car loomed closer in my mirrors, the unmistakable pink and blue livery flashing like a warning light in the distance. Every second, he gained on me, the threat creeping closer with each turn. I was on a cooldown lap, ready to box early and call it a day for FP1, but Jack wasn’t making it easy. From the moment this session had started, he’d been aggressive—dangerously so.
At first, I chalked it up to his usual reckless driving, but when Diego pointed out that Jack had only been pulling these moves around me, it became obvious—this wasn’t just aggression. This was personal. He was using me as a punching bag for whatever anger was eating away at him. At first, it was just frustrating, but as the session went on, frustration turned into real fear. He was playing with fire, and I was the one between him and the flames.
I stayed hyper-aware of his position, trying to predict his next move. As I approached the apex, I did everything right—I stayed predictable, held my line, and even gave him extra space to make sure I wasn’t in his way. But it didn’t matter. Jack veered wide—too wide—and cut straight back into my path.
I barely had time to react before the impact.
His front tire clipped the side of my car, sending a violent jolt through the chassis. My reflexes kicked in, hands tightening on the wheel as I fought to control the sudden instability. Instinct told me to pull off and avoid further damage, but the moment my tires hit the grass, the car betrayed me.
Everything went wrong in an instant.
The back end snapped loose, and before I could countersteer, the car spun—a brutal 180-degree turn sending me straight into the barriers. The impact rattled through me, a sickening crunch of carbon fiber breaking apart on contact. My head jerked forward before the harness caught me, and for a moment, all I could hear was my own rapid breathing over the crackling team radio.
“Ghost! Are you okay?” Diego’s voice was tense, bordering on frantic.
I squeezed my eyes shut for a second before letting out a frustrated sigh, my pulse still racing. “Yeah, I’m good,” I muttered, pressing the radio button. “But the car is definitely fucked. What the hell is he doing? Wasn’t I out of his way?” My voice came out sharp, edged with frustration and adrenaline.
A moment of silence. Then, Diego exhaled. “Yeah… you were. He just—” A pause. “Safety car is out. They’re ending the session early.”
I glanced at the damage. The front wing was completely destroyed, one of the rear tires had half-torn itself off the rim, and the sidepod looked like it had taken a serious beating. The chassis itself seemed intact, but it was going to be a long night for the mechanics.
The medical car arrived within minutes, pulling up beside me as marshals rushed to assess the wreckage. I unclipped my belts and carefully pulled myself out, stepping onto the grass. My hands trembled slightly—not from injury, just the aftermath of the crash settling in.
“You alright?” One of the medics asked.
“I’m fine,” I said, though my jaw was tight with irritation.
“Protocol,” he reminded me with a small, knowing smile. “Hop in. We’ll take you back to your garage.”
With a sigh, I climbed into the medical car, watching through the window as the marshals began lifting my wrecked car onto a recovery truck. In the distance, Jack’s car cruised slowly back to the pits, untouched.
Coward.
As we pulled away, I clenched my fists. If he wanted to make this personal, then fine. But he was about to learn that I didn’t go down without a fight.
When I stepped back into the garage, the tension in the air was thick. The entire crew was hard at work assessing the wrecked car, their expressions a mix of concern and determination. The sight made my stomach twist—this wasn’t how I wanted FP1 to end.
Before I could dwell on it, Nico and Diego appeared at my side, their faces unreadable. Without a word, they gestured for me to follow them. I obliged, letting them lead me to a private meeting room tucked away from prying eyes. The moment the door shut behind us, I finally let out a breath and pulled off my helmet, running a hand through my hair to fix the inevitable mess.
Nico didn’t waste any time. “The damage is bad,” he started, his tone serious. “The team thinks they can have it fixed by FP3, but that means you’ll be sitting out of FP2.”
I exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over my face. “Yeah… I figured as much.” It wasn’t ideal, but it was better than missing the entire weekend. After a beat, I straightened up. “Make sure the crew knows how much I appreciate them. Actually, Nico—can we get them a couple of packs of energy drinks tonight? They’re going to need it.”
A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “I’ll have someone pick some up and bring them in.”
I returned his smile with a grateful nod. “Thanks.”
Diego cleared his throat. “You can change into something more comfortable for now,” he said, then added, “but you’ll need to handle media duties before you head out.”
I groaned internally but nodded. “Figured. Alright, I’ll be quick.”
With that, I slipped my helmet back on, masking any lingering frustration before heading off to my driver’s room to swap into something more comfortable. If I had to deal with the press, I might as well be cozy while doing it.
Hearing Jack’s words after the crash felt like a knife twisting in my chest. He stood just a few feet away, his voice dripping with venom as he dismissed the incident like it was nothing.
"Ghost should’ve just stayed out of my way."
"It’s not my fault he didn’t move over enough."
Each word hit harder than the impact itself. I clenched my fists at my sides, forcing myself to keep my expression neutral. Killing them with kindness had always been my motto, but even I had my limits.
When the interviewer finally turned to me, asking for my thoughts on the incident, I decided I wasn’t going to sugarcoat the truth.
“Well,” I started, keeping my tone even but firm. “I don’t know why Doohan chose to be that aggressive every time he caught up to me. I was on a cooldown lap, heading back to the pits, and my line for the entire lap was as far out of the way as possible. Honestly, I was watching my mirrors more than I was looking forward. I know what it’s like to lose a solid lap because someone doesn’t move over in time, and I would never want to do that to another driver.”
I let my words settle before continuing, my voice steady. “You can ask anyone else who passed me during that stint—I was as far out of the way as I could be without putting the car in the grass. So if Jack thinks I had more room to move over safely, maybe he should start petitioning for wider tracks.”
The interviewer, clearly taken aback, nodded and thanked me for my time. I gave a polite nod before walking away, finally finished with media duties for the day.
As soon as I was out of sight, I let out a slow breath, shaking off the tension that had built up in my shoulders. It had been a long, frustrating day, but at least now, I could head back to the hotel and regroup before tomorrow.
—
FP3 had gone smoothly, a much-needed turnaround after yesterday’s chaos. I laid down solid lap times, and, for once, Jack wasn’t driving like he had a personal vendetta against me. I could only assume his team had given him a firm talking-to—after all, taking a three-place grid drop for his reckless move in FP1 wasn’t something they’d let slide. Either way, I was content to leave the incident in the past and focus on the weekend ahead.
With my confidence in the car restored, I headed into qualifying feeling optimistic. Franco and I had a bet going—whoever qualified lower had to buy dinner and host movie night. It was our usual back-and-forth competition, something to keep things light before the intensity of race day.
Q1 was a breeze for both of us, and while Franco had a bit of a fight to make it through Q2, we both lined up for the final session, ready to push. In the end, I secured P8, with Franco just ahead in P7. That meant dinner was on me, and my hotel room was the designated movie night spot. Typical.
After wrapping up media duties and a quick debrief with the team, I finally made it back to my hotel room, kicking off my shoes with a sigh. I sent Franco a quick text letting him know the door would be open when he got there, then flopped onto the bed, stretching out for a moment of quiet before he arrived.
Just as I was about to scroll through the dinner options, my phone buzzed. An incoming call.
I frowned, sitting up as I glanced at the name on the screen.
Something about it made my stomach twist only for it to drop when I saw the name. JACK
The moment I saw Jack’s name on my phone screen, I knew answering would be a mistake. But against my better judgment, I swiped to accept the call, bringing the phone to my ear with a sigh.
Before I could even get a word out, his voice exploded through the speaker.
"Can you believe that idiot Ghost?" he spat, his anger practically crackling through the line. "Thinks he’s better than me? Acts like some saint when really they’re just a coward hiding behind a helmet! And now I get a three-place grid drop because of them? Unbelievable! Like, maybe if they actually knew how to drive, I wouldn't have had to force my way past! But no, of course, it’s my fault—because Ghost is some kind of untouchable mystery driver who everyone just loves to defend!"
I stayed silent, my grip tightening on the phone as his rant continued. He didn’t even pause, too caught up in his own fury to notice that I hadn’t said a single word.
"You’d think the FIA would actually do their jobs for once, but no. Instead, I get the penalty. Ghost gets to play the victim. It’s so goddamn rigged! And you know what’s worse? I bet they don’t even care! Probably just sitting in their fancy hotel room, celebrating like they’re some kind of hero—”
My jaw clenched. My fingers curled so tightly around the phone I thought it might snap in half. He just kept going.
Jack, my brother, was raging about me. Trashing me. Humiliating me without even realizing I was the one on the other end of the line.
And the worst part? He thought I was his ally in all of this.
I bit my tongue, forcing myself to stay quiet, but my patience was razor-thin. Each passing second only fanned the flames of my fury.
Then, as if finally sensing the shift, he hesitated. The ranting stopped.
"...Why are you so quiet?" His voice was softer now, cautious before sighing. "Are you still upset about two weeks ago? I thought we were siblings. Siblings don’t hold grudges."
That was it. That was my breaking point.
I exhaled sharply, my voice like ice. "Maybe one day, you’ll look in a fucking mirror and realize how stupid you are."
Silence. A stunned pause on his end.
Then, before he could say another word, I hung up.
I stared at my phone for a long moment before opening his contact and hitting mute.
No more. Not tonight. Not ever if I had it my way.
—-
The paddock buzzed with energy, the excited chatter of fans blending with the occasional roar of an engine being fired up in the distance. I waved at the crowds as our parade trailer slowly rolled along the track, the air electric with anticipation for race day.
"Hey, Ghost, wanted to chat with you for a moment."
I turned from the waving fans to find a familiar set of piercing blue eyes watching me with quiet concern. Max Verstappen leaned casually against the railing of the trailer, his expression softer than usual.
"Hey, Max," I greeted, my voice slightly muffled through my helmet. "What's up?"
He smirked, but there was a weight behind it, something more serious lingering in his gaze. "Well, I just thought I’d check in," he said, shifting to fully face me. "Seeing as a certain someone has been attacking your character to the press. Normally, I’d say you can handle it, but given that this person is… close to your heart, I just wanted to see if you’re okay. Or if you need some advice."
I stiffened slightly but exhaled, forcing my shoulders to relax. "Appreciate it, but I’m fine," I replied, though I wasn't even sure if I fully believed that.
Max gave me a look—one that made it clear he wasn’t buying my deflection for a second. "Ghost," he said, voice firm but kind, "I know what it's like to have people twist the truth about you. I also know that when it's someone you care about doing it, it hits differently."
I stayed quiet, gripping the railing tighter as I watched the crowd. The fans had no idea that under my baggy hoodie and helmet, I was barely holding my frustration together.
"Look, I had my fair share of bad press, people calling me aggressive, reckless, a bad teammate—" he paused, smirking slightly, "—which, okay, sometimes I was."
I let out a short laugh despite myself.
"But when people you trust go out of their way to turn others against you? That’s a different kind of pain," he continued, voice quieter now. "You have to remind yourself of who you are, not who they’re trying to make you out to be."
I clenched my jaw. "And what if they don’t stop?"
Max shrugged. "Then you prove them wrong. Not by explaining yourself to them—people like that don’t listen. You prove them wrong by continuing to be who you are and letting your results speak for themselves. You’re here because you earned it. Don’t let someone else's bitterness make you forget that."
I swallowed hard, Max’s words sinking in deeper than I expected.
Before I could respond, another voice chimed in.
"Max giving wisdom? That’s new," Charles teased, leaning onto the trailer railing beside us, his usual easygoing grin in place.
Max rolled his eyes. "I can be wise when necessary."
Charles chuckled but turned to me with the same concern Max had. "Ghost, I was going to come find you after this. Have you seen what Jack has been saying?"
I nodded stiffly. "Yeah. I’ve seen it."
Charles sighed, shaking his head. "It’s one thing when the media twists things, but when it’s family…" His expression darkened for a moment, as if recalling something from his past. "That’s a wound that doesn’t heal so easily."
I looked between them, both championship-winning drivers who had dealt with pressure, scrutiny, and the weight of expectations. "So what do I do? Just ignore it?"
Charles hummed in thought. "Sometimes, yes. Not every battle is worth fighting, especially when the other person only wants to provoke you. But…" He gave me a knowing look. "I also know you, Ghost. You want to say something. Which you did yesterday, but I am sure you want to say a lot more than just that."
I crossed my arms, exhaling through my nose. "I do. But I don’t want to make it worse. I just… I want to make it stop."
Max nudged my shoulder lightly. "Then make sure that when you do speak, it’s on your terms. Don’t react in anger. Take your time, think it through, and when you do respond—make sure it’s something you won’t regret later."
Charles nodded in agreement. "And don’t forget, you have people who will stand by you no matter what. You’re not alone in this, even if it feels like it in the moment.”
I let their words settle, the weight on my chest feeling just a little lighter. They were right. The best thing I could do was stay true to myself and let my driving do the talking. But if Jack thought I was going to just roll over and let him tarnish my name without consequence, he had another thing coming.
—
The race had been a brutal test of endurance, but I had thrived in it, clawing my way up from P8 to P6. Every lap had been a battle, and I had relished it. Racing Franco for P5 had been exhilarating—a test of skill, trust, and sheer determination. We had fought hard, pushing each other to the limits, but never crossing that dangerous line. It was a dance we had perfected over the years—close, competitive, and always respectful. I had giggled at one point, the thrill of our fight lighting a fire in me. This was what racing was meant to be.
But now, that moment felt like a lifetime ago.
I had finally broken through, leaving Franco behind, and my next target had been Pierre in P4. It wasn’t often I got to fight with him this high up the grid, and I had been determined to make it count. Lap after lap, I studied his lines, looking for an opening. I found it—a tiny window of opportunity he left open at the same corner each time.
So, I went for it.
The overtake was clean, precise. For a fleeting second, I was ahead, the rush of success surging through me. But Pierre wasn’t ready to give up. He fought back, pushing for the racing line, and that’s when everything went wrong.
A flash of movement.
His rear right tire clipped my front left.
Then—impact.
A sickening pop, followed by a deep, gut-wrenching crunch.
The world twisted violently. My stomach dropped as the front of my car lifted. For a split second, I thought I could save it, but then—
The wind caught me.
I was airborne.
The first flip knocked the air from my lungs, my body slamming against the seat as the car pitched sideways. Sky. Track. Sky. Track. The violent rotations blurred my vision as my body smashed against the cockpit walls. The sounds were deafening—metal shrieking, carbon fiber shattering, the deep thuds of impact every time the car hit the ground.
I lost count of how many times I flipped.
Then, the final slam.
The car landed hard on its back, skidding across the track before it slammed into the barrier with a force that rattled my bones. Pain exploded across my chest where the harness had dug in, my body jerked forward and then snapped back into the seat. My head bounced off the padding, my vision swimming. I hung from the seatbelt like meat being processed in a butcher shop.
Then—
BOOM.
The explosion rattled through my entire body. The car shuddered as flames erupted from the rear.
Heat.
Sudden. Overwhelming.
The cockpit was hot—scalding, suffocating. The smell of burning fuel filled my lungs, thick and choking. A deep, primal terror gripped me.
I had to get out.
My hands fumbled with the seatbelts, my fingers shaking uncontrollably. I yanked at the latch—one side came undone immediately. Relief. But the second—
Stuck.
I pulled again. Nothing.
Panic surged through me, my heart slamming against my ribs. Smoke curled into the cockpit, searing my throat, making my eyes water. My exits were vanishing. The fire spread fast, licking at the sides of the car, hungrily devouring everything in its path.
No. No. No.
I pulled harder, desperation making my movements frantic. The flames were right there, creeping over the halo, licking at the bodywork. The car was turning into a furnace, the heat pressing against me, making my suit stick to my sweating skin.
Move. MOVE.
I screamed as I pulled one last time—
POP.
A white-hot pain tore through my shoulder as something gave. I didn’t have time to process it. I tumbled forward, crashing awkwardly into the side of the cockpit.
No time to think. No time to feel.
I twisted my legs out from under the halo, flipping onto my stomach, dragging myself toward the jagged opening in the barrier. Every movement sent agony shooting through my body, but I couldn’t stop. I refused to stop.
Then—pain.
A sharp, searing sting tore through my collarbone as the fabric of my suit snagged on the metal. I gasped, feeling the warm trickle of blood soaking into the material.
Then—another explosion.
The fire surged forward, wrapping around the car like a beast hunting its prey. Heat clawed at my back, almost burning through my suit.
And then—white.
A cloud of fire extinguisher foam engulfed me, cool relief against the unbearable heat. Hands grabbed at me, pulling me away from the wreckage, urgent voices shouting orders I couldn’t process.
I was out.
The moment my body collapsed onto the ground, my limbs refused to move. Every nerve in my body screamed. I sucked in greedy gasps of air, my lungs burning, my heart slamming in my chest like a war drum.
A voice—calm, steady—cut through the chaos.
“Ghost, listen to me. I know you need to keep your identity hidden, so don’t worry. Your team made sure all medical staff under contract signed an NDA for you.”
I barely nodded, my mind still trapped in the fire, the flips, the terror.
I had made it out.
The next few minutes blurred together in a haze of exhaustion and pain, my body caught in the slow, agonizing descent from the high of racing adrenaline into something I would later call borderline pure agony. The fire, the crash, the desperate scramble to escape—it had all been chaos, and now my body was beginning to process just how much damage had been done. Every nerve felt raw, every breath was a struggle against the tightness in my chest.
The medical team worked quickly, their voices sharp and urgent as they carried me through the paddock toward the medical room. The bright fluorescent lights above me blurred and streaked, my head pounding with each bounce of the stretcher. The once-distant ache was now creeping up, turning into sharp, searing pain in places I hadn’t even realized were injured.
As they rolled me into the sterile white room, my gaze flickered toward the doorway, where I caught sight of two familiar figures—Nico and Diego. Their faces were twisted in worry, their brows furrowed, their jaws tight. They stood firm, blocking the entrance, as if shielding me from whatever outside world lay beyond this moment. My stomach twisted. I hated that look—the mixture of helplessness and fear in their eyes. I wanted to tell them I was fine, that I’d survived worse. But the truth was, I wasn’t sure if this wasn’t worse.
The gurney came to an abrupt stop, and suddenly, the room exploded into movement. Medics swarmed around me, hands pressing, prodding, assessing. The air smelled like antiseptic and burnt fabric. I barely had time to process any of it before a voice cut through the noise.
“Shit, there's a lot of blood.”
The words sent a fresh wave of panic through me.
“Okay, the suit has to come off, Y/N. We’re cutting the top for now,” a female medic informed me, her voice steady but urgent.
I barely had the strength to respond. A half-formed groan of acknowledgment left my lips, and within seconds, I heard the distinct snip, snip, snip of scissors slicing through my race suit. The fabric peeled away from my skin, and a sharp chill rushed over me. The cold was jarring, but it was nothing compared to what happened next.
The medic closest to me stiffened.
Her expression, previously neutral and professional, faltered. A flicker of something—shock, concern—passed over her features before she quickly masked it, returning to her clinical demeanor. But I saw it. I saw it.
Panic clawed at my ribs.
“What—what is it?” My voice came out hoarse, barely more than a whisper.
She didn’t answer. Instead, she pressed a thick towel to my shoulder, right where the fabric had been sticking to my skin.
Pain—searing, white-hot, like fire ripping through my collarbone. I sucked in a sharp breath, my back arching involuntarily as the wound protested violently.
Then, another sound—pop.
Agony.
A scream tore from my throat before I even understood what had happened.
The pain was unlike anything I had felt before, radiating outward, setting every nerve ending alight. My vision swam, black spots dancing at the edges as I struggled to stay present. The sickening realization hit me a second later—someone had just popped my shoulder back into place without warning.
I gasped, choking on the pain, my body trembling as the intensity of it all became too much.
Everything around me started to fade.
The room became distant, the voices blending into a low hum. The fluorescent lights above blurred further, melting into streaks of white nothingness. The pain was unbearable, suffocating, pressing down on me like a weight I couldn’t shake. My body felt disconnected, floating somewhere between consciousness and oblivion. I was slipping, sinking into the haze, letting it pull me under where the pain couldn’t reach.
But then—
A touch.
Soft. Steady. Grounding.
Fingers curled around my own, warm and gentle amidst the chaos.
My mind fought against the fog, instincts taking over as my fingers twitched, responding to the quiet comfort being offered.
Slowly, as if emerging from deep water, I forced my eyes open, my vision swimming before it sharpened—
Chocolate brown eyes.
Familiar. Safe.
Framed by soft, unruly curls.
I blinked, trying to focus, to cling to the one thing in this moment that wasn’t pain or fear or agony.
Next to me stood a worry-riddled Kimi, his thumb rubbing over the back of my knuckles as his other hand came up fully cup mine. His grip was steady—warm, grounding—but I could still feel the faintest tremble in his fingers. He only glanced at the rest of me once, his eyes flickering down my body before settling back on my face. Nothing in his expression changed, but I could see it in his eyes—the weight of everything he had seen, the helplessness, the fear.
That was when I started to notice the differences since I had slipped into that daze.
I wasn’t lying down anymore—I was propped up on the cot, a dull ache radiating from every inch of me. The medics were gone. In their place stood a silent wall of figures, their presence heavy with the kind of emotion that lingered in the air long after words had been spoken. Max, Ollie, Charles, Oscar, Lando, Franco. Each of them stood like an unbreakable barrier, shielding me from something unseen, something I had already endured but they still hadn’t let go of.
Their faces told me everything before they even spoke.
I dropped my gaze to my own body, suddenly understanding why they were looking at me like that. My race suit was gone. In its place, I wore a pair of soft shorts, my upper body wrapped tightly in elastic bandages. Gauze was pressed to my collarbone on one side white the bandages held my shoulder in place on the other, a stark reminder of what had happened. Small cuts littered my skin, angry red patches of burn-kissed skin peeking out beneath layers of bandages and burn cream. My legs were bruised in shades of deep purple and sickly yellow, the worst of them disappearing beneath the thick wrapping on my ribs.
I swallowed hard.
“Jesus, Y/N,” Lando broke the silence first, his voice unusually quiet, unusually small. He rubbed a hand over his face, the usual playfulness in his eyes replaced with something much heavier. “I—I saw the fire in my mirrors, but I didn’t know it was you until I came back around. I just saw…” His voice cracked for a moment before he forced himself to keep going. “I saw what was left of your car. I thought—” He stopped himself, shaking his head as if physically trying to rid himself of the thought.
Oscar, standing just beside him, nodded slowly, arms crossed tightly over his chest like he was holding himself together. “Same here,” he admitted, his voice laced with guilt. “I saw the flames, and when I came back around, I saw them pulling someone out… I didn’t know if you’d made it.”
Max let out a slow, shaky breath. He wasn’t looking at me, his hands braced against his knees as he leaned forward. “I didn’t see you until I passed the wreckage,” he muttered. “I just saw—” His fingers clenched into fists. “Pieces. Pieces of your car. Then the red flag, and the radio silence.” He exhaled sharply, his usual confidence replaced with something raw. “I’ve never hated a race more than I did in that moment.”
I felt my chest tighten.
Then, Franco’s voice cut through the thick silence, soft but weighted with something deeper. “I saw all of it.”
I turned to look at him. His usual easy going demeanor was gone, replaced with something haunted.
“I was right behind you,” he continued, voice flat, distant. “I saw the car flip violently, saw you hit the barrier, saw the moment you stopped moving.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I thought—” He stopped, shaking his head. “No. I knew we were about to lose you.”
Kimi’s grip on my hand tightened slightly.
“I was behind too,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “I saw it happen. All of it.” His jaw was clenched so tightly I thought it might break. “And I couldn’t do anything.”
I squeezed his hand, suddenly aware of just how much this had affected them, too. It wasn’t just my trauma. It was ours.
Ollie hadn’t spoken yet.
When I looked at him, his arms were wrapped tightly around himself, his eyes glassy but unreadable.
“I came up just as it exploded the first time,” he admitted, his voice thick. “I didn’t even think. I just—” He exhaled shakily. “I just needed to know if you were still alive. No one knew anything quick enough.”
My throat tightened.
He scrubbed a hand over his face before looking at me again. “You scared the shit out of me, Y/N.” His voice broke slightly on my name. “We all thought—” He stopped himself, taking a deep breath. “I don’t even want to say it.”
I looked at each of them, their faces still clouded with worry, fear, relief.
I had barely come to terms with my own pain, and yet they had been carrying their own version of it, watching from afar, unable to do anything but hope I would make it out alive.
The worst part?
I almost didn’t.
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “I’m here,” I whispered, my voice hoarse but steady. “I made it.”
Kimi squeezed my hand. “Yeah,” he murmured, his voice quieter than before. “But you almost didn’t.”
I didn’t know what to say because nothing could make this any better for any of us.
Suddenly, the room erupted in chaos.
Shouting rang out from the hallway, sharp and venomous, cutting through the tense silence like a blade. The boys around me tensed, their bodies shifting instinctively to block me as the door burst open with a loud slam.
“Where the hell is he?” Jack’s voice was dripping with rage, laced with a venom that sent a shiver down my spine. “His stupid fucking move got Pierre disqualified, and I just have a few words to say to that asshole.”
I couldn’t see him past the wall of bodies in front of me, but I didn’t need to. I could picture him perfectly. Stiff posture, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles must have been white, shoulders squared as he scowled into the room like a predator ready to pounce. His teeth were probably bared in frustration, his nostrils flaring like an angered wolfdog locked onto its prey.
Max and Lando were the first to move. The second they stepped out of the wall, the rest of the boys quickly filled the gap, reinforcing the barrier between me and Jack.
“No, mate. You better get the hell out of here right now,” Max’s voice was low, edged with a quiet fury that sent a chill through the room. “This is not the time for you to spout this bullshit.”
Jack scoffed, taking a step forward. “Bullshit? Oh, I’m sorry, is it bullshit to want to call out the fucking idiot who just ruined another driver’s entire weekend? Is that bullshit to you, Verstappen?”
“Not here, Jack.” Lando’s voice was sharp, his usual easygoing nature nowhere to be found. “Not now.”
Jack let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, not now? When then, huh? When he’s got another DNF on his record? When he’s wrecked another car? Maybe when he’s gotten someone else sent to the hospital?” His voice dripped with accusation. “Or would you rather I just pretend none of this happened? Like all of you are doing?”
Max took a dangerous step forward, his jaw clenched so tightly I swore I heard his teeth grind together. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Oh, don’t I?” Jack shot back, his voice rising in frustration. “I saw what happened. He didn’t give Pierre any fucking space. He—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Lando snapped, shoving Jack back a step. “You weren’t in the car. You weren’t in the fight. You don’t know shit.”
Jack shoved him right back, his face twisting with rage. “And you’re just gonna defend him? You’re just gonna pretend like this wasn’t his fault?”
The shouting escalated, voices overlapping in a heated, messy blur. Jack wasn’t backing down, and neither were Max or Lando. Every argument, every shove, every sharp glare only added to the suffocating tension building in the room.
And I had had enough.
I took a deep breath and carefully moved my legs over the side of the cot. The second I tried to shift my weight, a sharp, searing pain shot through my ribs, my shoulder screaming in protest. I let out a quiet groan, my face twisting as I fought to steady myself.
Ollie and Kimi immediately turned to me, their eyes filled with worry.
“No, you shouldn’t move,” Ollie whispered urgently, stepping closer like he was ready to push me back down.
I forced myself to meet his gaze, my expression calm but unwavering. “I need to speak to him.”
His brows furrowed, his lips parting in protest, but I spoke again before he could argue.
“I need to stand my ground,” I said firmly. “Just let me say my piece. Then I’ll come back to the bed. I promise. I can do this.”
Kimi and Ollie exchanged a worried glance, silent words passing between them in the brief moment before they reluctantly nodded. They stepped aside just enough to let me move, though I could still feel their hands hovering close, ready to catch me if I faltered.
My body screamed in protest as I forced myself to my feet. The world tilted slightly, my vision blurring at the edges, but I clenched my jaw and fought through it. Pain flared like fire beneath my skin, radiating through my ribs, my collarbone, my legs—but I stood. I held my ground.
Slowly, I took one agonizing step forward, then another, until I reached the backs of Oscar, Franco, and Charles. They were still blocking me from view, still shielding me, but I was there. Close enough.
The argument continued, Jack’s voice still filled with venom, Max and Lando still fighting to shove him out.
Enough.
I inhaled sharply.
Then, with every ounce of strength I had left, I yelled.
“JACK. SHUT THE FUCK UP!”
Silence.
The room went still, the tension shifting in an instant. Jack froze mid-argument, his mouth half-open as he turned toward the sound of my voice.
Slowly, the boys in front of me stepped aside.
And there I stood.
Injured, aching, barely staying upright—but standing. My entire body screamed in pain, my muscles trembling under the weight of my own stubbornness, but none of it mattered.
Because the moment Jack’s eyes landed on me, the fury in his expression shattered into something else entirely.
Shock.
Guilt.
Horror.
And beneath all of that?
The realization that he had just been screaming about the barely standing wreck of the person who had survived the worst crash of the season. That same person being his little sister.
And I was pissed.
"This is between us, Jack. Not them. Us.” My voice was sharp, unwavering, carrying the weight of years of unspoken words. “So you don’t get to yell at them. You can yell at me. You can do whatever the hell you need to do. But before you start—” I took a slow, steady step forward, my muscles screaming in protest, “—give me a damn minute to say my own piece.”
I stared him down, eyes locked onto his like a challenge, daring him to interrupt me.
Jack, for once, was silent.
He was still frozen in place, his face contorted in frustration and disbelief, but his lips were slightly parted, his brain scrambling to process the sheer absurdity of the situation.
Then, like something inside him snapped back into place, he shook his head and scoffed. “What the hell are you doing here?” His voice wasn’t as sharp as before, but the venom was still there, barely masked beneath his confusion. “Why are you a racer? Is this why Mom and Dad are so pissed off lately? Did you piss them off again?”
His words were like a match to gasoline.
Rage flared inside me, burning white-hot as my fingers curled into tight fists at my sides. Again. He said it like I was some unruly child constantly causing trouble, like I chose to be a disappointment, like it was my fault our parents’ anger always found a target in me.
“It must be real nice to stand here and judge me.” My voice was lower now, seething, dripping with all the fury I had swallowed down for years. “To yell at me for this. Because god knows I’d never get the same opportunity.”
I took another step forward, forcing myself to push through the pain. My finger jabbed into his chest, punctuating every word.
“I have spent eighteen goddamn years as the family pawn. And the reject when I wasn’t playing the perfect little future bride.” My lip curled, my voice shaking—not with weakness, but with the sheer force of the rage threatening to boil over. “You wouldn’t know what that’s like, would you? Because you were born with everything you wanted at arm’s reach. Silver Spoon on a sparkling silver plate.”
Jack’s breath hitched. His eyes flickered—hesitation, confusion, something cracking behind the shield of anger he had thrown up.
But he doubled down. Because he had to.
“How could you keep this from me?” His voice was tight now, anger still fueling his words, but there was something else—something desperate. “I thought we were siblings.” His fists clenched, his body tense like he was trying to hold himself together. “Siblings don’t keep secrets like this from each other!”
A bitter laugh ripped from my throat.
“Oh, that’s rich coming from you,” I spat. “You know what else siblings don’t do? They don’t sit there cracking jokes while their parents so obviously strip away their choices in life.”
His mouth opened, like he wanted to argue, but I wasn’t done.
“Remember that night I left?” My voice was colder now, sharp enough to cut through whatever weak excuses he was scrambling for. “Remember when I took all my keepsakes with me? After the last date?”
Jack’s entire body went rigid. I could see the realization setting in, the pieces finally connecting in his head.
“Well, that night—” My voice wavered, but I forced myself to push through it, to make him hear it. “That disgusting man assaulted me.”
Jack flinched.
“And I did not trust your ass enough to talk about it.” I took a shaky breath, my chest aching in more ways than one. “The boys behind me? They were the only reason I even survived after everything all three of those suitors put me through.”
Jack was frozen.
His breathing was uneven, his chest rising and falling in shaky bursts as he processed what I had just said. I could see his anger faltering now, something breaking beneath it.
Guilt.
Regret.
A horrible, dawning realization that maybe—just maybe—he had been on the wrong side of this fight for far longer than he wanted to admit.
I exhaled sharply, shaking my head as I took a slow step back, putting distance between us. My eyes raked over him—the sweat-covered fireproofs, the race suit tied around his hips, the fact that he had come straight here from his car.
He had been so desperate to argue, so blinded by his own rage, that he hadn’t even stopped to think. He had come here expecting a fight.
Fine.
That’s what I’d give him.
“I miss the little sister from before all of this,” Jack murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, like the words might shatter if spoken too loudly. “Where did she go? The same sister who told me everything—even if it added nothing to the story.” His anger, which had burned so fiercely just moments ago, was fading rapidly, slipping through his fingers like sand.
I scoffed, the sound sharp and bitter. The bottled rage inside me, the fury I had buried under years of being unheard, was spilling over like a dam finally breaking.
“Well, Jack, the only thing you miss is someone else’s storyline.” My voice was laced with venom, my breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. “Because ninety percent of the time, I was just acting—playing the role Mom and Dad expected of me. The good girl. The perfect future bride. The obedient daughter.” I shook my head, laughing bitterly. “I bet you don’t even know the real me anymore.”
Jack inhaled sharply, his lips pressing into a thin line, but I didn’t let him speak.
“You want to know what I did learn growing up?” My voice trembled, but not with weakness—with the sheer weight of what I was about to say. “No, scratch that. You want to know what was engraved into my goddamn soul?”
I took a step forward, close enough for him to see the storm raging behind my eyes.
“I will never be good enough for our parents.” The words burned like acid on my tongue, but I forced them out. “And maybe—just maybe—I was never good enough for you either.”
Jack flinched, and for a split second, I saw it. The crack in his armor. The flicker of pain he wasn’t quick enough to hide.
“Every inch of me wants to hate you for that,” I admitted, my voice shaking. “Every. Fucking. Inch. And that’s a problem, because if I hate you—really hate you—then I’ll have no one left. No one from my own blood to call family.”
His lips parted, his breath catching like he wanted to say something, anything, but no words came.
I exhaled sharply, my shoulders rising and falling as the fire inside me flickered, wavered, then steadied.
“But you know what?” My tone shifted, the rage melting into something steadier—stronger. “It doesn’t matter anymore. Because now, thanks to these guys—” I gestured toward the boys behind me, my chosen family, my real family, “—I don’t care if I’m enough for you, or Mick, or Selina.” I straightened my spine, the weight of my past lifting off my shoulders, even if just a little.
“Because I am enough for them.” My voice didn’t shake this time as I pointed to them. It was firm. Certain. True.
“And more importantly…” I took a slow, steady breath, the words feeling like a victory as they left my lips.
“I am enough for me.”
Jack stared at me, his entire body tense, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. His throat bobbed as he swallowed thickly, his jaw tightening like he was forcing himself to keep quiet because if he spoke, he might say something he couldn’t take back.
I held his gaze for a moment longer before I added, softer this time, “I want you to be my family, Jack. I want you to open your goddamn eyes and choose to be my family. But if you don’t?” I shrugged. “Then I’ll be okay.”
Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating, the weight of everything we had said—and everything we hadn’t—hanging in the air.
And then—
A sharp, stabbing pain ripped through me, like a thousand knives sinking into my body all at once.
My vision blurring as the adrenaline that had been keeping me upright vanished in an instant. The weight of my injuries crashed into me like a freight train, stealing the air from my lungs, choking me with its unbearable grip.
My knees buckled.
“Shit—” I barely registered the movement beside me before a strong arm shot out, catching me before I hit the ground.
Lando.
He was the closest. The fastest.
I turned my head toward him, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. His face was a blur of worry and panic, his grip tightening around me as my body swayed.
I tried to speak, but my throat felt tight, my voice barely a whisper.
“Help, Lan—”
Before I could finish, the world tilted.
My body went limp, all strength draining from me in an instant.
Lando reacted fast, his arms locking around me, scooping me up into a bride’s carry before I could hit the floor.
I could hear the voices around me—worried, frantic, desperate—but they sounded distant, like I was hearing them from beneath deep water.
The shouting blurred together, overlapping in a mess of indistinguishable words.
Jack’s voice—Lando’s—others I couldn’t make out.
Bodies moved around me in a frenzy, panic thick in the air.
Then, through the haze, one word cut through the noise.
“Hospital.”
And then—
Blackness.
—
When I came to, I was lying in a hospital bed, the soft beeping of a monitor filling the otherwise quiet room. My body felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and the dull ache of my injuries. I was still in the same clothes, though my bandages had been changed. Notably, the wrap around my chest had been replaced with one of my sports bras—revealing just how bad the damage truly was.
A long, angry line of red and stitches stretched from a few inches below my right collarbone up to the side of my neck, stopping just before the middle. My left shoulder had been immobilized in a sling, secured with a specialized attachment to ensure it healed correctly. Even though I had already felt the pain, seeing the extent of my injuries made them real in a way they hadn’t been before.
Shifting slightly, I scanned the room, my eyes landing on Nico, who was sprawled across a couple of chairs, dozing. Next to him sat a familiar duffel bag—mine—most likely filled with a change of clothes.
I carefully tried to sit up, only to hit a deep bruise on my ribs. A sharp, involuntary groan escaped me, loud enough to startle Nico awake.
He rubbed his face groggily before blinking himself back into full consciousness. As soon as his gaze landed on me, his expression shifted from drowsy to pure panic.
“Woah, woah, woah—Speedy, what the hell are you doing?” He shot up from his seat, rushing over before I could even think about swinging my legs off the bed.
I reached out and grabbed his arms, stopping him in his tracks. His eyes locked onto mine, still filled to the brim with worry.
“I know that was probably scary,” I admitted softly. “And I’m not going to tell you not to worry. But right now, I really just want to get back into my clothes and—if possible—get discharged.”
I kept my tone calm, but there was a quiet desperation beneath it. I needed to get out of here. I needed normalcy.
Nico exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before sighing in reluctant defeat. “Fine.” He grabbed my bag, handing it over before stepping back to give me space.
I managed to pull on a pair of sweatpants over my shorts and slipped into an oversized sweatshirt, though I could only get one arm through the sleeve. The sling on my left side made it impossible to move my shoulder enough to fit the other through.
Before I could even contemplate figuring it out myself, a soft knock at the door announced the arrival of a nurse.
“Here, sweetheart,” she said kindly as she stepped inside. “Let me help you get that last arm in so it’s not so uncomfortable.”
She worked carefully, undoing the sling and guiding my arm with practiced gentleness, making sure not to cause unnecessary pain. As she re-situated the support brace, she began explaining my recovery plan.
I listened half-heartedly at first, already knowing the basics—rest, pain management, taking it easy. But then she got to the part I had been dreading.
“So, you won’t be able to race for the next four weeks,” she said, giving me a sympathetic look. “That will give the fracture in your forearm time to heal, while also making sure we don’t aggravate your shoulder injury or risk tearing that nasty cut near your neck any further.”
I swallowed hard and nodded, the weight of her words settling uncomfortably in my chest.
“You’re lucky,” she continued, her voice a little softer. “That shoulder injury and the cut were just centimeters away from being much worse—either ending your season or… well, ending you.” She sighed, shaking her head. “It’s a miracle, really.”
I forced a tight-lipped smile, unsure how to respond to that.
She pulled a small cart closer, stocked with an assortment of bags, medication bottles, and creams.
“For the next two weeks, I need you to really take it easy—no pushing limits, no testing your pain tolerance.” She gave me a knowing look. “After that, you can slowly start incorporating light training, but only if you follow up with a doctor once a week to monitor your shoulder’s progress.”
I nodded again, absorbing the information, though my mind was already racing ahead to how I could shorten the timeline.
Satisfied, she handed Nico a small package containing my medications and care supplies before giving me one final once-over. “Follow those guidelines, and you should be back behind the wheel soon enough.”
With that, she left, and Nico wasted no time helping me into a wheelchair.
As he pushed me toward the back exit of the hospital—away from prying eyes, cameras, and the inevitable media frenzy—I let my head rest against the seat, exhaustion settling in once more.
Four weeks.
I hated the thought.
But I was still here at least, still fighting.
“Well, I guess you’re lucky in one more way,” Nico muttered as he practically carried me to move me into the passenger seat. His grip was firm but careful, mindful of my injuries as he eased me into the car. “Good thing it’s the start of summer break. You’ll only miss one race—assuming your recovery actually is four weeks, like she said.”
He buckled me in before jogging around to the driver’s side. As we pulled away from the hospital, I finally checked the time. It had only been about 45 minutes since I was in the medical room back at the paddock. That meant the race was either close to restarting or had just begun.
I turned to Nico, already knowing I was about to push my luck.
“I know you’re not gonna like what I’m about to ask—”
“So don’t ask,” Nico cut me off instantly, his response quick and practiced, like he knew what was coming.
I pouted, making my eyes just a little sadder, just a little more pleading. He glanced at me during a red light, and I watched his resolve crack. With a heavy sigh, he rubbed his temples.
“Fine,” he grumbled. “What is it?”
A victorious smile tugged at my lips, but I kept my voice soft. “I really want to go back to the paddock and support Franco. Just to watch. I promise I’ll follow any rules you want—any—as long as I can be there.”
Nico groaned like I had just asked him to commit a crime. He was silent for a moment, then exhaled through his nose before taking the next turn—away from the hotel.
“Okay, fine,” he conceded.
I barely had time to cheer before he held up a finger.
“BUT—you have to stay in the wheelchair and next to me at all times. The second I see you pushing yourself too hard, I get full authority to pull you out of there and take you straight back to the hotel. No arguments.”
I nodded rapidly, raising my hand like I was swearing an oath. “I promise. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.”
“Jesus, okay—no need for dramatics, that is not the image I needed after the events of today.” he muttered, shaking his head as he merged onto the main road leading back to the circuit.
As we neared the paddock, he reached into the backseat and pulled out a familiar helmet. Well, almost familiar.
It was one of my backup helmets, repainted in the official Cadillac Racing colors. A deep, glossy black with electric blue and white accents, matching the team’s livery. Unlike my usual helmet, which had personalized flourishes, this one was purposefully simple—a disguise, meant for situations where I needed to be more anonymous in the paddock. Though I am sure being the only person constantly wearing a helmet wont change the amount that crowd me just by changing a helmet design.
I took it from him, running my fingers over the sleek surface.
“You’ll want this,” Nico said, watching me carefully. “It’s got your voice changer, so you’ll still sound like what they expect.”
A small smile formed on my lips as I turned the helmet over in my hands. It wasn’t my usual one, but it still felt right.
“Thanks,” I murmured.
Nico just sighed again, clearly resigning himself to whatever chaos was about to unfold.
With my helmet secured, we drove past the main entrance, heading toward the private back entrance meant for teams and VIPs. The paddock was just ahead.
—
I had successfully been rolled all the way into the garage without any media swarming me. Still, I had been noticed. The first TV screen I spotted, displaying the live broadcast, suddenly cut to a shot of me sitting in the wheelchair.
I smirked, easily finding the nearest camera and giving a little wave with my free arm.
Behind me, Nico leaned on the handles of the chair, his sharp eyes scanning the area like a lifeguard on duty. He was assessing, calculating—clearly trying to figure out the best way to keep me out of the growing crowd of cameras and curious onlookers.
He let out a low sigh. “Diego,” he called, motioning to one of the engineers. “Keep an eye on them. I need to figure something out.”
Diego nodded, stepping in as Nico disappeared into the mass of people.
While I waited, several mechanics and team members took turns coming over to check on me.
“You scared the hell out of us, you know that?” one of them said, crossing his arms.
“Yeah, well,” I shrugged, “I do like to keep you all on your toes.”
A few chuckled, shaking their heads, but there was a real warmth in the way they spoke to me. Even though we rarely talked outside the paddock, their concern felt genuine. It was sweet.
That moment of peace didn’t last long. Nico returned, gripping the wheelchair handles with renewed determination.
“You’re gonna sit with Nicolas on the pit wall,” he announced, already steering me toward the garage exit. “You can help provide feedback on how the car felt this weekend so he can adjust Franco’s strategy accordingly.”
I blinked up at him, then grinned. Honestly? This was probably the best outcome I could’ve hoped for.
The pit wall meant limited access for reporters—no microphones shoved in my face, no overwhelming crowds. Just a few cameras every now and then, but nothing compared to being in the garage.
With a quick wave from one of the officials, Nico began speed-walking me across the pit lane. He was all business, keeping his focus on getting me across safely, while I just enjoyed the brief moment of fresh air and the rumble of engines.
We made it to the pit wall without any trouble. An official held onto my wheelchair while Nico scooped me up and placed me into the open seat next to Nicolas. The strategist gave me a small smile as I got settled.
“Good to have you here,” Nicolas said, adjusting his headset.
“Good to be here,” I replied.
Nico made sure my chair was secured against the barrier before stepping back. With everything in place, I turned my attention to the screens in front of me.
The race was fully underway, and Franco was holding a solid position, but I could already see where he might struggle. I leaned toward Nicolas, watching the sector times flash on the monitor.
“He’s losing time in Sector 2,” I murmured, analyzing the data. “Looks like he’s being a little too cautious on entry into Turn 9. He’s losing momentum going into the straight.”
Nicolas nodded, relaying the information through his headset. A few seconds later, Franco adjusted his line.
“Better,” I said. “But tell him to trust the rear more—there’s more grip than he thinks, and he can afford to carry more speed.”
Again, Nicolas repeated my advice, and once more, Franco adjusted.
I grinned as his sector times improved.
For the next few laps, this routine continued. I’d analyze, Nicolas would relay, Franco would execute. It was working—his lap times were consistently dropping.
Then, during a lull in the radio communications, Nicolas suddenly reached down and unplugged his mic. Before I could ask what he was doing, he took the cable and connected it to the jack at the bottom of my helmet.
I blinked at him in surprise.
The mic jack was technically there for media purposes, so recordings could be easily captured for team content. But this? This was definitely an alternative use.
“Go ahead,” Nicolas murmured with a small smirk.
I hesitated for a second, then took a deep breath.
“Franco?” I said into the mic, my voice still modulated by the voice changer.
There was a brief pause before Franco’s voice came through my headset, startled.
“Wait—what?!” He sounded confused. “Nicolas, why does your voice sound different—wait, hold on, is that— Ghost? ¡Ay, Dios mío! I was so worried about you, are—
I cut him off before he could get too carried away.
“You can talk to me like this after you finish this race, Franco,” I said, keeping my tone firm but light. “Right now, let’s focus on getting you on that podium, right?”
There was silence for a beat. Then, Franco let out a breath, his voice settling into something more determined.
“Right,” he said. “Let’s do this.”
For the rest of the race, I fed Franco a steady stream of advice, guiding him through each corner, each braking zone, each opportunity to gain a position. I pointed out where he needed to be patient and where he could push, where to watch for openings and when to strike. With every lap, he climbed the ranks, his confidence growing with each overtaking move.
By the time the checkered flag waved, he had secured P3—his first podium of the season.
The second he crossed the line, I let out a cheer, raising a fist in excitement.
“YES, FRANCO! ¡Tú eres el ganador!”
His laugh crackled through the radio, light and relieved. “I didn’t know you knew Spanish?”
I chuckled. “I thought I might as well learn some for my teammate.”
There was warmth in his voice when he replied, “I appreciate it, compañero.”
Nico leaned down to help me disconnect from the radio as Nicolas plugged himself back in, taking over to guide Franco into parc fermé. Within a minute, I was back in the wheelchair, rolling toward the main barricade where the team would gather to watch the podium ceremony.
As I sat off to the side, I watched the drivers filter through, those who hadn’t made the podium making their way back to their garages. Some stopped to check in on me, giving me nods of encouragement or quick words of support.
“Hope you recover quickly,” Esteban said.
“You’re tougher than half of us out here,” Lewis added.
I smiled and thanked them, appreciating the camaraderie. Even though we were competitors on track, moments like this reminded me that the paddock was still a family.
Then, Jack walked by. He didn’t stop. He didn’t say a word.
But his eyes—those sad, almost guilty eyes—lingered on me for a second too long before he turned away and kept walking.
I swallowed down the tightness in my chest, pushing the moment aside as the sound of hurried footsteps and familiar voices filled the air.
“Ghost!”
Before I knew it, Kimi and Ollie were kneeling in front of me, both of them looking at me like I had just walked away from a near-death experience.
Kimi’s hand landed gently on my knee, his grip firm but comforting. Ollie, on the other hand, slid his fingers into mine, holding my hand as if reassuring himself that I was actually here, actually okay.
“God, I am so glad to see you around and moving like this,” Ollie whispered, his voice unsteady.
“You scared us when you passed out like that, tesoro,” Kimi added, his Italian accent thick with concern.
I felt my face flush at the pet name. Tesoro—something lovers would call each other in italy.
Thank fuck they couldn’t see my face right now, or I’d never hear the end of their teasing.
I cleared my throat, trying to keep my composure. “Don’t worry, guys. I’m only out for four weeks, which means I’ll only miss one race. That’s it.”
They didn’t look convinced, but I pressed on. “If you want, we can plan another hangout during the break. Maybe go somewhere nice together so you can see just how okay I am.”
That got them to smile.
“Sounds like a plan,” Ollie said, giving my hand a light squeeze before they were both pulled away by their respective teams.
Just as I exhaled, thinking I had a moment to breathe, another voice called out to me.
“Hey, there you are.”
I looked up to see Oscar approaching, hands tucked into the pockets of his race suit, his usual calm demeanor softened with concern.
I smiled. “You found me.”
He chuckled, crouching down beside me so we were at eye level. “How are you really feeling?”
I sighed. “Sore, but fine. I’ll survive.”
His eyes flickered with something unreadable, but he didn’t push. Instead, he nodded toward the paddock. “You staying home during the break?”
I shrugged. “For now, yeah. Haven’t thought too far ahead. But I did just tell Kimi and Ollie I would travel with them if they wanted. No official plans yet.”
“Well,” he said, tilting his head slightly, “if you need anything—help getting around, groceries, someone to hang out with when you get bored—I’m around.”
I raised a brow. “Offering to be my personal chauffeur, Piastri?”
He smirked. “Only if you say please.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He patted the armrest of my wheelchair lightly before standing up. “Take care of yourself, alright? Don’t push too hard.”
I gave him a mock salute. “No promises.”
Oscar rolled his eyes but smiled before heading off.
I looked back just as Franco pulled up, his car rolling to a stop beside Max and Lando in parc fermé. The second the engines cut off, Lando was already pulling off his steering wheel, leaning over to say something to Max as the two laughed, completely unaware of my presence.
Franco, however, was different.
The moment he removed his helmet, his eyes scanned the crowd, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he searched for me. His face fell slightly when he didn’t spot me among the team, his brows furrowing in concern. But then, finally, his gaze locked onto me, sitting just away from the main group, tucked off to the side in the wheelchair.
For a moment, I thought I saw worry flicker across his face—maybe at the sight of the chair, maybe at how distant I was from the usual celebration—but it was quickly replaced by relief, his lips curling into a wide, teary-eyed smile.
“GHOST!”
His voice rang through the air, cutting through the noise of parc fermé and drawing the attention of nearly everyone around.
Before I could even brace myself, he was bolting toward me, nearly tripping over himself in his rush. He skidded to a stop just before reaching me, clearly trying to slow himself down so he wouldn’t accidentally hurt me. Instead, he dropped to his knees in front of me, hands hovering as if he wanted to hold me but was too scared of causing me any pain.
I chuckled, shaking my head at his dramatics. “I’m fine, Franco.”
But he wasn’t convinced. His hands finally settled gently on my arms as his eyes roamed over me, taking in every detail—every bandage, every bruise, every sign that I wasn’t at full strength.
“Do you feel any pain right now? What was the worst injury you got?” he asked, his voice quieter now, still thick with emotion.
Before I could answer, two more sets of footsteps pounded against the pavement.
“The fuck?”
I glanced up just in time to see Lando and Max rushing over, both of their faces a mix of shock and concern.
“You came back to the paddock after all that?” Lando asked, staring at me like I had just materialized out of thin air. “Why would you do that?”
Max, on the other hand, looked downright unimpressed. “You are injured, why would you come back to the scene of it all?”
I shrugged. “I wanted to watch the race and support my family. I didn’t really want to catch any attention to risk getting even more hurt though.”
Max gestured vaguely toward Franco, who was still kneeling in front of me, practically vibrating with emotions. “Yeah. That worked out well.”
I rolled my eyes, but before I could argue, Lando crouched beside Franco, looking me over just as intently.
“Are you sure you're okay to be here?” he asked, softer this time, the teasing gone.
I sighed. “I’m sore, but I’m okay. Just stuck in this thing for a while.” I pointed at the sling around my arm. Lando frowned, but he nodded. “Well, at least you’re here.”
Max, who had been standing with his arms crossed, suddenly exhaled sharply and shook his head. “Alright, that’s it,” he said, leaving no room for argument.
I blinked. “What?”
“You’re coming home with me,” he stated, already pulling his phone out of his race suit pocket. “I’m not letting you fly commercial in your condition.”
I stared at him. “Max, I’m fine—”
“You’re injured,” he cut in. “And knowing you, you’d try to do everything by yourself and make it worse.” Franco and Lando both nodded in agreement, traitors that they were.
Max continued, tapping at his screen. “I’ve already invited the others who were worried about you. Kimi, Ollie, Oscar—I know they’d want to be there to make sure you’re okay.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but Lando held up a finger. “Nope. You’re not winning this argument.” Franco grinned. “Just let us take care of you, cariño.”
I groaned, slumping back in my chair. “Fine. But if any of you baby me, I swear—”
Max smirked. “No promises.”
Before I could retaliate, a race official called out to them, reminding them they had a podium celebration and interviews to get to.
Franco squeezed my hand once before standing. “I’ll see you after?”
I smiled. “I’ll be waiting.”
Max gave me a final nod before he and the others turned back toward parc fermé, the weight of the race now settling into the excitement of celebration.
And me? I was lucky—because of my injuries, I didn’t have to do any media.
At least some good came out of all of this bullshit.
Now the only question left on my mind was Jack, what was gonna come from this? Would I get the brother I have looked up to back? Or was this the end of my story a part of the Doohan family?
Thank You everyone for the patience! I was hoping that I could get back to updating on the same schedule I started with compared to the almost once a week I had fallen into. But I did not want to turn this chapter into two parts. Hopefully from here I can continue to update as often as I was hoping.
Mini update for those waiting on the next chapter. I was hoping to get it out this morning. However given what I planned for the main idea, it is taking a little longer and this will be my longest chapter yet. Before this I believe my longest chapter was around 6-7k words and I am definitely well past that.
So with that said, please be patient and expect to have the chapter out some time tomorrow most likely. As a little "I love you guys" treat, I will give a little teaser to prepare you for the extra long emotional chapter.
---
Jack has become two battles in my life, two seperate wars being fought on the same frontline—one I fought with my silence, the other from behind the visor.
He was raised to not see the truth. To believe our parents were firm but fair, that I was just difficult, dramatic. The scars they left in my mind, the ones he refuses to acknowledge, are invisible to him. And no matter how much I’ve wanted him to open his eyes, he never has.
And then there’s Ghost.
He doesn’t know I’m the driver he despises, the rival the media has pitted him against. To him, Ghost is arrogant, ruthless—everything he claims to hate. He can’t stand that Ghost is faster, that Ghost keeps proving him wrong. He attacks Ghost’s character, not knowing he’s cutting into me.
Tonight, I’m done letting him—letting anyone—control the narrative.
So I stand my ground. Against the brother who never saw me. Against the rival who doesn’t know me. Because one way or another, the truth is coming.
And when it does, it will change everything.
The only question is will it change things for better or worse?
Hey, I just was wondering how to get added to the tag list for Phantom of the Grid? I really love that series and I don't want to miss an update!
Simply asking is enough and I will add your @ to my running taglist! I'm so glad to see everyone loving the story so much and I am more than happy to add anyone to my Taglist.
Doohan Sister Reader
F1 Driver Reader
Cadillac Formula 1 Reader
Landing in Monaco, I felt the weight of the past weeks slowly begin to lift from my shoulders. The tightness in my chest that had been there since I boarded my flight finally loosened as I stepped through the private terminal, breathing in the crisp night air. I still felt raw—like an open wound—but I was here. I was safe.
I adjusted the hoodie that swallowed me whole, pulling my sleeves down over my hands as I tugged the brim of my cap lower. The mask covering my face hid my expression from anyone who might be watching, but my eyes still darted around anxiously, scanning for them.
And then I saw them.
Max, Ollie, and Kimi stood near the entrance, all wearing hats and masks to shield their identities, but it wasn’t the disguises that gave them away—it was the small, barely legible sign in Max’s hand with my name scrawled across it. My heart clenched at the sight of them, tears immediately welling up as my feet carried me faster across the marble floor.
By the time I was only a few feet away, my carry-on suitcase slipped from my grasp as I all but launched myself at Kimi. He barely had time to react before my arms wrapped tightly around his neck, my face burying itself into the space between his neck and shoulder. He staggered slightly but held firm, arms coming around me securely as if he could shield me from everything.
And just like that, I broke.
Silent sobs racked my body as I clung to him, the weight of everything I had been holding in finally spilling over. Kimi didn’t say anything at first, just hummed softly—a gentle, soothing sound as his hand ran up and down my back in slow, comforting strokes.
"It's okay," he murmured. "You're okay. We’ve got you now."
I felt another hand settle on my back, warm and grounding. Ollie. "Damn right we do," he said softly. "You went through hell and came out the other side, Y/N. You’re one of the strongest people I know, you hear me?"
I pulled back slightly, sniffling as I looked between them. Kimi’s eyes were soft beneath his cap, and Ollie’s gaze held nothing but fierce protectiveness.
“I don’t feel strong,” I admitted, my voice small. “I feel like… like I barely made it out.”
Ollie scoffed lightly. “That’s the thing about being strong, Y/N. It’s not about feeling like you are—it’s about surviving when everything is trying to break you.”
Kimi nodded. “And you did. You got yourself out of there. That’s what matters.”
I exhaled shakily, my body still trembling from the emotions coursing through me.
Max exhaled sharply, his arms still crossed, but there was no anger in his expression when he looked at me—only the simmering rage he held for the people who had put me in this situation.
"You know, Ollie didn’t even finish explaining everything before I told him to I’d send my jet for you," he said, his voice firm but steady. "And I don’t blame you for not calling me first—I know you barely had time to think before Ollie did. But your parents…" His jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "They’re the ones I have a real problem with."
I swallowed hard as Max continued, his blue eyes dark with barely contained fury. "The fact that they set you up with men like that—men who had no respect for you, for your safety… The fact that they let it happen and didn’t care—it makes me sick." His voice dropped lower, more dangerous. "Parents are supposed to protect their kids, not throw them to the wolves."
My throat tightened, my fingers curling into the fabric of my hoodie.
"I get it," Max muttered, shaking his head. "More than you know. Some people shouldn’t be parents. And yours? They never deserved you." He met my gaze then, and something in his expression softened, just slightly. "You don’t owe them anything, Y/N. Not a visit. Not an explanation. Nothing. They lost the right to call you their daughter the second they put you in danger and let it happen."
A lump formed in my throat. I had spent so long trying to justify their actions, trying to find some reason why they were the way they were. But Max’s words struck something deep inside me—a truth I had been too afraid to admit.
I had never really had parents. I had just been a responsibility to them. A pawn.
Max exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "If you ever need anything—help, advice, even just someone to vent to—you call me. Because you don’t have to deal with any of this alone anymore, alright?" His eyes darkened again. "And if your parents ever try to worm their way back into your life, you let me know. I’ll make sure they understand exactly what they lost."
The corners of my mouth twitched, my heart swelling despite the emotions still twisting inside me. "You planning to scare them off with your champion status?" I teased weakly.
Max smirked, but there was an edge to it. "If that’s what it takes."
A watery laugh escaped me, and Max finally let out a breath, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.
Kimi gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze before finally pulling back, glancing at the row of boxes and bags that had been unloaded from the jet by the staff. “Come on. Let’s get your stuff packed into the car. You’ve got a real home waiting for you now.”
I exhaled slowly, the reality of it all setting in. I was free. I had left everything behind—my parents, the house I had grown up in, the expectations and suffocating control. All that mattered now was the future. A future with the people who had chosen me, just as I had chosen them.
Each of them grabbed a box or bag, the weight seemingly lighter in their hands than it had ever felt in mine. And as we walked toward the car, I realized something. I wasn’t alone anymore and I never had to be again.
I have a family now. A real one. And nothing—not my parents, not the past, not even the scars left behind—could take that away from me.
—
Waking up to the soft morning light filtering through my balcony window, I let out a slow, contented sigh. The gentle warmth of the sun kissed my skin, and for a moment, everything felt peaceful. No rush, no pressure—just a quiet morning all to myself. I stretched lazily, my muscles loosening as I rolled onto my back, savoring the rare feeling of ease. The sheets were cool and comfortable against my skin, and I almost considered staying curled up for a few more minutes.
But the clock on my bedside table reminded me that I had about two hours before the boys arrived. Plenty of time to ease into the day, but not enough to waste.
Kicking off the blankets, I padded over to my bathroom, enjoying the soft feel of the rug beneath my feet. The moment I turned on the shower, steam began to curl around the air, wrapping me in warmth. I stepped in, instantly relaxing as the hot water cascaded down my back, washing away the remnants of sleep. I let myself linger under the spray, eyes closed, breathing in the soothing scent of my body wash as I massaged it over my skin.
One by one, I went through each bottle, carefully working my favorite shampoo into my hair, letting the scent of berries and vanilla fill the small space. The rich, foamy lather slipped between my fingers as I worked it into my scalp, the gentle pressure soothing any lingering tension. I rinsed and followed with conditioner, smoothing it through my damp strands while humming softly to myself.
By the time I stepped out, the bathroom smelled of warmth and citrus, the lingering fragrance of my products mixing with the steam. I grabbed a plush towel, quickly wrapping it around myself before reaching for another to twist up my hair. The feeling of being freshly showered—clean, warm, and relaxed—was one of my favorite things in the world.
Moving into my bedroom, I pulled open my dresser, fingers brushing over the neatly folded clothes as I picked out a set of soft, oversized sweatpants and a matching hoodie. Something cozy. Something safe. I tugged them on before slipping into a pair of thick socks, relishing the warmth as I padded back to the bathroom.
Unraveling the towel from my hair, I took my time carefully drying it, making sure to avoid any unnecessary tugging or breakage. Once it was damp enough, I brushed through it with ease, twisting it up into a loose, effortless updo, securing it with a claw clip. A few strands framed my face, but I didn’t mind.
With my hair taken care of, I turned my attention to my skincare routine. The cool splash of water against my face was refreshing, chasing away the last bits of drowsiness. I moved through each step with practiced ease—cleanser, toner, moisturizer—relishing the way the products felt against my skin. By the time I finished, I felt fully awake, fully refreshed, and ready to take on the day.
I made my way into the kitchen, the thought of a warm drink tugging at my mind. Coffee or tea? After a brief internal debate, I settled on tea, reaching for a soothing blend. As I waited for the water to heat, I leaned against the counter, my mind blissfully blank. No stress. No worries. Just the simple pleasure of a quiet morning.
Then, just as I was about to pour my tea, my phone vibrated against the counter.
I reached for it absently, expecting to see a message from one of the boys letting me know they were on their way early. But the second my eyes landed on the screen, every ounce of warmth drained from my body.
My mother’s name glowed against the glass, her contact staring back at me like a ghost from a past I wanted to forget.
My fingers curled around the edge of the counter as an icy chill ran down my spine. My blood ran cold, my heartbeat hammering against my ribs as I just… stared.
For a second, I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
Then, slowly, my thumb hovered over the answer button, my stomach twisting into knots.
Finally, I hit the answer button.
The second I brought the phone up to my ear, I heard the shrill, piercing scream of my mother. The sound shot through me like a bullet, rattling every nerve in my body. My grip on the phone tightened as her voice cracked with rage, and in an instant, I was no longer standing in the present—I was thrown backward, suffocating under the weight of memories I had fought so hard to bury.
I was a child again. Small. Helpless. Standing in the center of a pristine living room, my back straight, hands clasped in front of me, as their voices crashed over me like relentless waves. Screaming at me for every misstep, every imperfection, every time I failed to be the flawless little daughter they had sculpted me into. Every time I forgot my place. Every time I let my own thoughts or desires seep through the cracks of the perfect mask they forced me to wear.
And now, here I was again. Right back in that place.
“I cannot believe you,” my mother spat, her voice sharp enough to slice through bone. “Do you even realize how humiliating this is for us? Your father and I have had to sit here and listen to the absolute disgraceful way you treated each of those men! Do you think we raised you for this? Do you think we gave you everything you have just for you to embarrass us in front of the very people we spent years building connections with? Do you have any idea what you've done?”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
My father’s voice, colder and heavier than hers, followed like a hammer striking down. “We gave you choices. We were generous. We let you have a say, even when you didn’t deserve one. And how did you repay us? By acting like some ungrateful, selfish child who thinks she can throw away the future we worked so hard to build for her.” He scoffed. “You should be ashamed. You should be on your knees begging for forgiveness.”
“This was your duty,” my mother snapped. “Your only duty. To marry well, to secure this family’s future, to do the one thing we asked of you. But no, instead of being a good daughter, you acted like some spoiled brat, driving away every last one of them! And the worst part? Each suitor came back with a worse story than the last. Do you have any idea how that makes us look? What people are saying about us?”
My father exhaled sharply, the sound dripping with disappointment. “You have single-handedly tarnished your family’s reputation.”
I could feel my stomach twisting, the guilt clawing up my throat like a living thing.
“You weren’t raised to be some foolish little girl who chases love and passion like some nobody,” my mother continued, voice seething with disgust. “You were raised to be better. To be smart. To be a wife to a man who could give you—and this family—stability, wealth, power. And yet, here you are, throwing away every opportunity we gifted you.”
“You should be grateful,” my father said, his voice dangerously low. “Grateful we even allowed you to pick one you liked at all.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my lips together.
“We are not asking,” my mother hissed. “You will fix this. You will apologize to each and every one of them. You will make this up to them tenfold—convince them that you aren’t the ungrateful little disgrace you’ve made yourself out to be. And you will do it immediately before this family’s name is dragged through the mud any further.”
A suffocating silence followed. My pulse pounded in my ears, my hands trembling at my sides. I opened my mouth again, trying to find the right words, something to make the noise in my head stop. But before I could speak, my mother’s voice cut through the silence, cold and sharp as a knife:
“Excuse me? Where is our fucking apology, Y/N?”
The final blow.
And just like that, something inside me snapped.
The guilt, the self-loathing, the paralyzing ache of failure—all of it was crushed beneath a wave of something hotter, something sharper.
Rage.
Pure, unfiltered rage.
I laughed. A bitter, humorless laugh that carried a subtle edge, sharp enough to cut.
"What the hell are you laughing about?" my mother snapped, her voice filled with venomous conviction.
"What is the point anymore?" I muttered, more to myself than to them.
The silence on the other end was deafening. I could almost see their confused, angry faces—my mother’s lips pursed in irritation, my father’s brows furrowed, waiting for me to explain myself, to justify my existence like I always had. But this time, I had nothing left to give them.
"This whole time," I continued, my voice steadier than I expected, "I thought maybe—just maybe—if I did well enough, if I stayed in line and played my role, you two would finally see me. Maybe you’d finally grow to love me the way good parents should. But no matter how hard I tried, no matter how many times I broke myself to fit into the mold you carved for me, you never saw me. I was just a pawn to be moved. A tool to be used."
My mother tried to cut in, but I wasn’t done.
"No, mother," I spat, my voice sharp enough to slice through her interruption. "You both will stay fucking quiet and listen—because I have waited far too long to say this."
And for the first time in my life, they actually shut up.
I exhaled, my breath shaking as I steadied myself.
"For as long as I can remember, I have been a desperate addict, crawling on my hands and knees for a scrap—just a scrap—of your love. And you fed me crumbs, just enough to keep me chasing, just enough to make me believe that maybe, if I was perfect, if I met every single one of your expectations without fail, maybe then… you'd finally love me. But the truth is, you never have. You never fucking have."
My voice wavered, but I forced myself to keep going.
"I convinced myself for years that you still cared, because how could you not? I was your daughter. Your child. But now? Now I realize that I was never a daughter to you—I was a bargaining chip. A means to an end. A body you brought into this world not because you wanted a child, but because you needed one to sell off into a marriage that would benefit you. The only reason I exist at all is because you love Jack too much to ever force him into this bullshit, so instead, you built me for it."
I let out a bitter scoff.
"I mean fuck, it's been, what—seven months since I turned eighteen? And you’re already shoving me at men like I’m some prized cow at auction. And if that wasn’t enough to make it obvious that you don’t give a single shit about me, then let’s talk about the fact that one of those so-called ‘suitors’ was at minimum around your own fucking ages." I let out a dry laugh, full of disgust. "And I’m almost certain he was older. But why would that matter to you, right? So long as he met your standards, who gives a shit about me, right?"
I barely took a breath before pressing on, my voice rising.
"Oh, and by the way—since we’re being honest—the one closest to my age? He was ready to fucking assault me the moment we were alone on our first date. In case he didn’t tell you. But why would he? And why would you care?" My voice cracked, fury and disgust colliding in my throat. "Why would you care that the daughter you raised to be nothing more than a doll, a prize, a fucking asset, was nearly violated by the men you handpicked for her?"
The silence on the other end was suffocating.
I inhaled deeply, grounding myself before delivering my final blow.
"I resent you," I said, the words burning like acid on my tongue. "I resent you for the childhood you stole from me. For the years I spent begging for love that should have been freely given. You were never my parents. Never my family. And honestly? The only person who ever earned that title was buried barely a week ago."
I swallowed the lump rising in my throat.
"Uncle Jeff was the only real father I ever had. He was the only one who ever loved me. And from this day forward, he is my parent. Because it is fucking humiliating—humiliating—to even admit that the two of you are tied to me by blood."
I exhaled sharply, my next words cutting through the silence like a blade.
"I swear on everything I have left, that whatever family I build for myself, I will be a better parent than either of you ever were. But let’s be honest—" I let out a hollow laugh, "that bar is so fucking low I could walk over it without even noticing."
I let the weight of my words hang between us for a moment. Let them sit in the ruins they created. And then, finally—
"So goodbye, Mick and Selina. I truly hope we never see, hear, or speak to each other again."
With that, I ended the call.
Blocked them both.
And then—
The silence hit me like a freight train.
My breathing hitched. My chest clenched, the anger burning away too fast, leaving behind something raw and jagged and unbearable. My hands shook as I stared at the phone, my fingers frozen, unable to move, unable to do anything but feel the weight of what I had just done.
I was free.
I was alone.
My breath quickened. My vision blurred. The room suddenly felt too small, too tight. My heartbeat pounded against my ribs, too fast, too loud, too much. My lungs fought for air, but it wasn’t coming in fast enough.
I tried to steady myself. Tried to think. Tried to move.
But I was already falling.
Falling into the crushing, suffocating weight of panic.
My phone was still in my hand, screen dark, but I couldn’t bring myself to put it down.
I wasn’t alone.
I wasn’t alone.
But the panic was already sinking its claws into me, wrapping around my lungs like a vice. My vision blurred as my thoughts spiraled—had I really just cut them off forever? Was I really free? Or was I about to regret everything?
No. I wouldn’t regret it.
But that didn’t stop the fear from creeping in.
My hands were shaking as I forced myself to look at my phone. I needed—someone. Anyone. My family. My real family.
Lando.
Before I could overthink it, I hit the call button.
It rang once. Twice. Then—
“Missing us that much, sweetheart? We’re only twenty minutes away,” Lando’s voice came through, teasing and warm, the familiar background noise of Oscar’s car humming behind him. I could hear Oscar and Franco talking, the energy light, happy.
I tried to say something. Tried to respond.
But my breath hitched instead, sharp and unsteady.
The change in Lando’s voice was instant. “y/n?” The teasing was gone, replaced with something firmer. “Hey—what’s wrong?”
I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing the heel of my palm against my forehead as I struggled to find words. “Parents.” My voice barely came out. “Called.”
Silence.
Then the unmistakable screech of tires.
“Shit,” Lando muttered. “Hang on, sweetheart. We’re getting there faster.”
I could hear Oscar curse under his breath, Franco’s voice urgent in the background. “She’s having a panic attack, isn’t she?”
I let out a shaky exhale, gripping the phone tighter as my fingers dug into my thigh, desperate to ground myself.
“y/n, listen to me.” Lando’s voice came back, steady and commanding, the way he always sounded when he needed me to trust him. “You’re not alone. You hear me? You’re not alone. We love you, okay? All of us. You’re our girl.”
I swallowed hard, but the panic was still there, pressing against my ribs like a lead weight.
“I—I don’t know how to stop it,” I admitted, voice breaking.
“You don’t have to,” Lando assured me. “That’s why you have us. We’ll be there in five.”
I could barely nod, barely do anything but curl in on myself as my body slid down to the cold tile floor of the kitchen. My arms wrapped tightly around my knees, trying to hold myself together, trying to focus on anything other than the spiraling chaos in my head.
I wasn’t alone.
I wasn’t alone.
But it still felt like I was drowning.
“The key,” I forced out, voice barely above a whisper. “Fake plant. By the door.”
“Got it,” Lando said instantly.
The call ended.
The silence returned.
But this time, I knew it wouldn’t last long.
I rocked slightly, forehead resting against my knees, trying to count my breaths, trying to slow the erratic rhythm of my heart. I could still feel it clawing at me, the panic, the weight of everything I’d just done pressing down on my chest like an anchor.
Then—
A loud bang against the front door.
Then—
The sound of rushed footsteps.
And then—
Warmth.
Arms—everywhere, all around me, pulling me up, holding me, grounding me in something real. The scent of cologne, the feel of fabric against my cheek, the press of familiar bodies that reminded me I wasn’t alone.
“Jesus Christ, y/n,” Lando breathed, voice unsteady, but I barely registered it as another arm tightened around me.
I was lifted slightly, my body adjusting as someone—Franco?—shifted so I was completely enveloped in them. A hand—Oscar’s—gripped mine, firm and steady.
“You’re okay,” Franco murmured into my hair. “We got you. We got you.”
I squeezed my eyes shut.
They had me.
—
Sitting on the couch, I could finally feel my muscles relaxing once again. The tension that had gripped my entire body for what felt like an eternity finally eased, leaving behind a quiet exhaustion, but also… relief. A weight I had carried for years was gone, and though I wasn’t sure what came next, I knew I had done the right thing.
Lando sat to my left, his hand resting on my thigh, his thumb moving in slow, soothing circles against the fabric of my sweats. He didn’t say anything, just grounding me with his touch. Oscar was on my right, his face still clouded with concern, his arm draped over the back of the couch, hovering just close enough that I knew he’d pull me in if I needed it. On the floor in front of me, Franco sat cross-legged, his hands gently massaging my calves, his brows furrowed like he was deep in thought.
I let my gaze move between them, their presence steady and unwavering. My family.
A soft smile tugged at my lips before I finally found the courage to speak. “I finally stood up to my parents.” My voice was even– stronger than I thought it would be. “They called to berate me, to guilt-trip me. Tell me how embarrassing I was for them.”
I saw it immediately—the shift in their expressions.
Lando’s jaw clenched, his fingers tightening slightly against my thigh before resuming their gentle movements. Oscar exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head, while Franco muttered something in Spanish under his breath, his grip on my legs firming for just a second before relaxing again.
I swallowed, willing myself to keep going. “Something in me just… snapped. When they finished talking, expecting me to apologize, I finally let loose. I told them everything I’ve ever wanted to say, every single thought I’ve buried for years. And by the end of it, I was just done. I told them I was cutting them off, that I was embarrassed to say they were my parents by blood.”
Lando let out a quiet fuck, his thumb stilling against my leg for a moment before resuming its slow, comforting motions.
“I told them Uncle Jeff was my real—my chosen father.”
That was when I saw it—the pride in their eyes.
It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t sympathy. It was pride. A kind of pride that told me they saw me. That they understood just how much this moment meant.
“With Uncle Jeff gone, though,” I continued, my voice quieter now, “that means I don’t have any living family.”
Lando made a soft noise of protest beside me, but I wasn’t finished.
“I didn’t tell them this, but I realized in the last few minutes that I do still have a family.” I glanced between them, my throat tightening with the weight of what I was about to say. “It’s you guys. It’s the people I’ve met on the grid that includes you three.”
Tears burned at my eyes, but for once, they weren’t from sadness or grief.
They were tears of happiness. Tears of relief. Because for the first time in my life, I wasn’t forcing myself to belong.
I belonged.
Franco was the first to move. He surged forward, wrapping his arms around my waist and burying his face into my stomach, his hold tight, as if he was trying to physically keep me together. “Siempre,” he murmured. “You will always have us. Siempre.”
I choked out a small laugh, threading my fingers through his hair.
Then Oscar leaned in, pressing his forehead lightly against the side of my head before wrapping an arm around my shoulders, pulling me in close. “You’re family, y/n,” he murmured, voice firm, certain. “And I don’t care what it takes—we’ll make sure you never feel alone again.”
Lando didn’t say anything at first. Instead, he shifted so he could cup my face in his hands, tilting my chin up so I had no choice but to meet his gaze. His blue eyes were intense, unwavering. “You’re ours,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “You hear me? You’re our family. Not because we feel sorry for you. Not because we have to.” His thumbs brushed against my cheeks, catching stray tears. “Because we love you. You’re stuck with us now.”
I let out a choked laugh, a real one this time, and before I could respond, Lando pulled me fully into his arms. The others followed suit, arms wrapping around me in a tangled mess of warmth and safety.
I let myself sink into them, into the feeling of belonging. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t searching for love. I had already found it, or really, it found me.
—-
As the night settled into something softer, the weight of the earlier breakdown faded into the background. My body still felt a little shaky, and the exhaustion was creeping in, but for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel alone.
Oscar had volunteered—well, been volunteered—to go pick up the Chinese food while Franco busied himself in the living room, gathering every pillow, blanket, and cushion he could find to construct the ultimate movie night blanket fort. His determination was almost comical, muttering to himself about structural integrity and making it “a fortress worthy of kings.”
Meanwhile, Lando and I were raiding my bedroom for any extra pillows and blankets, piling them into our arms.
“Are you sure you don’t have a hidden stash somewhere?” Lando teased, nudging me as I tossed another throw blanket over my shoulder. “Because if I know you, you’re the type to hoard these things.”
I rolled my eyes, but he wasn’t wrong. “I might have a few extra under the bed,” I admitted, kneeling down to drag out a storage bin filled with more soft blankets.
Lando let out a triumphant laugh. “Knew it!”
I smirked, throwing one of them at his face. He caught it with ease, shaking his head at me.
As I folded another blanket over my arm, I hesitated for a moment before speaking. “I’ve been thinking about getting a dog.”
Lando paused mid-motion, looking over at me with curiosity. “A dog?”
“Yeah,” I said, glancing down at the blanket in my hands, suddenly feeling a little nervous. “An emotional support dog, actually.”
Lando’s teasing demeanor softened in an instant. He set down the pillows he was holding and stepped closer, tilting his head. “Oh?”
I exhaled slowly, organizing my thoughts. “I just… I know you guys will always be here for me, but I also know you can’t always be here, you know? You all have your own lives, races, obligations.” I swallowed, my voice quieter now. “I don’t want to be alone when something like tonight happens again.”
Lando didn’t respond right away. Instead, he reached out, taking the blanket from my hands and tossing it onto the bed so he could pull me into a hug.
“You’re never alone, y/n,” he murmured against my hair.
I melted into him, the warmth of his embrace grounding me. “I know. But having a dog would help, too. Someone who’s here all the time. I could train them to help me when I have panic attacks—like deep pressure therapy, or even just something to focus on when I start spiraling.”
Lando pulled back slightly, keeping his hands on my arms as he studied me. Then, a slow smile spread across his lips. “I love that idea.”
I blinked. “You do?”
“Of course I do! You’d be the best dog parent ever.” His grin widened. “And we’d totally help you pick one out.”
A relieved laugh escaped me. “You guys would probably try to make me get some high-energy dog that runs as much as you do.”
Lando gasped, feigning offense. “How dare you assume such a thing.” Then he grinned mischievously. “But like, imagine a little Border Collie that zooms around and keeps you on your toes.”
I groaned playfully, shoving him toward the door. “Go help Franco before he collapses the entire blanket fort on himself.”
Lando laughed but relented, grabbing an armful of blankets before heading back to the living room. I followed behind, my heart feeling lighter than it had in a long time.
As we stepped back into the living room, Franco was standing proudly in front of his masterpiece—an elaborate pillow-and-blanket structure that took up half the space.
“Behold!” he declared dramatically, arms spread wide. “The ultimate movie night sanctuary!”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Franco, this looks incredible.”
“I know,” he said smugly, winking at me. “Now, come on, get in! This is a no-stress zone.”
Lando and I exchanged amused glances before setting the rest of the pillows inside. As I crawled in, a sense of peace settled over me.
Maybe I was still healing. Maybe I still had a long way to go.
But surrounded by my chosen family, wrapped in warmth and laughter, I knew one thing for certain—
Doohan Sister Reader
F1 Driver Reader
Cadillac Formula 1 Reader
The First Date….
The restaurant was one of the most expensive in the city—high ceilings, crystal chandeliers, and a dim, intimate lighting scheme meant to exude sophistication. But no amount of wealth or elegance could change the fact that I was sitting across from a man who made my skin crawl.
From the moment I arrived, he had done nothing but talk about himself.
His accomplishments. His wealth. The people he knew. The companies he had built. Every sentence dripped with arrogance, as if he expected me to be hanging on to his every word, enraptured by his so-called brilliance.
I wasn’t.
I had perfected the art of appearing interested while mentally escaping years ago. I kept my face polite, nodding at the right times, taking small sips of my drink as I let my mind wander, hoping the night would be over soon.
Then he changed the topic.
And suddenly, I wished he would go back to talking about himself.
His voice, already deep and rasping from years of expensive cigars, dropped into something far more sinister.
He leaned forward slightly, his lips stretching into a smile that sent a violent shudder down my spine.
“You see, sweetheart,” he said, swirling his wine as if he were discussing something as casual as stock investments. “I don’t believe in the modern idea of marriage. These days, women are so… opinionated. So independent. They’ve lost sight of what it means to be a proper wife.”
My stomach twisted, but I forced my face to remain neutral.
He didn’t notice my discomfort. Or maybe he did and simply didn’t care.
“I have a vision,” he continued, his fingers tapping against the table in thought. “A household of young, beautiful women—each one fulfilling a specific role, just like in the good old days.” He let out a deep, satisfied sigh. “One woman to manage the household, another to prepare meals, one to handle the finer details of my social calendar… and of course, each of them would be available to serve me whenever I desired.”
I wanted to vomit.
I wanted to throw my drink in his face, stand up, and walk out.
But I couldn’t.
Because if I made a scene, my parents would find out. They would accuse me of embarrassing them, of ruining their plans.
So I forced my hands to remain still, clenching them beneath the table to stop the tremors of rage building inside me.
He continued, oblivious—or, more likely, completely indifferent—to my growing discomfort.
“I want at least seven wives,” he mused. “One for each day of the week. Variety is important in a man’s life, you know? Keeps things exciting.”
My throat tightened. I could barely breathe past the sheer disgust roiling inside me.
I had spent my whole life hearing my parents talk about the opportunities a good marriage could bring. The duty I had to uphold. But they had never once mentioned the absolute horror of being forced into something like this.
I could feel his eyes scanning me, drinking in my expression, searching for something—approval? Interest? Submission? I gave him nothing.
Instead, I let out a quiet, polite hum, feigning thoughtfulness as I took another slow sip of my drink, mentally counting down the seconds until I could escape.
He smirked, seemingly pleased with my lack of protest.
“You’re a quiet one,” he noted, his eyes gleaming with something wrong. “I like that. Women should be seen, not heard. It makes them far more desirable.”
My grip on my glass tightened. I was going to kill either him or my parents.
The Second Date…
The second date was different from the first. Not better—just different.
This man was younger than the last, though still far older than me. He carried himself with the kind of arrogance that only came from a lifetime of privilege, someone who had never been told no in his entire existence.
The restaurant was another five-star establishment, the type of place where the menu didn’t have prices because if you had to ask, you couldn’t afford it.
He didn’t stand when I arrived. Didn’t pull out my chair. Didn’t acknowledge my presence at all until I was fully seated, and even then, it was only with a disinterested glance over the rim of his whiskey glass.
“Hm.” He frowned, giving me a once-over. “That’s what you chose to wear?”
I blinked, caught off guard. My dress was elegant, tasteful—chosen specifically to avoid criticism. But apparently, that didn’t matter.
I swallowed back my irritation and gave a polite smile. “Is something wrong with it?”
“It’s fine,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand, as if I was wasting his time with the question. “I just expected something more sophisticated.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from snapping back.
The waiter arrived, and without so much as a glance in my direction, he ordered for both of us. Something expensive, something I didn’t particularly want.
I wasn’t surprised.
“Women always take forever to decide,” he said when the waiter left. “It’s easier if I just handle it.”
I had barely touched my drink before he started picking apart every little thing about me.
The way I held my fork.
The way I sipped my water.
The way I tucked my hair behind my ear.
The way I sat.
The way I smiled—or rather, the way I didn’t smile enough because, apparently, I looked bored.
“Tell me,” he said at one point, swirling the ice in his glass, his tone casual but laced with condescension. “Did your parents ever teach you proper etiquette, or were they too busy letting you run wild?”
I inhaled slowly through my nose, willing myself to remain composed.
This was a game to him. A test. He wanted to see how much I would take, how easily I would bend under his scrutiny. I would not break. I could not.
I hummed, lifting my glass to my lips. “And here I thought a gentleman would make a woman feel comfortable rather than criticize her every move.”
His lips curled at the edges, something amused—almost entertained.
“Ah,” he mused, tilting his head slightly. “So there’s a little bite in you. Good.”
Good?
He chuckled to himself as if he had just discovered something mildly interesting.
Then, he leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach, and said, “Don’t get me wrong—you’re far from perfect, but you’re the best option I’ve had so far.”
My stomach turned.
Best. So far.
Like I was some thing he was evaluating, another name on a long list of options.
He must have taken my silence as an invitation to continue because he went on, detailing exactly what he expected from his future wife.
She would be flawless.
Impeccably dressed at all times, no matter the occasion.
Silent when necessary, but charming when required.
A hostess. A prize. A reflection of his status.
He wanted someone who would never challenge him, who would follow his rules, who would accept his decisions without hesitation.
“I want a woman who understands her role,” he said smoothly, swirling his drink. “A woman who enhances my image, who elevates my reputation. If I succeed, we succeed. If I make a decision, there’s no room for discussion.” He smirked slightly, gaze unwavering. “I assume you can be that kind of woman.”
I stared at him, heart pounding in my ears.
My fingers curled tightly around my napkin under the table, nails pressing into the fabric.
I forced another smile, the kind that didn’t reach my eyes.
“Of course,” I murmured, voice smooth, practiced. “What woman wouldn’t want to be the perfect wife?”
He smirked, satisfied.
And I swallowed back the overwhelming urge to throw my drink in his face.
The Third Date…
The third date was almost normal.
Almost.
He was the closest to my age out of the three, just a few years older. That alone made him seem more tolerable.
Dinner had been... pleasant. He had good manners, asked about my work, even laughed at a few of my sarcastic remarks. For a fleeting moment, I thought, maybe this won’t be so bad.
I should have known better.
The moment we pulled up outside my hotel, the atmosphere shifted.
“You don’t have to rush inside,” he said smoothly, his hand resting on the gear shift. “I was thinking we could sit here for a bit... talk some more.”
Something in his tone made my stomach clench.
I forced a small smile, already reaching for the door handle. “It’s been a long night. I should really get some rest.”
Before I could pull it open, his hand shot out, gripping my wrist. Hard. Too hard.
“Come on, don’t be like that,” he murmured, his voice still light, but there was an underlying forcefulness to it now. “We had a great time, didn’t we?”
I felt my breath hitch. His fingers tightened. Something cold ran down my spine.
Every instinct in my body screamed at me to get out.
“I did,” I said, keeping my voice even, calm. “And now I’d like to go inside.”
His grip didn’t loosen. His smile widened.
“You’re really beautiful, you know that?” His free hand moved, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. My skin crawled.
I swallowed thickly. “Let me go.”
He chuckled. “Don’t be so dramatic.”
In an instant, he was closer—too close—his breath warm against my cheek.
Panic surged through me and I yanked my arm, trying to twist out of his grasp, but he didn’t let go.
“Relax,” he said, his grip now painful. His other hand landed on my thigh, squeezing. “I’m just trying to get to know you better.”
My heartbeat thundered in my ears.
“Stop,” I hissed, shoving at his chest.
He didn’t budge.
Instead, his smile dropped.
And then—slap.
Pain bloomed across my cheek as my head snapped to the side.
I barely had time to register what had just happened before his fingers dug into my jaw, forcing me to look at him.
“Listen to me, sweetheart,” he said, his voice now dripping with condescension. “You’re lucky to have someone like me interested in you. You should start acting like it.”
A sharp, sickening fear gripped my ribs.
No.
No, no, no.
I wouldn’t let this happen. I forced myself to breathe, to think.
Slowly, I raised my hands as if in surrender. He smirked, taking it as compliance.
Then, I dug my nails into his wrist and twisted hard.
He yelped, jerking back just enough for me to lunge for the door handle.
I ripped it open and stumbled out onto the pavement, my heart hammering.
“Bitch!” he roared from inside the car.
I didn’t look back. I ran.
My heels pounded against the pavement as I bolted toward the hotel doors. My cheek burned. My wrist throbbed. My nails were coated with his blood.
But I was out. I was safe. And that was all that mattered right now.
Running up to my room, I barely noticed the pain in my legs or the way my lungs burned with each desperate breath. My only thought was getting inside. Getting safe.
The second I slammed the door shut behind me, I twisted the lock. My fingers trembled as I yanked at the handle to double-check. Locked. But it wasn’t enough. I grabbed the chair from the desk, wedging it beneath the doorknob for good measure.
Only then did I allow myself to collapse against the bed, my entire body trembling.
Tears blurred my vision as my chest heaved, struggling to draw in air. My throat was too tight. My lungs weren’t working. It felt like there was a vice squeezing my ribs, suffocating me from the inside out.
I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.
I squeezed my eyes shut, but the moment I did, he was there. The leering smile. The rough hands. The sickening weight of his body hovering too close.
The sound of my own strangled sob echoed through the empty room.
I curled in on myself, gripping my arms so tightly my nails dug into my skin.
You got away. You’re safe now.
But I didn’t feel safe.
I felt trapped.
I needed out of my head. I needed something—someone—to ground me. With trembling fingers, I grabbed my phone, barely able to hit the right buttons as I pulled up the group call.
The phone rang once. Twice.
Ollie answered first, his voice lighthearted as usual. “Hey! What’s up, love?”
Then Kimi’s voice followed, casual as ever. “You finally decided to call us, huh?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but all that came out was a broken sob.
Silence.
Then—
“Y/N?” Ollie’s tone lost all playfulness. It was sharp now. Alert. “What happened?”
Kimi’s voice dropped to something more serious. “Talk to us.”
I squeezed the phone tighter, trying to speak through the lump in my throat. “That date—he—” My voice wavered, my breath hitching. “He tried to—”
Ollie cursed. “Did he hurt you?”
“I—I got away,” I stammered, barely above a whisper. “But I—”
My breathing hitched again, spiraling into shallow gasps. My heart pounded against my ribs, my body still locked in fight or flight.
I wasn’t in that car anymore. I was here. Safe. But why didn’t it feel like it?
“Breathe, love,” Kimi murmured, his voice unusually gentle. “Slow. Deep.”
I tried.
But my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. My chest wouldn’t stop aching.
Ollie, meanwhile, was furious. “I’m getting you a flight tonight,” he said, voice tight with barely contained rage. “You’re not staying there another second.”
I could barely process his words. “But—”
“No buts,” he snapped. “Pack whatever you need. Kimi and I will pick you up when you land.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. “I—”
“Focus y/n,” Kimi cut in, his tone softer than Ollie’s but just as firm. “We’re here. Just breathe.”
I sucked in a shaky breath. Held it. Let it out. Again. Again.
Finally, the tightness in my chest eased, if only slightly. Just enough for me to start thinking clearly.
“Okay,” I whispered. “I’m getting my things.”
“That’s our girl,” Ollie said, his voice gentler now. “Just keep talking to us.”
With shaky limbs, I forced myself to my feet and grabbed my suitcase. My hands were still unsteady as I shoved clothes inside, but Kimi’s voice kept me grounded, reminding me of what to grab while Ollie reassured me that everything was handled.
Then, just as I zipped up my bag, Kimi hummed thoughtfully.
“You should go get your valuables from home,” he said. “No one should be there, right?”
I hesitated.
“I know you want to leave,” Ollie added, “but you don’t want them having anything to hold over you later.”
They were right. My parents loved control. If I left without taking what was mine, they’d use it as leverage. I gritted my teeth.
“I’ll go,” I said finally.
Ollie exhaled sharply. “Good. Grab what’s yours, and then get the hell out of there.” And I would. Because after tonight, I was done. With every one of them.
—
The rental car sat idling in the driveway, trunk packed full with my luggage. The only thing left now was to collect what was mine from my childhood home before I disappeared from home for good.
I tugged my hoodie tighter around me, the soft fabric comforting against my skin. The oversized sweats and track shoes were a far cry from the elegant outfits I’d been forced to wear all week, but right now, I needed comfort. I needed to feel like myself.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped out into the cool night air and shut the car door behind me. The house loomed before me, a towering reminder of the cage I had grown up in.
Only one car sat in the driveway—Jack’s.
Good. My parents weren’t home.
Still, I hesitated, gripping the box I had brought with me.
Walking back into that house felt wrong, like I was willingly stepping back into a life I had spent years trying to claw my way out of. But if I didn’t do this now, my parents would have everything. They’d use my childhood memories, my sentimental keepsakes, as leverage.
You can do this. In and out.
I inhaled sharply and pushed open the front door. The house was eerily silent.
Each step felt deafening on the polished hardwood floors as I made my way to my childhood bedroom. The door creaked slightly as I pushed it open, revealing a space frozen in time. The walls were still adorned with old posters and photos, remnants of a past life.
I had spent years trying to make this room feel like my own, even when it never truly belonged to me.
Tonight, I was taking back what was mine.
I set the box down and got to work.
One by one, I gathered everything I couldn’t bear to leave behind.
A small stack of journals, filled with scribbled thoughts and dreams I once believed I could achieve. A few books with worn spines, the pages creased from being read and reread. The delicate necklace my uncle had given me when I was young, tucked safely inside its velvet box.
Each item I placed inside the box felt like reclaiming a piece of myself.
The weight in my chest grew heavier with each passing moment.
I had always dreamed of leaving this house behind. But I never imagined it would feel so much like mourning.
As I grabbed the last of my things, a voice cut through the silence.
“Y/N?”
I froze.
Turning slowly, I found Jack standing in the doorway.
His eyes flickered over me, narrowing as they landed on my face. I knew what he was seeing—the faint, ugly mark from the slap, the scratches along my jaw.
His expression darkened.
“What happened?” His voice was softer than I expected, his usual cocky tone replaced with something almost… worried.
I didn’t answer.
Instead, I turned away, gripping the box tighter as I moved toward the door.
Jack stepped in front of me, blocking my way. “Y/N, talk to me.”
I stared past him, my silence unwavering. His jaw clenched, frustration flickering in his eyes. Not anger—concern. Then his gaze dropped to the box in my hands. Understanding settled over his face like a storm cloud.
“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” His voice was quiet, almost hesitant.
I didn’t respond. I didn’t have to. Jack swallowed hard, shifting on his feet. His hands twitched at his sides like he wanted to reach out, to stop me. But he didn’t. He just stood there. Watching. Fearing. Because for the first time, he understood that I wasn’t coming back here.
I stepped past him. Jack didn’t move to stop me. He just let me go. Walking through that house one last time, I felt the weight of years pressing down on me. The fights, the expectations, the suffocating control—I was finally breaking free.
By the time I reached the car, my hands were shaking.
I tossed the box into the trunk, slammed it shut, and slid into the driver’s seat. My breath came in short, shallow bursts as I gripped the wheel, forcing myself to stay steady.
Then, with one final glance at the house I once called home, I pulled away and I didn’t look back.
—
The bustling energy of the airport felt like a world away from the tension I had left behind. People huddled together, rushing to gates, talking amongst themselves, or heading to baggage claim. But I didn’t notice any of it. I was moving like a ghost, just trying to put one foot in front of the other without completely crumbling.
My phone buzzed in my hand, and I glanced at the screen, seeing an unfamiliar number pop up. At first, I thought it might be an airport announcement or something generic, but the name beneath the number made my breath catch in my throat. Max Verstappen.
I froze, my thumb hovering over the screen as I fought the urge to ignore the call. Max had always been a steady, guiding figure in my life—the kind of person who kept an eye on me when I needed it most, even if it was from the distance of the paddock. He had a way of making you feel like family, like you were important. He was my grid dad, the one who’d always checked in with me and made sure I knew I wasn’t alone.
Taking a deep breath, I answered. “Hey, Max.”
“Y/N?” His voice was immediately calm, but there was a certain edge to it that I wasn’t used to hearing from him. “I need you to listen to me, okay? I’ve heard what happened, and I’m gonna be real with you, I’m pissed.”
I could feel my chest tighten, and I leaned back against the wall, the weight of everything settling down on me. I didn’t want to talk about it—I wasn’t ready to open up to anyone, especially not after everything I’d just gone through—but Max wasn’t someone I could lie to, and I knew that.
“I... I didn’t expect you to find out, at least not yet” I murmured, my voice trembling slightly. I fought to keep it steady, but the walls were closing in.
“No one should have had to tell me, before you” he replied, but there was an undercurrent of concern. “I got a call from Ollie, and when he told me what your parents were doing to you and what those terrible men put you through, I just...” He sighed, and I could hear him rubbing a hand over his face. “That’s not how family treats each other, Y/N. Not ever. What your parents have done to you is disgusting. Even more so those disgusting men, but that would have never happened if not for your parents.”
My breath hitched. I had spent so much time trying to convince myself that I could just make it through this, that I was strong enough to survive it. But hearing Max’s words—his anger, his frustration—it felt like someone had pulled the last bit of strength from my chest, leaving me feeling exposed and raw.
“I didn’t even know if I was gonna make it out, Max,” I whispered, my voice thick. “I thought... I thought—” I cut myself off with I short choking cry.
“Nothing is going to happen. Not now. Not ever,” he replied fiercely. “I swear to God, if I had been there, I would have burned that whole situation down myself.” I blinked, tears threatening to spill over. Max wasn’t just angry—he was furious for me.
“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do anymore,” I admitted, feeling the quietest sob work its way up my throat. “I just... I don’t have a place there anymore. I don’t know who I am anymore.”
“You’re you,” Max’s voice softened, but only slightly. “And that’s enough. You don’t need anyone to tell you who you are. You don’t need your parents or anyone else to decide your worth for you. You’re strong, Y/N. I’ve always known that.”
There was a pause, and I could hear him take a deep breath. “Now, I need you to listen to me very carefully. Ollie called me—he asked if I could help. So, I’ve arranged for a private jet to come pick you up. It’ll be there in two hours. But I don’t want you to worry about anything else. I’ve already made sure there’s a room for you at the airport, prepaid and all. They’ll feed you. You’ll get some time to rest before you board the jet. I’m not letting you stay in that airport or go through this alone.”
I blinked in surprise. “Max, I didn’t... I didn’t ask you to do all that.”
“You don’t have to ask,” he said firmly. “I’m not letting you go through this alone. And trust me, Y/N, when I say that I understand. I know what it’s like to deal with parents who don’t give a damn about you. I know what it’s like to feel trapped. So I want you to know, if you ever need anything—if you ever need someone to handle your family or just want to talk—I’ve got your back. No questions asked. You’re my family now, okay?”
Tears welled in my eyes, threatening to spill over, but I couldn’t bring myself to speak for a long moment. I was overwhelmed by the compassion in his voice, by the fact that he cared in a way that felt so incredibly genuine. In a world where everything was complicated and conditional, Max had just made me feel like someone truly saw me.
“You’re not alone,” he added softly. “And I’ll make sure you never feel like that again.”
I finally found my voice, barely managing to choke out a whisper, “Thank you, Max. I... I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t need to say anything. Just get yourself together. The jet’s coming for you, and I’ll see you when you land.” He paused. “And one more thing—I don’t care how far away you are. You need anything, you call me. Anything.”
I nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “I will. I promise.”
“Good. Now, get some rest. You’ve been through enough. And if you need someone to kick those assholes into gear, just say the word.”
A small, shaky laugh bubbled up from my chest, and for the first time in days, I felt something that wasn’t pure fear or anger. I felt… safe.
“Thanks, Max,” I whispered again, my heart full of gratitude.
“You’ve got this,” he said, and the call ended.
I stood there for a long moment, still absorbing everything Max had said. And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was more than just a pawn in my family’s game. I felt like I had a future again—one where I could make my own choices, where I wasn’t controlled by anyone’s expectations.
I wiped my eyes and let out a shaky breath, then turned and walked to the room Max had arranged for me, ready to finally leave the weight of my old life behind.
—
The room Max had arranged for me was quiet, dimly lit, and surprisingly comfortable. The soft hum of the air conditioning filled the silence as I dropped my duffel bag to the floor and let myself collapse onto the couch.
I pulled my phone out, hands shaking slightly as I navigated to the messages app. I opened a group chat with Lando, Oscar, and Franco—three of the most important people in my life now. They were the ones who had stood by me during the quietest of moments and the loudest, and I knew they deserved to know everything.
I began typing, my fingers stumbling over the words, unsure of how to say what had been eating at me for so long.
Hey, guys. I just wanted to fill you in on what’s been going on with my parents, and the dates. You all deserve to know just how bad it got. My parents have been trying to marry me off to some men, one of them being older than my dad. I thought I could make it through, but the dates were horrible. They were all wrong in different ways. The last one… he tried to hurt me. I managed to get out, I called Ollie and Kimi who talked me down from the panic. Max arranged a private jet to get me out of here tonight. I’m on my way home, thanks to all of them. I’ll be landing soon.
I’m so sorry to worry you, but I really need a reset when I get back. I hope we can all get together and just hang out—maybe a movie night or something. I can’t even begin to explain how much I need that right now. Just a normal, quiet night with you guys. It would mean everything.
I hit send, staring at the screen, wondering if I had said enough or if I’d said too much. Before I could second guess myself, the notifications started rolling in.
Lando’s reply was almost immediate.
What the hell, Y/N?! he texted, his anger almost tangible even through the screen. You should have called me! No one gets to treat you like that, and especially not your parents. If I could, I’d be on the next flight to pick you up myself. Don’t even think about going back to those assholes. They’re not your family anymore. WE are.
Oscar’s message came next, his words calm but equally as fierce.
I’m so sorry you’ve had to go through that, Y/N. I’m absolutely furious at your parents right now. No one—no one—has the right to treat you that way. If I’d known, I would have been there for you. You don’t deserve any of this, and I promise we’re going to make sure it doesn’t happen again. We’ve got your back, always. Just get home safe, and we’ll take care of the rest.
Franco’s message was the last one to pop up, but it hit me the hardest. I knew how much he cared for me, how much we had been through together, and his words were full of the protective love that he always showed when I needed it most.
Y/N, I don’t even have the words right now. I can’t believe this is happening to you. I’m so, so sorry you had to experience that. I just want you to know you are strong and you are so much more than those idiots ever gave you credit for. And I’m absolutely livid about the way those men treated you. You’ve been through so much, and I can’t even imagine the pain of all of this. But you’re safe now, and we will never let anyone—anyone—hurt you like that again. You’re part of our family now. We’ll protect you. And once you’re back, we’re going to have that movie night. You’ve got us, always.
I stared at their messages for a long time, tears welling up in my eyes as I let their words sink in. Their anger, their concern, and most of all, their unwavering support. They didn’t have to do any of this. They didn’t have to care about me like this. But they did.
And for the first time in what felt like ages, I felt like I mattered. I wasn’t just a piece of property for my parents to control. I wasn’t a pawn in their game. I was something more than that—I was a person with a family, and these guys, these wonderful, loving, fiercely protective people, were my family.
I quickly typed a response, my fingers still shaky, but I knew I had to let them know how much their support meant to me.
Thank you. All of you. I don’t know what I’d do without you guys. I can’t wait to be back and just spend time with you all. I need this—I need you guys. You’re the family I choose. I promise when I get back, we’ll have that movie night. I need it more than anything. I don’t think I could make it through this without knowing you have my back. I’ll be home soon. Love you all.
Before I could put my phone down, a new message popped up from Lando.
We love you too, Y/N. And no more of this "I'm fine" crap. We’re gonna make sure you never go through this alone again. Ever. Let’s talk when you land. We’ll figure out the movie night and get your mind off all this shit. Just stay strong for a little longer.
I smiled through the tears, feeling lighter than I had in days. I had a family now, a real one. And when I got back, I wasn’t going to let anyone—especially my parents—take that away from me.
No one was going to mess with me again, it was time to stand my ground and take my life back.
Doohan Sister Reader
F1 Driver Reader
Cadillac Formula 1 Reader
I wiped the sweat from my forehead, my arms burning as I lifted another suitcase onto my bed. The fabric of my t-shirt clung uncomfortably to my skin, a reminder of just how long I’d been doing this—sorting, folding, debating. Two hours. Two hours of meticulously going through my closet, trying to piece together the perfect outfits.
Not for myself.
No, I had long stopped dressing for myself when it came to them.
Every decision, every folded shirt and carefully picked-out dress, was to avoid their subtly cruel remarks, their judging glances, the way they could dismantle my confidence with a single passive-aggressive comment. I wasn’t in the mood for it. Not this time. Not for this.
Because the alternative—their loud, heated arguments, their voices sharpened into weapons when we were alone—was worse.
So I folded. Like I always did.
I had picked out what I knew they would prefer, stiff blouses and skirts that didn't fit me, but fit the image they wanted me to present. And now, the only shred of control I had left was figuring out which of these lifeless pieces of fabric was at least comfortable enough for me to wear without feeling like I was suffocating.
I sighed, dragging a hand down my face as I turned toward the mirror.
The third dress I had tried on.
It clung to me in a way that made me feel exposed. The color was muted, lifeless, something my mother would nod in approval at but felt wrong against my skin.
I didn’t look pretty.
I didn’t feel comfortable.
I didn’t feel like me.
I swallowed against the knot forming in my throat, pushing down the wave of frustration bubbling in my chest. This wasn’t about me. It never was.
I turned away from the mirror, shaking my head.
Just pick something. It doesn’t matter.
But even as I told myself that, my hands balled into fists at my sides.
None of this mattered.
I was dressing for a funeral.
The thought hit me all at once, the realization heavy, suffocating. I felt my body go rigid, my breath suddenly too short, the walls of my bedroom too close—
My phone rang.
The sharp sound shattered the silence, yanking me out of my downward spiral.
I exhaled, forcing myself to move, to grab my phone off the nightstand.
I didn’t even check the caller ID before swiping to answer.
"Hello?" My voice came out quieter than I meant it to.
"God, finally! Took you long enough to pick up."
I immediately stiffened.
Jack.
"What, are you busy or something?" he continued, his tone light, casual, but irritated in the way only a brother could be.
I swallowed down the lump in my throat, adjusting my grip on the phone. "I was—sorting some stuff out. What do you want?"
"I need to vent. Because I swear to God, if I hear one more person talk about Ghost like they’re some kind of racing god, I’m gonna lose my mind."
My stomach dropped.
Of course. Of course, this is what he called about.
"Oh?" I said, forcing myself to sit down on the edge of my bed, pressing the phone tighter against my ear. "What happened?"
"What happened is that everyone suddenly thinks he’s a damn hero for finishing that race last weekend," Jack scoffed, the frustration thick in his voice. "Like, am I the only one seeing how stupid that was? It wasn’t brave. It wasn’t impressive. It was reckless. I don’t care how many fans want to paint them as some unstoppable force or whatever—there’s a difference between being tough and just being a complete dumbass."
I swallowed.
I could still feel the ache in my body, the remnants of that race sitting heavy in my bones. The heat exhaustion, the collapse in Parc Fermé, the way my body had shut down the second I had stopped forcing it to keep going.
Jack didn’t know.
He didn’t know that his own sister had been the one sitting in that car, the one his anger was directed toward.
And right now?
Right now, I couldn’t tell him.
So instead, I just sat there, gripping my phone, listening to my brother rip me apart without even realizing it.
"And you know what else?" Jack’s voice carried through the phone, sharp and filled with frustration. "Everyone’s acting like Ghost is gonna be some kind of legend, like they were proving something awesome during the race. Proving what? That they’re too stubborn to retire when it’s the smart thing to do? That they’d rather collapse in Parc Fermé than admit they aren’t invincible? It’s pathetic. It’s not even impressive—it’s just stupid. And the fact that the media is eating it up is even worse. They’re just encouraging it."
I clenched my jaw, my grip on my phone tightening.
"And don’t even get me started on the way people compare me to them," he continued, letting out a bitter laugh. "Like, I made the responsible decision. I knew when to stop. But apparently, that makes me weak. Makes me less of a driver. It’s bullshit."
I inhaled slowly through my nose, trying to keep my expression neutral even though I was alone in my room.
He doesn’t know.
He didn’t know that the person he was calling stupid was me.
That I was the one who had pushed my body to its absolute limit.
That I was the one who had barely made it out of the car, who had been carried away while my body gave up on me.
That I was the one he was tearing apart right now.
And yet, somehow, that wasn’t even what was making me the most upset.
It was how entitled he sounded.
Like he thought he understood everything about Ghost. Like he had the right to sit there and judge someone else’s choices, someone else’s pain, like he had any idea what was going on behind the scenes.
Like he had any idea what it was like to live that life.
I felt my chest tighten. My eyes burned, my breath coming out just a little more unsteady.
I squeezed my phone so hard my knuckles turned white, trying to stop my hands from shaking.
"Jack." My voice was quieter now, controlled, but he didn’t notice.
"And the worst part is—"
"Jack."
He finally stopped talking.
There was a pause on the other end of the line.
I exhaled slowly, closing my eyes.
"I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but I’m gonna say it anyway."
I could practically hear him roll his eyes, but for once, he didn’t interrupt.
"You have no idea what this guy’s life is like outside of the paddock," I said, keeping my voice calm, steady. "He may have a valid reason for the way he acts. He might be struggling with something, something you don’t know about, and that might be why he comes off as… whatever it is you think he is. And maybe he sees you in the same light. Maybe to him, you’re the one who’s rude and entitled."
Jack scoffed. "That’s bullshit, I’ve never—"
"Jack," I said again, firmer this time. "From what I know, he’s never done anything to you that actually warrants this much anger from you. And yet, you’re constantly rude to him, constantly tearing him down. Why?"
"Because he acts like he’s better than everyone else!" Jack snapped, his frustration boiling over. "He walks around like he owns the place, like no one else matters, like he’s some kind of legend who can do no wrong—"
"Or maybe that’s just how you see him," I cut in, my voice still level.
Jack fell silent again.
"Maybe it’s easier for you to paint him as some arrogant asshole instead of realizing that he’s just another driver, just another person trying to make it. Maybe it’s easier to hate him than to accept that he might not be the villain you’ve made him out to be."
"That’s not—"
"And maybe it’s easier to act like he was stupid for finishing that race instead of admitting that you’re mad because people think he’s stronger than you, has he ever even agreed with the media on that? Has he ever stated that he thinks he’s better than you? I watched the interview last weekend even after you walked out. Ghost agreed with you on everything you said, even when you attacked his character." I said, my voice softer now.
Jack’s breath hitched.
I didn’t mean to hit a nerve, but I wasn’t going to take it back.
Because it was true.
"I’m not arguing with someone who isn’t ready to listen," I said, my grip on my phone loosening just slightly.
Jack made a noise of protest. "Wait, I—"
I hung up.
The call ended with a sharp beep, the silence in my room suddenly too loud.
I stared at my phone, my fingers still curled around it, my whole body tense.
And then, finally, I let out a shaky breath.
—
The moment my phone screen lit up with an incoming group call from Ollie and Kimi, I hesitated. My mind was still tangled up in my conversation with Jack, frustration and hurt lingering like an ache in my chest. But I knew if I ignored them, they'd only call again—and the last thing I wanted was for them to worry.
So I took a deep breath, shook off the heaviness weighing me down, and answered.
Immediately, the screen was filled with the grinning faces of two of my favorite people.
"y/n!" Ollie cheered, dragging out my nickname dramatically like a sports commentator announcing a champion. "There you are, the legend, the icon, the most mysterious human being on the grid—"
"Who looks like absolute shit right now," Kimi cut in, squinting at me through the screen.
"Oi!" I huffed, rolling my eyes, but I didn’t even try to hide the small smile pulling at my lips.
"No no, seriously, you okay?" Ollie asked, his teasing fading just slightly.
Kimi leaned in closer, scrutinizing me like I was a math problem he was trying to solve. "Yeah, something’s off. What happened?"
I sighed, adjusting the phone in my hand. "I’m fine. Just… stressed, I guess."
Neither of them looked convinced.
"y/n," Kimi deadpanned.
"Stressed about what?" Ollie prodded, tilting his head.
I ran a hand through my hair, hesitating for only a moment before deciding to tell them. They already knew about my family situation—it wasn’t exactly a secret between us.
"I leave for Australia in a few hours," I muttered, sighing again. "Family funeral. Which means… family drama."
Understanding instantly clicked in their expressions.
"Ohh." Ollie winced. "Yeah, okay, that makes sense."
"Your parents still being their usual delightful selves?" Kimi asked dryly.
I let out a bitter laugh. "Always."
"That sucks, mate," Ollie said sympathetically. "But hey, at least you’ll look good while dealing with their bullshit, yeah?"
"Speaking of," Kimi smirked, leaning in again. "Show us what you’re bringing. Let’s see what absolute monstrosities they’re forcing you to wear this time."
"Oh my god." I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help laughing. "They’re not that bad."
"Uh-huh," Ollie hummed, clearly unconvinced. "Come on, then. Let’s see the damage."
I huffed dramatically but stood up, propping my phone against a stack of books on my dresser so they could see as I grabbed the first dress. It was a sleek black number, simple but elegant.
"Alright, this one," I said, holding it up.
There was a pause.
"Hmm." Kimi narrowed his eyes at it.
"Alright, I’ll say it—y/n, it’s giving ‘rich widow at her third husband’s funeral,’" Ollie declared.
I nearly choked on my own laugh. "What?!
"No, no, he’s right," Kimi nodded, stroking his chin like a critic at a gallery. "You look like you just cashed in on a life insurance policy."
"Oh my god, shut up." I tossed the dress to the side, still laughing.
"Alright, next one, next one," Ollie grinned, clapping his hands.
I grabbed another dress—this one was softer, flowy but still formal.
"Okay, this one?"
Both boys squinted at the screen.
"I like it," Kimi admitted.
"Yeah, yeah, this one’s solid," Ollie agreed. "If I were some posh rich guy at the funeral, I’d definitely ask for your number."
"Ollie."
"What? I’m just saying."
I rolled my eyes again but felt something warm settle in my chest at their easy teasing. They had no idea how much I needed this right now.
I went through a few more outfits, each one getting increasingly ridiculous reactions from them.
"y/n, please tell me that’s not velvet."
"Why does this one make you look like a royal attendant from the 1800s?"
"I dunno, I think this one’s kinda hot—"
"Ollie."
By the time I finished, my mood had lifted significantly.
"Alright, alright, final decision?" I asked, crossing my arms.
Ollie and Kimi hummed in thought before pointing at the second dress.
"That one," Kimi said.
"Yeah, agreed," Ollie nodded. "You look like a total heartbreaker in that one."
"I’m going to a funeral, Ollie."
"And? Doesn’t mean you can’t look good."
Kimi smirked. "Yeah, y/n. Just because it’s a funeral doesn’t mean people won’t be staring."
I groaned, flopping onto my bed. "You two are ridiculous."
"Yeah, yeah," Ollie grinned. "But seriously—if any of those fancy rich boys try anything, just call us. We’ll swoop in like your knights in shining armor."
"Oh yeah, absolutely," Kimi agreed, nodding. "We’ll be on the first flight out."
I laughed, shaking my head. "You two are idiots."
"Your idiots," Ollie corrected, shooting me a wink.
And as I sat there, watching the two of them bicker about who would win in a duel if they actually had to fight for my honor, I realized something.
For the first time in hours, I wasn’t thinking about Jack.
For the first time in hours, I actually felt okay.
—
Landing in Australia, the weight settled back onto my shoulders like a heavy cloak. No matter how much I had prepared myself for this moment, no matter how many deep breaths I had taken on the plane or how much I had distracted myself with mindless airport small talk, I knew that coming home would bring back all the same pressures I had been trying so desperately to avoid.
I was driving myself to my hotel, hands gripping the wheel a little too tightly, when my phone buzzed. The caller ID flashed across the screen, and I sighed. Jack.
I hesitated for half a second before answering.
"What do you want, Jack?" I asked, my tone already tired.
A scoff came from the other end. "Wow. London really has changed you, huh? Too good for your own family now?"
I rolled my eyes. There it was.
"I just wanted to call and ask," he continued, his tone deceptively casual, "why the hell you’re staying at a hotel instead of coming home this time?"
There it was again—the classic, pointed question that wasn’t actually a question at all. It was a demand, wrapped up in feigned curiosity. It wasn’t hard to guess where this was coming from. Our parents had twisted my words, spun some version of the truth that would rile Jack up enough to call me, to pressure me into changing my mind.
But that wasn’t going to happen. Not this time.
I took a slow breath, steadying myself. I needed to be firm, not defensive. I needed to be better—for myself, and for my uncle, who I knew would be proud of how I was handling this.
"Jack," I started, keeping my voice calm but unwavering. "I'm going to be honest with you. While I am upset with you and how you've been acting lately, my choice to stay away from the house has nothing to do with that."
There was a pause, like he hadn't expected me to cut right to the truth.
I pressed on. "If you still see me as your little sister—if you still love me—then I’m asking you to drop this topic for now. We can talk about it in person, where there’s no room for anyone to misinterpret what I say."
Another silence. A longer one.
I could almost hear the gears turning in his head, trying to process the fact that I wasn’t taking the bait. That I wasn’t lashing out or folding under pressure, like I used to be.
Finally, his voice was quieter, less combative. "Fine."
I nodded to myself, exhaling slowly. "If that's all, I need to go. I just got to the hotel, and I still need to unpack, prep a few things for tomorrow, and try to get some sleep."
Jack let out a breath, like he wanted to argue but knew better than to push. "Yeah. Alright. Just… I’ll see you tomorrow, then."
"Yeah."
"Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Jack."
The call ended with a soft click, and I lowered my phone into my lap, staring at the screen for a moment.
It felt relieving to handle it that way—to stand my ground without losing my temper, to set a boundary without guilt.
But at the same time, a new kind of exhaustion settled over me. If Jack had backed off this easily, it only meant one thing: My parents wouldn’t.
—
Walking into the church where most of the funeral procession would be held felt like stepping through the gates of hell.
Everything about it—the hushed murmurs, the heavy scent of lilies, the suffocating air of forced grief—felt wrong. This wasn’t how I wanted to say goodbye. This wasn’t how I wanted to mourn the loss of my favorite person in the whole world. But I knew I wouldn’t get the chance to mourn, not properly.
Not when my parents were here.
This funeral, this entire week, wasn’t about honoring my uncle. It was about appearances. About ensuring our family looked just the right amount of broken, just the right amount of poised, just the right amount of put-together in the eyes of the people who mattered.
And me?
I was expected to play my role perfectly. To be the grieving but elegant daughter, to sit through these endless introductions to men I didn’t want to meet, to smile when I wanted to cry and nod when I wanted to scream.
At least one of my dates would be here today. If not all three. The thought made my stomach twist.
I had three hours of this. Three long, painful hours of pretending.
So I feigned strength, plastered on the same mask I always did, and walked deeper into the church.
By the time the initial service had ended and the gathering had moved into the adjoining hall for food and quiet conversation, I felt drained. My dress was suffocating, my shoes pinched my toes, and my head ached from holding back every single emotion I actually felt.
I needed a moment to myself.
I slipped away from the sea of guests, weaving between familiar and unfamiliar faces, and found a small corner table. The food spread was extravagant—of course it was, my parents would accept nothing less—but none of it appealed to me.
Still, I grabbed a plate of something delicate and expensive-looking, if only to keep my hands occupied. I picked at it absentmindedly, barely registering the taste.
A familiar presence settled beside me, and I glanced up to see Jack.
For once, his expression wasn’t filled with the usual cocky smugness or exasperation he saved just for me. He looked… softer. Tired.
"I owe you an apology," he said quietly.
I blinked, caught off guard. "...For what?"
Jack sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "For how I’ve been acting. For not really listening to you." He leaned against the table, his voice lower now. "I’ve been so caught up in my own stress, with racing and the media and all this bullshit, that I didn’t stop to think that maybe you were going through just as much. And now that I see it—seeing you here, like this—I get it."
I swallowed, eyes dropping to my untouched plate.
"You’ve been helping handle the funeral arrangements, packing up his things, flying back and forth, and still dealing with your job on top of it," Jack continued. "I should have realized sooner how much that was for you."
Something in my chest ached at his words. At the fact that, after everything, he was finally seeing me.
But then—of course—he said, "I mean, you should have just told me you were overwhelmed instead of getting all defensive."
My grip on my fork tightened.
Of course.
Of course Jack could only recognize some of my struggles, the ones that made sense to him. But the ones that didn’t—the arranged dates, the expectations, the way I was being forced into something I did not want—those didn’t register.
Because why would they?
I set my fork down with a quiet clink. "Jack," I said carefully, forcing patience into my voice, "do you even realize what our parents are putting me through? Or do you just choose to ignore it?"
His brow furrowed, like he genuinely didn’t know what I meant. "What are you talking about?"
I exhaled sharply, willing myself to stay calm. "The dates, Jack. The ones they’re forcing me into. The fact that they aren’t just trying to set me up with someone—they’re forcing the idea of marriage on me."
Jack frowned, looking unconvinced. "It’s just dates. It’s not like they’re shoving you into a wedding dress tomorrow."
I laughed, but it was hollow, humorless. "You really don’t get it."
"It’s not like you have to say yes to any of them," he argued.
"Jack," I said, my voice sharper now, "do you really think they’ll let me say no?"
His mouth opened, but before he could argue, a voice cut through the tension.
"Darling," my mother’s voice rang out, smooth and saccharine, "there’s someone I’d love for you to meet."
Jack and I both turned at the same time.
And there he was.
My first date of the week.
A man—because calling him a boy would have been laughable—stood beside her, at least ten years older than me, with a practiced smile and a handshake that looked too eager.
I felt my stomach drop.
Slowly, I turned my gaze to Jack, watching the slow, dawning realization settle into his expression. I didn’t have to say anything. The look I gave him said it all. I told you so.
—
Returning to my hotel room that night was the only good thing to come out of the day.
The moment the door clicked shut behind me, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My heels hit the floor with a dull thud as I kicked them off carelessly, barely making it past the edge of the bed before collapsing onto the mattress.
The exhaustion didn’t just sit in my bones—it weighed on me, pressing down on my chest until it felt impossible to breathe.
I stared at the ceiling, my eyes unfocused, my thoughts racing.
The funeral. The whispers. The suffocating expectations.
My uncle was gone, and I hadn’t even been able to grieve properly. Instead, I had been paraded around, displayed like some pristine little doll, forced into conversations with people I didn’t care for. And worst of all, I had met him.
One of the men my parents had chosen for me.
A man who was at least ten years my senior. A man who looked at me like I was some fresh-faced investment rather than a human being.
I felt sick just thinking about it.
I squeezed my eyes shut, inhaling deeply through my nose. The dread in my stomach curdled, threatening to rise into full-blown panic, but I forced it down. I couldn’t fall apart. Not yet.
Instead, I reached for my phone.
I needed an escape.
My fingers hovered over my contact list, scrolling through familiar names. There were only a handful of people who could help me right now—people who wouldn’t say the wrong thing, who wouldn’t tell me to “just go along with it” or “give him a chance.”
Then, I saw his name.
Franco.
I hesitated.
Would he even pick up?
Would he even understand?
With a single deep breath for courage, I tapped the call button.
It barely rang twice before his voice came through, slightly muffled like he had answered in a rush.
"Yes? Y/n, what’s up?"
I exhaled shakily, my grip tightening on the phone. "Hey, Franco. Just needed a distraction right now. I just got back from the funeral. I met one of my dates there. I am… not excited, to say the least."
There was silence.
Then, his voice, lower now. “Wait. You met one? Already?”
I hummed in confirmation, rolling onto my side and curling into myself. "Yeah. First one out of the three. And Franco, I swear to God, he’s at least ten years older than me."
Silence again.
But this time, it was different.
This time, I could hear the slow inhale through his nose. The quiet but sharp exhale.
"Ten?"
I could practically see the way his jaw would clench, the way his brows would furrow.
"Minimum," I murmured, rubbing a hand over my face. "Honestly, he might be older."
"Oh, that’s just fucking—" He cut himself off, muttering something in Spanish under his breath that I was sure was not polite.
Despite myself, I felt a small, tired smile tug at my lips. "You’re mad."
"Of course I’m mad, Y/n!" Franco huffed, his frustration bleeding through the speaker. "That’s disgusting! What, they couldn’t find someone your actual age to auction you off to?"
I winced. Auction. That was exactly what this felt like.
"Apparently not," I muttered.
"Jesus Christ." I heard the sound of movement, like he had started pacing. "That’s not okay. That’s—God, that’s so messed up. What did he even say to you?"
I let out a humorless laugh. "Tried to be charming. Called me stunning. Told me he’d heard a lot about me and that he was honored to be considered. Like this was some kind of prestigious opportunity instead of—" I cut myself off, throat tightening. "You get the point."
Franco made a noise of pure irritation. "I swear, if I ever meet this guy, I’m going to—"
"Franco," I interrupted gently, despite the warmth settling in my chest at his anger on my behalf.
He exhaled sharply. "Right. Distraction. You need a distraction."
I hummed, shutting my eyes and sinking deeper into the bed. "Yes, please."
There was a pause. Then, his voice shifted—lighter now, teasing. "Alright, let’s see. What’s something completely ridiculous we can talk about? Oh! How about this—do you want to hear about the absolute disaster that was my attempt at cooking last night?"
A small smile formed. "I always want to hear about your cooking failures."
"Okay, so get this—" Franco launched into the story, animated and exaggerated, telling me how he had somehow set off his smoke alarm making pasta and had to call Kimi for help, only for Kimi to be zero help and just laugh at him instead.
It was stupid. It was meaningless.
But it helped. Some what.
The next morning, I woke up to the shrill chime of my phone vibrating on the nightstand. Sunlight streamed through the thin hotel curtains, but the warmth it carried did nothing to ease the sinking feeling in my stomach as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and reached for my phone.
Mom—that was all it said at the top of the screen.
I swallowed, already knowing whatever she had to say wouldn’t be good. With a deep breath, I opened the message.
Be at the house by 2 PM. He’ll be here to pick you up at 3. Your father and I will be showing you the portfolios of the other two men before then. Please don’t make this any harder than it has to be.
I clenched my jaw, reading between the lines easily.
Don’t embarrass us. Don’t ruin this. Don’t make a scene.
The tightness in my chest returned full force, a sharp contrast to the brief peace I had felt talking to Franco last night.
I sat up, tossing my phone onto the bed with more force than necessary before dragging my hands down my face.
It didn’t matter that I didn’t want this. It didn’t matter that my uncle—my biggest supporter, the only one who truly understood me—would have hated every single second of this circus act my parents were forcing me through.
All that mattered was that they saw this as an opportunity. As something good for the family.
And I was expected to play along.
I exhaled slowly, forcing my emotions down. Crying wouldn’t help. Screaming wouldn’t change anything.
All I could do now was get through the day without losing my mind.
Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I stood up, stretching out the stiffness in my limbs before trudging toward the bathroom. If I had to endure another day of this, I might as well look the part.
Perfect. Composed. A doll on fucking display.
—
The room was suffocating. The air thick with the scent of expensive candles, floral arrangements, and the heavy weight of expectation pressing down on my shoulders like an anvil.
I sat stiffly on the pristine leather couch, hands folded in my lap, pretending to be the perfect, attentive daughter while my parents spoke in that calculated, business-like tone they always adopted when discussing things far more important than my own wants or needs. I stared blankly at the glossy portfolios they had placed in front of me, filled with neatly typed credentials and photos of the two other men they were now presenting as my future.
Neither of them were old—at least, not like the first man they had forced me to meet at the funeral, and I would soon be on some stupid date with. That was the one thing I could acknowledge as a small mercy. But that relief was short-lived when my father’s voice cut through my thoughts like a knife.
“Between the two of them, they make more than your mother and I combined,” he said, his words laced with pride, as if that single fact was supposed to make me leap for joy. “We’re talking legacy money, sweetheart. This isn’t just about you—it’s about securing something bigger than yourself.”
Legacy money. As if that was the only thing that should matter to me. As if my entire future should be determined by someone’s net worth and the business opportunities they could bring to our family.
I clenched my hands tighter in my lap, nails digging into my palm, but I didn’t react. I just nodded, because that was what they wanted from me.
“We’ve done everything for you,” my mother added smoothly, leaning forward slightly, her carefully manicured fingers adjusting the already-perfect bracelet on her wrist. Her voice was sweet, warm—practiced. “And now, all we ask is that you consider your responsibility as our daughter.”
Responsibility. Duty. Family.
The words were wrapped up in silk, but underneath, I could hear the ironclad expectations they carried.
This wasn’t a discussion.
This was an order.
I could feel my heartbeat thudding against my ribs, my breath slow and measured as I fought to keep my expression neutral. It wasn’t new, this conversation. I had been raised to know that this moment would come eventually. But knowing it was inevitable didn’t make it any easier to stomach.
I felt trapped.
Like a bird locked in a gilded cage, surrounded by wealth and comfort but never allowed to spread its wings.I wanted to tell them that this wasn’t what I wanted. That I didn’t care about money or status or whatever fucking “legacy” they were trying to secure.
Then the long awaited and most dreaded knocked came to the door. Two smiles and a frown following the hollowed sound.
Doohan Sister Reader
F1 Driver Reader
Cadillac Formula 1 Reader
Trigger Warning - Panic Attack
It was late, far too late to be awake when I had a flight to catch soon, but my mind wouldn’t quiet down. I was lying on my bed, my phone resting on my chest as I stared at the ceiling, lost in thought. The past week had been a whirlwind—another podium, more speculation about Max and me, the journalist still lurking in the shadows, and now… Max knowing the truth.
I should have felt relieved that he was on my side, that he wasn’t going to expose me, but instead, I felt like the walls were still closing in. Every day was a balancing act, a game of deception that I had to play to protect what I loved. And even though I trusted the few people who knew, the fact remained that they had all found out by accident.
I never got to choose who knew the truth about me.
Until now.
My fingers twitched as I lifted my phone, unlocking it and opening the group chat with Kimi and Ollie. They had been checking in on me more than usual, sending casual texts but always slipping in a "How are you feeling?" or "You sure you're good?" I appreciated it, but I also knew they were picking up on things I wasn’t saying.
I hesitated before finally typing.
Me: Hey, are you guys up?
The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.
Ollie: Yeah, what’s up? Kimi: Everything okay?
I chewed on my bottom lip, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. This wasn’t something I could just say easily. But I needed to get it out.
Me: I’ve just been thinking a lot about last weekend. It was… a lot to handle.
A pause, then—
Ollie: Yeah, we figured. You’ve been kinda off. Kimi: Not talking as much. That’s not like you.
I let out a soft breath, a small smile tugging at my lips despite the heaviness in my chest. They noticed.
Me: Yeah… it’s just hard to explain sometimes.
Kimi: You don’t have to if you’re not ready. But if you ever want to, we’re here.
That was the thing—I did want to.
I had spent so long keeping people at arm’s length, maintaining the act, making sure no one ever saw too much. I had gotten used to it. But Kimi and Ollie were two of the people I had grown to genuinely care about on the grid. And I wanted them to know me the way that Franco, Lando, Oscar, and now Max did.
I wanted to choose them.
I gripped my phone tighter before finally typing out the words.
Me: Actually… I think I want to tell you guys something. Something big.
The typing bubbles popped up immediately.
Ollie: Okay…? Kimi: Now I’m curious.
I exhaled slowly, staring at the screen, willing myself to go through with it.
Me: Every person who knows this about me found out by accident. I never really got to choose who I told.
A pause. Then—
Ollie: What do you mean? Kimi: Are you saying… you want to tell us?
My heart was pounding. This was it.
Me: Yeah. I do. I trust you both, and I want you to actually know me.
There was a longer silence this time. For a moment, I wondered if they were freaking out, if they were regretting saying they’d always be here.
I let out a shaky breath, a warmth spreading through my chest.
Me: How about after media duties on Thursday in Qatar? Just us, maybe in my hotel room. I want to finally show you who I am.
It felt strange to say it like that—show them who I was. But that was the reality. No one besides Franco, Lando, Oscar, and now Max had seen me without the baggy clothes, the helmet, the entire disguise I had carefully built. Kimi and Ollie had only ever known Ghost. Now, they would finally meet me.
The typing bubble appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again, as if they were thinking hard about their response. Then, finally—
Ollie: We’ll be there. Kimi: Of course. We wouldn’t miss it.
I exhaled deeply, my shoulders slumping with relief as I locked my phone and pressed it against my chest.
For the first time, I was choosing who to trust. I was deciding who got to know the real me. That made all the difference as my mind began to relax, I was able to fit in a nice nap before my alarm woke me to leave for the airport.
—
The seconds dragged, stretching unbearably as I sat on the edge of my hotel bed, my hands clenched into fists so tight that my nails dug into my palms. My helmet was still on, the visor down, the only thing keeping me hidden for just a little while longer. My hoodie felt suffocating, but I didn’t push it back. Not yet.
I had been so sure when I texted them.
I had spent the whole week telling myself this was the right thing to do, that this was the moment I would finally get to take control over something that had been out of my hands for far too long. Every other person who had found out had done so by accident—Franco, Lando, Oscar, even Max. Each time, it had happened without me choosing it, without me deciding I was ready.
This time, I had made the choice. I had typed the words out myself, I had asked Kimi and Ollie if they would come.
So why did I feel like my heart was about to beat out of my chest?
I exhaled sharply, my knee bouncing as I tried to shake the feeling off. This is nothing. This is just another reveal.
But it wasn’t, not really.
Because they weren’t just my teammates or my rivals. They were my friends. And they had become my friends without knowing who I really was.
What if this did change things?
What if they looked at me differently? What if they started treating me like I was fragile? What if—
Knock knock knock.
I jolted upright, breath catching in my throat.
The moment was here.
For a fleeting second, I considered staying put, pretending I wasn’t in, sending them a last-minute excuse that something had come up. But deep down, I knew I couldn’t do that. I had come this far, had spent years hiding, and I was so tired of it.
Swallowing down my nerves, I forced myself up, my feet feeling heavier than usual as I crossed the room.
Another knock, gentler this time.
They were waiting.
I reached for the handle, hesitating just long enough to take a steadying breath before pulling the door open.
Kimi and Ollie stood there, both looking equally nervous.
Their eyes flicked immediately to my helmet, to the way my hoodie draped over me, and I saw the realization hit them—that I was shaking.
“You don’t have to do this,” Ollie said immediately, stepping forward slightly. “If you don’t feel ready, we won’t be upset.”
“Seriously,” Kimi added, his voice softer than I had ever heard it. “We don’t want you to feel like you have to do this. It’s okay if you change your mind.”
Their kindness nearly broke me.
I clenched my jaw, gripping the edge of my hoodie sleeves, trying to hold myself together. They were giving me an out—offering me an escape with no strings attached. And for a second, a small part of me wanted to take it.
But I had spent so long not having a choice.
I wanted this.
“No,” I said, shaking my head slightly. “I want to do this. I need to.”
They studied me for a long moment, like they were trying to make sure I really meant it.
Then, finally, Ollie gave me a small smile, one that told me he understood just how much this moment meant to me. Kimi nodded in agreement.
“Okay,” Kimi said simply.
I stepped back, letting them inside. The door clicked shut behind them, and suddenly, the room felt so much smaller.
The weight of what I was about to do pressed down on my shoulders.
I turned to face them, my hands still trembling slightly, but I clenched them into fists again, trying to ground myself.
“One rule,” I said, my voice quieter than usual. “No matter who is under this helmet… you can’t tell anyone.”
Ollie’s expression softened further, his brows pulling together like he could see just how much this meant to me. “Of course. We’d never do that.”
Kimi nodded firmly. “We promise. We wouldn’t risk losing you. We have come to care for you as more than just a competitor.”
The words hit harder than I expected, my chest tightening at the sheer sincerity in their voices.
They didn’t care about the mystery, about the reveal itself.
They just cared about me.
I inhaled sharply, feeling a lump form in my throat as I lifted my hands to my helmet.
This was it.
The final moment before the truth came out.
I hesitated, my fingers gripping the edges. My mind screamed at me to stall, to wait just another second, just another minute, but I forced myself to push through the fear.
They’re your friends. They won’t leave. They won’t treat you differently.
Slowly, I lifted the helmet off.
The cool air hit my face first, followed by the flop of my hair from within the casing.
For a second, neither of them moved as an eerie silence filled the room.
Then, Ollie’s eyes widened, his mouth parting slightly as he blinked in pure shock. Kimi’s reaction was quieter, but his expression shifted instantly, his brows raising in understanding.
The weight of the moment pressed down on me, my heartbeat hammering so loudly in my ears that I swore they could hear it.
Seconds stretched unbearably, and then—
Ollie let out a quiet, breathless laugh, his lips twitching up into a grin. “No way.”
Kimi exhaled, shaking his head with something that looked like disbelief before his lips curled into a soft smile. “That’s why you were so nervous, huh?”
I nodded slowly, unable to find my voice.
Ollie let out a low whistle, running a hand through his hair. “Mate, you’ve been fooling the entire world.”
Something about his tone—light, teasing, not at all distant or different—made the tension in my shoulders loosen slightly.
Kimi tilted his head, studying me for a moment before nodding. “This… actually makes a lot of sense now.”
I blinked. “It does?”
Kimi hummed in amusement, tilting his head as he studied me. “Yeah… the way you’ve been moving, the way you’ve been hiding. It wasn’t just about keeping your identity a secret, was it?” His voice was quieter now, thoughtful. “It was about making sure people saw you as a driver first. Not just a name… and not just because you’re a girl.”
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. They got it. They really, truly got it.
Ollie’s gaze lingered on my face for a moment longer before something seemed to click. His eyes widened slightly. “Wait a second…” He squinted, like he was trying to place a distant memory. Then, his jaw dropped. “No way.”
Kimi’s brows furrowed before realization dawned over him too. His expression softened in understanding. “Holy shit. You’re—” He hesitated, almost like he didn’t want to say it out loud. “You’re Jack’s little sister, aren’t you?”
A sharp breath left me at the sound of my brother’s name.
I nodded slowly.
Ollie let out a breathless laugh, running a hand through his hair as the memories seemed to come rushing back to him. “I knew you looked familiar! You were at a race a few years back, weren’t you? I remember Jack talking about his sister being in the paddock for a weekend, but you were—” He gestured vaguely. “You looked different then. You weren’t…”
“Disguised?” I offered with a small, wry smile.
He let out a chuckle. “Yeah. Exactly.”
Kimi exhaled, shaking his head as a small, amused smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “This explains so much.”
Ollie looked at me, his expression shifting from disbelief to something softer. “Why didn’t you just race under your real name?”
I hesitated, my fingers curling into my hoodie sleeves. “Besides the problems with my parents, I didn’t want to be just ‘Jack’s little sister.’ I wanted to make it here on my own. No expectations, no assumptions—just me, proving that I deserved to be here.”
Kimi nodded in understanding, his eyes holding something that looked like respect. “And you did.”
Ollie grinned, nudging me lightly. “Yeah, you really did. And honestly? This makes you even more of a legend.”
That hit deep. I let out a slow breath, my nerves still there but quieter now, replaced by something warmer.
Kimi’s smile softened. “We’ve got your back, okay? No one’s finding out from us.”
Ollie nodded. “Yeah. No matter what, we’ve got you.”
Relief crashed over me in waves, so intense I almost felt dizzy from it. For the first time in a long time, I chose to tell someone my truth. And I had chosen right.
—
The weekend’s sessions had been utterly brutal. The relentless Qatar heat wasn’t just uncomfortable—it was suffocating. It clung to my suit, turned every breath inside my helmet thick and stifling, made every movement feel sluggish. Sweat dripped down my back, pooling beneath layers of fireproofs, but I couldn’t do anything about it. I couldn't peel the suit away between runs like the others did. I couldn’t press an ice pack to my neck, couldn’t dump water over my head to cool down.
I couldn’t even drink properly.
Every other driver could remove their helmets, take a quick sip from their bottles between debriefs, but I had to wait until I was alone in my driver’s room. The few stolen moments between sessions were the only times I could rip off my helmet, gulp down as much water as I could manage, and try to regulate my breathing before I had to suit back up again.
And qualifying was proving just how much that was wearing me down.
I gritted my teeth, forcing my trembling hands to stay steady on the wheel as I threw the car into the next corner. My arms ached from the relentless force pressing against them, my gloves were damp from sweat, and the heat inside my helmet made my head pound.
But I didn’t lift.
I couldn’t.
This was my last chance. One more lap to break into Q3. One more lap to prove I could push through.
I kept my foot down, forcing the car to its limits, wringing every ounce of performance I could from the tires. But as I rounded the final turn, the rear snapped—just a fraction, but enough to jolt my exhausted system.
I corrected it instantly, instinct taking over before my brain even had time to register the mistake. But the damage was done.
A few milliseconds lost.
Milliseconds that could mean the difference between moving forward or falling short.
I held my breath as I crossed the line, waiting—praying.
Then the radio crackled to life.
“Good job, Ghost.” Diego’s voice was steady, but I could hear the tightness behind it. “You just made it into Q3. Sitting P10 right now.”
Relief crashed into me, but it was quickly smothered by exhaustion.
“You’re not alone up there,” Diego continued. “Franco’s through too—P8. We’re happy with this, but let’s see if we can get something better out of you.”
I swallowed, my throat dry as sandpaper.
They wanted more from me.
They always wanted more.
And normally, I would have fought for it. Normally, I would have dug deeper, found something extra to give.
But right now?
Right now, I wasn’t sure if I had anything left.
My fingers twitched against the wheel, muscles trembling from heat exhaustion. I could feel the sweat pooling beneath my suit, soaking into the balaclava under my helmet. Every breath inside the confined space of my visor felt too warm, too thick, like I was breathing in steam.
I needed water. I needed air. I needed to be out of this damn suit for more than just a few stolen minutes between sessions.
But there was no time for that.
Not yet.
I forced myself to key the radio, my voice rougher than usual. “Understood.” My throat burned from dehydration, but I ignored it. “Let’s go again.”
There was a pause. A small one.
Then Diego’s voice returned, softer this time.
“Copy that. You got this, Ghost.”
I exhaled sharply, rolling out of the pit lane for the next run.
I had to.
—
By the time I pulled into the pit box, my body was on the verge of betraying me completely. The heat had wrung every ounce of strength from my limbs, leaving me trapped in my own skin, suffocating inside my race suit. The weight of exhaustion pressed down like a physical force, making my grip on the wheel feel distant, almost nonexistent. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking, even as I tried to flex my fingers in my lap. My chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, the stale, burning air inside my helmet making it impossible to get enough oxygen.
As the pit crew jacked up my car and rolled me back into my side of the garage, I let my head fall back against the seat for just a moment, forcing myself to blink away the dizziness creeping in around the edges of my vision. The helmet felt like a furnace, trapping the heat against my skin, suffocating me with my own exhaustion.
I turned my head slightly, vision swimming, and caught sight of Franco already out of his car. His face was drenched in sweat, but he still had that easy, confident smile as he laughed with his engineers. How? He had been in the same conditions, pushing just as hard, and yet he looked… fine.
Then his eyes landed on me.
His grin widened as he raised a hand in a wave, but the second I lifted mine in return, his smile disappeared. His brows drew together, the concern sharp and immediate.
I knew exactly what he had seen.
The way my hand trembled violently, the sluggishness of my movements, the way my shoulders sagged like the weight of my own body was too much to carry.
Before I even attempted to move, Franco was already striding toward me, his playful demeanor completely gone. He reached the side of my car in seconds, one hand braced against the halo as he leaned in slightly, scanning my posture beneath the helmet.
"Hey," he said, voice quieter, serious in a way that sent a fresh wave of panic rolling through me. "You good?"
I forced myself to nod, even as my head swam. Say something. Don’t look weak.
But the moment I shifted, trying to push myself up, my body collapsed against the seat, arms going weak and useless.
"Shit—"
I barely had time to register Franco moving before his hands were on me, steadying me before I could even attempt another escape. His grip was firm but careful, as if he knew how close I was to completely shutting down.
"Oi, Nico!" Franco called over his shoulder, urgency lacing his voice. "Need a hand here!"
Footsteps rushed closer, and then Nico’s familiar presence was beside us, his voice calm but sharp. “What happened?”
“She’s overheating,” Franco answered before I could.
I wanted to protest, to tell them both to back off, but I didn’t have the energy.
“Come on,” Nico said, his arm sliding under mine as he and Franco braced me between them. “We need to get her cooled off before she passes out.”
Their help was the only thing keeping me on my feet as they guided me toward the drivers' room, my legs barely responding beneath me. Every step felt sluggish, like walking through molasses.
Inside, the temperature difference was immediate, the air conditioning hitting my suit like a wave of relief, but it wasn’t enough. I was still burning up, my skin damp with sweat beneath the layers of fireproof gear.
"Helmet," Franco said, tapping the sides. "You need to get it off."
I lifted shaky hands, fumbling with the latch, but my fingers wouldn’t cooperate. Before I could even try again, Franco was already reaching for it, carefully undoing it for me.
As soon as the helmet came off, cooler air rushed against my flushed skin, and I gasped like I had been drowning.
“Here.” Nico pressed a cold water bottle into my hands, his expression unreadable but firm. “Drink. But go slow.”
I brought the bottle to my lips, the plastic slick in my shaking grasp, and took a sip. It felt like heaven against my parched throat, but even with the relief, my voice still came out hoarse.
"Thanks."
Franco crouched in front of me, his green-brown eyes searching my face for something, his usual teasing smirk nowhere to be found. "You shouldn’t have pushed that hard."
I shot him a weak glare. "Like you didn’t?"
He exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly not amused.
Before he could fire back, a knock sounded from the door followed by the nervous voice of some team staff.
“They need you both for post-qualifying media duties.”
Franco turned so fast I thought he might break something. “Are you kidding me? We just got out of the cars, and it’s boiling out there. We are barely upright right now.”
The team member sighed. “I know. I tried to push it back, but the media’s already set up. It’s non-negotiable.”
I closed my eyes for a brief second, letting out a slow breath. I wanted to be angry, to fight back, but I knew it wouldn’t change anything.
“It’s fine,” I muttered, pushing myself upright again. My legs wobbled dangerously, but I locked them in place. “Let’s just get it over with.”
Franco muttered something in Spanish under his breath, the irritation rolling off of him in waves.
Nico moved fast, reaching into a cooler before handing me something. “Here. Wear this over your suit.”
I glanced down at the ice vest in my hands, then back up at him, gratitude flashing through my exhaustion.
"Thanks," I murmured, slipping it on. The moment the cold pressed against my back and chest, my whole body sagged in relief. Even though the sweaty suit felt disgusting, the cold seeping in from this vest made it so much more worth it. Finally I pulled my helmet back on and followed Franco out the door.
Franco was still grumbling under his breath as we made our way toward the press area, but as I adjusted my helmet again, I could feel his gaze burning into me. I knew I must still look exhausted and he had every right to be worried for me, but right now we had our media duties and neither of us got paid enough to take the fine that would come with even one of us skipping them.
The moment I stepped into the media pen, the lights, cameras, and voices crashed over me like a tidal wave. My head throbbed from the heat and exhaustion, my limbs screaming for rest, but I forced my body to move forward, to stand tall, to act like I wasn’t breaking apart from the inside out.
The ice vest on my race suit helped, but only just. The cold was already fading, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of the heat pressing down on all of us. My hands still shook at my sides, fingers twitching involuntarily, and I could feel the weakness in my legs with every step I took. But I had to push through. No cracks. No hesitation. No weakness.
The media swarmed the second they saw me. Microphones were shoved toward my helmet, journalists calling out my name—well, my alias.
"Ghost, a tough session today—"
"How was the car handling in these conditions?"
"With such brutal temperatures, how are you holding up physically?"
I kept my shoulders squared, forcing my voice to stay even. "It was tough out there, but the team did a great job preparing the car. The conditions were brutal for everyone, but we managed to get through."
I hated how flat my voice sounded. The voice changer masked everything—my exhaustion, my struggle, my pain—but my body couldn’t lie. My stance wasn’t as steady as it should have been. My weight shifted slightly, trying to counteract the wobble in my knees. I flexed my fingers at my sides, willing the tremors away.
The next journalist didn’t even bother with a question about my performance. Instead, their voice came with a sharper edge. "Ghost, we’ve noticed you’re looking a little unsteady—"
"I'm fine," I cut in, too quickly, too defensive.
A scoff came from beside me, and I didn’t need to turn my head to know who it was.
"Fine?" Max’s voice carried over the media, sharp and laced with irritation. "They can barely stand, and you all are still shoving microphones in their face. Maybe wait until they’ve had a chance to recover before making them answer pointless questions."
I swallowed, the warmth in my chest battling the exhaustion. Max was blunt as ever, but I appreciated him for it.
The journalists, of course, didn't back down. "Max, the FIA mandates post-qualifying media duties—"
"Yeah?" Charles cut in now, his voice tight with frustration. "Maybe the FIA should use their eyes and see that some of us can barely speak, let alone stand, before throwing us in front of cameras. Look at him. This isn’t normal."
I gritted my teeth, willing my body to stay still, to not give anything away. I had survived worse. I could do this.
A hand brushed against my arm—subtle but intentional. Lewis.
He didn’t say anything to the media, but his voice was low enough for only me to hear. "You don’t have to prove anything to them. Just get through it. We’ve got you."
The kindness in his tone almost shattered the wall I was desperately holding up.
But the media wasn't done.
"Ghost, how do you respond to Max and Charles’ concerns? Are you struggling more than you’re letting on?"
I inhaled slowly, steadying myself before answering. "It’s a tough race weekend for everyone. The conditions are harsh, but that’s part of the sport."
Another journalist jumped in. "There were moments on track where you seemed to be fighting the car more than usual. Was that just the heat, or were there issues with the setup?"
I exhaled slowly. "The setup is strong. The conditions make everything harder to manage, but we’re still in a good place for the race."
The questions kept coming, and I kept answering, pushing through the nausea creeping at the edges of my mind. My hands were clenched into fists now, not out of anger but in a desperate attempt to stop the shaking. My legs felt like they could give out at any second, but I locked my knees, refusing to let them see me stumble.
"Ghost, you’re one of the only drivers still giving full interviews right now, while others have already left due to the heat. Do you feel obligated to stay?"
That one made my breath hitch.
Before I could even formulate an answer, Franco’s voice cut in from a few feet away, his tone dripping with frustration. "Maybe instead of asking him that, you should be asking why the hell he is still expected to be standing here answering your questions when he clearly needs a break."
I heard Lando mutter something under his breath before stepping in too. "We all get that media duties are part of the job, but seriously, look at him. We’re dropping like flies out here, and Ghost can barely stand. Let him go."
For a moment, the journalists hesitated. Maybe they had finally realized how bad I must have looked. Maybe they saw the way I kept shifting my weight, the way my breaths were coming just a little too shallow, the way my hands wouldn’t stay still.
The team member who had escorted me here finally stepped in, clearing his throat. "That’s all for Ghost today. He needs to recover before tomorrow."
I didn’t wait for the journalists to argue. I gave a short nod, mumbled a quick, "Thank you," and turned to leave, moving slower than I wanted to, but fast enough that no one could stop me.
As soon as I stepped away from the cameras, away from the eyes burning into me, my entire body slumped. The adrenaline that had been keeping me upright drained in an instant.
Franco was there in seconds, steadying me with a firm hand on my back. "That was fucking ridiculous."
I couldn’t even respond. My head was pounding too much, my muscles aching too deeply.
Lando and Oscar caught up to us, both looking equally pissed.
"You should’ve just walked away the second you got out there," Oscar muttered, shaking his head. "They would’ve figured it out eventually."
I let out a weak laugh. "Would they, though?"
Lando huffed. "Next time, we’re dragging you out before they even get the chance."
I was too tired to argue.
Lewis appeared beside me, pressing another ice pack into my hands. "Here. This’ll help."
I took it without question, pressing it against my neck. The relief was instant but not nearly enough. Lewis smiled at me with a nod before quietly walking away.
Max crossed his arms, still glaring toward the media pen. "If the FIA doesn’t do something about this, I will."
I shook my head slightly. "You can’t—"
"Watch me."
I sighed, but deep down, I was grateful.
—
The cold water from earlier had long since lost its effect, leaving only a dull, lingering coolness that did nothing to combat the growing weight pressing down on me.
I sat on the edge of my bed in my drivers’ room, fully suited up, my helmet resting beside me as I finished the last bottle of water I could stomach. Every sip felt like a lifeline, a desperate attempt to build a reserve before the inevitable heat drained it all away. Today was hotter than any session before, and I knew—we all knew—this race would be a battle of survival just as much as it would be a battle for position.
I exhaled slowly, rolling my shoulders back, trying to focus my mind. You’ve done this before. You can do it again. You just have to push through.
My fingers curled into fists against my thighs before I finally grabbed my helmet, slipping it on and locking myself in. This was it. No turning back now.
I pushed open the door and stepped out into the chaos of the garage.
—
The first laps of the race were smooth. I focused on keeping the tires in check, my pace steady, not taking unnecessary risks. The heat was already settling in, pressing against me like a second race suit, but I’d prepared for this.
Then, somewhere around the middle of the race, I hit the water button for the fifth time.
The familiar small tube inside my helmet released a shot of liquid into my mouth. The moment it touched my tongue, I gagged. It wasn’t cool anymore. It wasn’t even lukewarm. It was hot.
I spat it out instinctively, the taste bitter and almost nauseating.
"Water’s boiling," I muttered into the radio, shifting my focus back to the track.
Diego’s voice came through, calm but firm. "Copy, Ghost. Just do what you can. We’ll monitor your vitals."
I clenched my jaw. I already knew what that meant. They were watching my performance, my inputs, my pace. They’d pull me if they thought I was fading.
I wasn’t going to let that happen.
Laps blurred together. My mouth was dry, my throat raw from the heat. My hands were slippery inside my gloves, and every breath felt heavier than the last. I had stopped sweating at some point—not because the heat had lessened, but because my body had nothing left to give.
"Ghost, you need to think about retiring," Diego’s voice came through again, a little more insistent now. "We can see the drop-off. It’s okay."
I shook my head, even though he couldn’t see me. "No. I can finish."
Even if I had to drag myself to the checkered flag.
"Ghost—"
"Who’s out?" I cut him off, forcing the words out through gritted teeth.
There was a pause before he answered. "Doohan, Lawson, and Stroll. They’ve all retired due to the heat."
I exhaled sharply. That could’ve been me. It still could be me.
But I wasn’t done. I wasn’t finished.
I tightened my grip on the wheel, ignoring the way my vision was beginning to blur at the edges.
"Not yet," I murmured.
Then I pressed forward.
—
The moment I stopped, my body betrayed me.
I had done it—I finished the race in P6. Franco had taken P5. But there was no relief, no triumph. Only the crushing weight of exhaustion bearing down on me like a collapsing ceiling.
As I pulled into Parc Fermé, the heat that had been suffocating me all race now pressed into my skull like a vice. My vision blurred as I tried to breathe through the nausea clawing at my throat. My arms felt detached, as if they were no longer mine to command. The entire world had narrowed down to a pounding in my head and the tremors that I could no longer ignore.
This is bad. This is really bad.
I fumbled with the steering wheel, fingers trembling too hard to properly unclip it. I finally managed to yank it off, dropping it onto the nose as I reached for the halo, trying to pull myself up. My muscles screamed, burning with a fire that wasn’t just exertion—this was something worse.
My foot barely found purchase as I tried to climb out, and the second I attempted to push myself up, my strength gave out. My body slumped forward, upper torso flopping limply over the halo, my arms barely holding me up as my head hung between them. My breath came in sharp, rapid bursts, my lungs fighting against the stifling heat trapped inside my race suit.
I wasn’t just exhausted. I was failing.
Panic twisted deep in my chest, feeding into the violent shudders racking my body. My helmet felt suffocating, my suit like a second layer of burning skin. I was shaking uncontrollably, my fingers barely gripping onto the car to keep me from collapsing completely. My heart slammed against my ribs, too fast, too much—
"Breathe—breathe—" I gasped to myself, but I couldn’t.
I barely registered the footsteps rushing toward me until two familiar voices called out—
"Whoa, whoa, hey—"
"Shit—Ghost! Are you okay?!"
Ollie and Kimi.
I felt hands on me—strong, steady hands. One of them gripped my waist while the other reached for my arms, carefully but urgently trying to pull me the rest of the way out of the car. My legs buckled the second my weight shifted, but they caught me before I could hit the ground.
"She’s burning up," Ollie cursed, adjusting his hold as he and Kimi fully hoisted me up between them.
The movement made the nausea spike—the world tilted violently, a wave of dizziness crashing into me like a tidal force. I groaned softly, my head rolling against Kimi’s shoulder. The tremors in my body worsened. My knees refused to hold me, leaving all of my weight pressed into them.
"We need to get him out of here—now," Kimi said, voice tight with concern.
"Franco—" Ollie called over his shoulder, but Franco was already moving.
I barely tracked his blurred figure before he turned and sprinted towards the garage. I heard his frantic voice shouting something about Nico, ice, water, bath—but it all faded into static.
Another set of hands found me—Oscar.
"Come on, let’s get him back—" he said, already helping them move.
I didn’t have the strength to respond, to fight back against the way my vision kept fading in and out.
The three of them half-carried, half-dragged me up the pit lane. My body swayed uselessly, my legs numb beneath me, my head lolling forward and back.
I barely registered Lando’s voice until I heard his sharp inhale—
"What the hell—? Hey—what’s wrong with him?"
The shuffle of hurried steps.
Max’s voice.
"Move—what happened? What’s going on?!"
Their voices were frantic, but I couldn’t focus.
The only thing I could do was press my head against Kimi’s shoulder, my body burning and trembling and fading, fading—
The last thing I felt before my mind slipped further into the haze was the grip of their hands tightening around me.
Holding me up. Keeping me safe.
—
The cold hit me like a freight train.
A sharp, biting shock that sent a jolt through my entire body, dragging me out of the suffocating haze of unconsciousness. My skin burned from the contrast—heat still radiating off me, clashing violently against the icy water.
I groaned, head lolling to the side as I tried to blink my vision clear.
"Hey—hey, she’s waking up."
The voice was Franco’s, tight with concern.
My sluggish mind took a moment to catch up—to register that I wasn’t in the car anymore, that my helmet was gone, my race suit stripped away. I was submerged up to my chest in ice water, wearing only the thin layer of fireproofs that clung uncomfortably to my damp skin.
A firm but careful grip pressed against my shoulders—Nico.
"Easy," he murmured, steady and grounding. "Just breathe, y/n. You need to stay in the bath a little longer."
Everything still felt wrong.
My limbs were too heavy, my lungs too tight, the room too cold yet my skin too hot. My body couldn’t decide whether it was freezing or burning, and the overwhelming confusion of it all sent my mind spiraling.
"W-What—" My voice cracked—raw, hoarse.
I winced at the sound, my throat aching like I had swallowed sandpaper.
"You overheated, bad," Kimi said, leaning closer. His face was creased with worry. "We had to get you in here fast. You passed out completely."
"You scared the hell out of us," Ollie added, his usual teasing lilt nowhere in his voice.
I swallowed thickly, eyes darting around the dimly lit drivers’ room, heart rate already climbing from the weight of their words.
I had pushed too far.
I had scared them.
I had failed.
The thought hit me like a slap to the face, and suddenly, the tightness in my chest worsened.
The trembling in my hands turned into violent shakes, my breath shuddering as something clawed its way up my throat—not nausea this time, but panic. Full-blown panic.
I felt trapped in my own body.
"No—no, no, no—" I barely gasped out, my breathing spiraling into sharp, erratic bursts.
I couldn’t. I couldn’t. I was shaking too much, heart slamming against my ribs, my vision swimming as every exhausted nerve in my body screamed at once.
Nico held me firm.
His grip on my shoulders tightened just enough to keep me grounded, his voice level as he spoke—"Breathe, kid. Don’t fight it. Just let it pass."
"You’re safe, y/n," Ollie’s voice cut through the haze, softer now. "We’re right here. You’re okay."
"You’re not alone," Kimi added, his usual stoicism cracking just enough for me to hear the genuine concern beneath it.
I squeezed my eyes shut, struggling to pull myself out of the panic’s grip.
Just breathe.
I sucked in a shaky breath. Then another. And another.
Slowly, painfully, the tightness in my chest loosened, the suffocating weight on my ribs easing—not gone, but manageable.
When I finally blinked my eyes open again, tears had slipped down my flushed cheeks, mixing with the cold water clinging to my skin.
I sniffled, embarrassed, trying to shake it off—
But Ollie just huffed a quiet laugh and reached out, gently brushing the pads of his fingers beneath my eyes to wipe them away.
"You look awful," he teased lightly, though the relief in his voice was obvious. "But at least you’re back with us."
I let out a weak breath—something close to a laugh, but more of a tired exhale.
"Thanks, Ollie."
"Anytime, y/n."
There was a beat of silence before Franco sighed, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair.
"We gotta go, though. Cooldown debriefs and all."
I nodded, though I still felt too weak to fully sit up on my own.
Kimi, Ollie, and Franco hesitated before leaving, their gazes lingering on me, as if making sure I wouldn’t crumble the second they walked out the door.
"Go," I rasped, offering a small nod. "I’ll be fine."
It took another beat, but eventually, they filed out, leaving only Nico behind.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just sat on the stool beside the tub, watching me carefully as I tried to even out my breath.
Then—quietly—he handed me a bottle of water.
"Drink, kid."
I did.
—
The walk to media duties felt longer than usual.
My body was still aching, my skin still hot despite the ice bath, but at least I could move without my legs threatening to give out beneath me. The hoodie and sweats Nico had given me felt heavy, but they helped me still hide my feminine figure without having to put my race suit back on.
Helmet back on. Voice changer activated. Persona intact.
I was Ghost again.
Not the girl who had almost collapsed from heat exhaustion. Not the one who had panicked in the ice bath.
Just Ghost.
I had just rounded the corner when I nearly crashed into someone.
"Whoa—"
I barely had time to process before I felt a firm hand grip my shoulder, steadying me.
"Are you even okay to be walking around?"
Oscar.
I lifted my head slightly, immediately greeted by the sight of Oscar, Max, and Lando, all three of them looking me over like I might drop at any second.
Oscar’s expression was tight with concern, his eyes scanning me as if searching for any sign of weakness beneath the hoodie and sweats.
Max and Lando, on the other hand—they just looked pissed.
"Ghost, what the hell were you thinking?" Lando’s voice was sharper than usual, his usual playfulness nowhere to be found.
"You could have passed out behind the wheel!" Max snapped, arms crossing over his chest.
"You’re lucky you even made it to the end without crashing," Lando added, eyes narrowing.
I sighed, already feeling the exhaustion creep back in. "Guys, I finished the race. I’m fine."
"Fine?" Max echoed, his voice dripping with disbelief. "You couldn’t even get out of your damn car! You had to be carried to your garage!"
"We saw you, mate," Lando said, shaking his head. "You scared the shit out of us."
Oscar, who had been quiet up until now, finally spoke—his voice softer, but no less firm.
"You should’ve retired, Ghost."
I clenched my jaw beneath my helmet, fingers curling into fists at my sides.
They didn’t get it.
I had something to prove.
After everything—after spending the entire season fighting for my place, for my right to be here, for my strength—I couldn’t just quit.
Not when I was still standing.
"I couldn’t," I muttered, my voice low.
Max let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. "You’re a damn idiot."
Lando scoffed, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, no kidding. You think you’re proving a point by pushing through this kind of shit? You’re just proving you have no self-preservation instincts."
"Lando—" Oscar started, but the Brit just kept going.
"Seriously, mate, what’s the point of all this secrecy, the helmet, the voice changer, if you’re just gonna race yourself into the damn grave?"
My chest tightened.
They didn’t understand.
"I finished the race," I said again, my voice stronger this time.
Max let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah, and nearly fucking died doing it."
There was a beat of silence.
I didn’t know what to say.
Because deep down, I knew they were right.
I had been stupid. I had risked everything.
But at the same time—I couldn’t regret it.
"I had to," I finally whispered.
Oscar sighed, rubbing his temples. "You didn’t have to. You just thought you did."
Max took a step closer, his voice lower now. "Don’t do that again."
"Max—"
"I mean it, Ghost." His eyes burned into mine through the visor of my helmet. "Don’t pull that shit again."
Lando exhaled, shaking his head. "If you ever scare us like that again, I swear to god—"
"What? You'll do what?" I challenged, tilting my head.
"We’ll fucking drag you out of the car ourselves next time," Lando shot back, dead serious.
I stared at them for a long moment before exhaling quietly.
"Noted."
Oscar sighed again, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just… promise you’ll take it easy for the rest of the day."
I hesitated—then gave a small nod.
"Fine."
Max and Lando exchanged a look, clearly not satisfied, but knowing they wouldn’t get much more out of me.
"Good," Max muttered. "Now go do those stupid media duties before we get in trouble for holding you up."
I let out a breath, turning toward the media pen.
I could still feel their eyes on me as I walked away.
—
The questions had been relentless since the moment I stepped into the media pen.
I had answered what felt like a hundred different versions of "How are you feeling?" and "Was the heat the toughest challenge today?" while keeping my voice steady, my responses measured.
I could still feel the weight of Max, Lando, and Oscar’s words from earlier pressing against my chest.
"You think you’re proving a point by pushing through this kind of shit?"
"You just thought you had to."
"Don’t pull that shit again."
I had brushed them off, insisted I was fine, but deep down, the doubt had already started to sink in.
And then—I heard Jack’s name.
"Jack, do you think Ghost finishing the race today proves that you gave up too soon?"
My stomach twisted.
I turned my head slightly, listening as Jack’s tone sharpened in response.
"You think I wanted to retire?" His voice was laced with frustration, the exhaustion from the race still evident. "I had no choice. I was on the verge of passing out in the car—what the hell was I supposed to do? Just push through it like an idiot?"
The reporters kept pushing, eager to stoke the flames.
"Well, Ghost did."
That set him off.
"Yeah, and look at them! Couldn’t even get out of the car! You think that’s smart? You think that’s proving a point? That’s just reckless."
My chest tightened.
They had gotten to him.
I knew what they were doing—trying to manufacture a rivalry, to paint one of us as weaker, the other as stronger, to get some headline-worthy soundbite out of him.
And Jack—he was giving them exactly what they wanted.
"Do you regret your decision now that you see what Ghost was capable of?"
Jack let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "Capable of? They nearly collapsed. That’s not capability—that’s stupidity. If anything, I feel bad for them."
I didn’t have time to process the sting in his words before I was being called up for my own interview.
The second I stepped forward, I could already see the smirks on the reporters’ faces.
They were waiting. Waiting for me to bite.
"Ghost, we just spoke with Jack, and he had some strong words about your decision to finish the race today—"
"Jack said you were reckless—"
"He implied he felt bad for you—"
"Do you have anything to say in response?"
I could feel the heat behind my visor—not from the temperature, but from the frustration simmering in my chest.
I could shut Jack down. I could bite back.
But that’s what they wanted.
Instead, I exhaled slowly, forcing my voice to stay calm as I answered.
"I don’t blame Jack for anything he said," I started, my tone even. "But I think the real problem is how often these kinds of comparisons are made in the first place."
The interviewer blinked, caught off guard.
I continued.
"Jack did the right thing today. He recognized his limits. He chose to put his health first. That takes strength. That takes intelligence. He made the smart call—something I wasn’t able to do."
A few reporters shifted uncomfortably at my words.
"I let my ego get in the way," I admitted, my fingers curling into the sleeves of my hoodie. "I finished the race, sure. But at what cost? I put myself at risk. I let myself believe that stopping would be a weakness, not to myself, but to the public, to you. But looking back… I think Jack was stronger than me today."
A beat of silence.
The interviewers weren’t expecting this.
They wanted drama. Fuel for a rivalry.
Instead, I had taken the wind out of their sails.
"So no, I don’t have anything to say against Jack. What I do have a problem with is the way we push drivers to view each other as competition in moments like this—when really, we should be focusing on the bigger picture. None of us should have been racing in these conditions. And Jack made the right call."
The interviewers exchanged glances, realizing they weren’t going to get what they wanted out of me.
I just stood there, breathing steadily, finally understanding what Max, Lando, and Oscar had been so pissed about earlier.
I had been an idiot. And for the first time, I was willing to admit it.
Doohan Sister Reader
F1 Driver Reader
Cadillac Formula 1 Reader
The paddock hummed with energy, everyone gearing up for qualifying. Mechanics rushed through final checks, team members buzzed around like clockwork, and drivers retreated into their routines—some listening to music, others sitting with their engineers, running numbers, analyzing every possible detail that could make the difference between pole position and a frustrating midfield start.
But for a moment, I was able to escape the chaos, tucked into the corner of Red Bull’s hospitality with Max.
I had barely sat down when he plopped into the seat across from me, arms crossed, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “So? How was FP3?”
I exhaled, running a hand over my helmet sitting on the table. “Not bad, but not great either.”
Max raised an eyebrow. “Specific.”
I huffed, leaning back in my chair. “I’m struggling with turn eight. I either brake too early and lose time, or I’m too late and have to fight the car through the exit. I can’t find the right rhythm.”
Max nodded, his expression shifting into something more serious. “It’s a deceptive turn. You have to trust the car more—let it roll in. If you’re too stiff with the wheel, you’ll keep fighting understeer on the exit.”
I frowned, picturing it in my mind. “So, lighter hands going in?”
“Exactly,” Max confirmed. “And don’t overthink the braking point. Look at where I’m turning in during qualifying—watch how late I brake. The track will grip up even more by then.”
I nodded, absorbing his words. He had a way of explaining things that made them click instantly. Not in a condescending way, but with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what he was talking about.
“Got it,” I murmured.
Max leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head. “Good. Now, don’t stress about it. You’ve got pace, just let it come to you.”
I gave him a look. “You make it sound easy.”
He grinned. “It is easy. You rookies just like to make things difficult.”
I rolled my eyes, but the tension in my chest loosened. I hadn’t realized how much I needed this—just a normal conversation with someone who didn’t treat me like an outsider. Someone who believed I belonged here, without all the overly friendly attitude, or protecting of my feelings.
The conversation drifted after that, shifting away from racing as we settled into something more comfortable.
“You always get this serious before qualifying?” I asked, propping my elbows on the table.
Max shrugged. “Depends on the day. I used to be worse when I was younger—super intense. Now? I’ve learned to relax a little.”
I smirked. “You? Relaxed? That’s new.”
He gave me a mock-offended look. “I can be very relaxed. I even went golfing last weekend.”
I snorted. “That’s the most boring rich guy hobby ever.”
Max gasped dramatically. “I want to defend it but I agree too much to do so. Maybe you should try it.”
I shook my head. “No chance. I’d probably end up throwing the club more than hitting the ball.”
“I’d pay to see that,” Max chuckled.
Before I could fire back, I caught movement in my peripheral vision. My posture stiffened slightly as I glanced toward the far side of the hospitality area.
A couple of photographers lingered outside the barrier, cameras angled just enough to capture us sitting together.
Max followed my gaze, his smirk returning almost instantly. “Ah. Look at that.”
I exhaled slowly. “Plan’s working.”
“They’re eating it up,” Max murmured, amusement laced in his voice. “Probably already writing headlines about how I’m ‘extra friendly with the mysterious rookie.’”
I snorted. “Better than the alternative.”
Max’s smirk softened just a little. “Yeah. And now they have this to focus on instead of digging for anything else.”
I studied him for a moment, the weight of everything that had happened pressing into my chest. I didn’t like relying on others. I had spent so much of my life keeping walls up, making sure no one could see too much. But Max had stepped in without hesitation, without asking for anything in return.
“Thanks,” I said quietly.
Max glanced at me, his expression unreadable for a second. Then, he simply shrugged. “You don’t have to thank me. Just don’t crash into me later.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “No promises.”
For the first time all weekend, I started to feel a little lighter.
Qualifying was coming. The real test. But for now, I let myself enjoy this moment—just two drivers, sitting in the calm before the storm.
—
The engine roared beneath me as I hurled the car into the next sector, every fiber of my being locked onto the track ahead. Q2 was slipping away, and frustration was clawing at my chest with every tenth I lost through Turn 8. Again.
I gritted my teeth, jaw tightening as I fought the wheel on exit, my rear tires scrubbing across the asphalt. Too early again.
Damn it.
I knew I had the pace. I had proven that in practice. But here, under the pressure of qualifying, my own mind was my worst enemy. I exhaled sharply, fingers tightening on the wheel. I needed to let the car come to me, to trust the process.
Then, I saw him.
Max.
He was just ahead, our cars separated by only a few seconds on track. I had the perfect view of him flicking the car into Turn 8.
Lighter hands. Let it roll in.
I remembered his words from earlier. He told me exactly what to do—I just had to listen.
I took a deep breath, heart pounding against my ribs, and prepared for another push lap.
Trust it.
I opened up the entry to the turn, eyes locked on the braking marker. Instead of instinctively tensing, I let the car flow in, feather-light on the wheel. The front end bit into the asphalt, gripping just the way I needed it to.
Then, the exit.
This time, there was no ugly snap, no fight. Just smooth acceleration, the engine screaming as I flew down the straight.
I glanced at the delta.
Green.
No—purple.
I nearly let out a laugh as I kept my foot pinned, barreling toward the final sector. My heart raced, adrenaline surging through me as I crossed the line.
P5.
“Beautiful lap, Ghost,” my engineer’s voice crackled in my ear. “You’re through to Q3.”
I exhaled sharply, the tension melting into something else entirely.
By the time Q3 started, I had found my rhythm. The car felt like an extension of me, every input smooth, controlled, yet aggressive when needed.
The final run was perfect.
I wrung every ounce of performance from the car, throwing it into each turn with confidence I hadn’t had before. My hands were light, my mind clear.
And when I crossed the line for the last time, my radio erupted in cheers.
“P7, Ghost! Fantastic job! Franco in P8—amazing work from both of you.”
My grip on the wheel tightened as my breath caught in my throat.
P7.
Another huge result for Cadillac.
“YES!” I shouted, punching the air as I slowed on my cool-down lap. My chest swelled with excitement, relief, and a sense of belonging.
By the time I pulled into the garage and climbed out of the car, my entire body was still buzzing with adrenaline. Franco was already there, grinning like an idiot as he smacked a hand against my back.
“You’re on fire this weekend,” he said, shaking his head in amazement. “Seriously, you just keep getting better.”
I nudged him with my elbow. “Not too bad yourself, P8.”
“Pfft. Yeah, but you beat me.” He rolled his eyes dramatically. “Guess I’ll just have to take you out at Turn 1 tomorrow.”
I snorted. “Try it and I’ll make sure your race engineer knows you’re gonna need extra room in the gravel trap.”
Franco barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “God, I love having you as a teammate.”
Before I could fire back, my attention flickered past him—to the Red Bull garage.
Max.
He was walking toward us, still in his fireproofs, helmet under his arm, a small smirk tugging at his lips.
I barely had time to register it before he clapped a hand on my shoulder. “P7, huh?” he mused. “Guess I’m a really good mentor.”
I let out an amused huff. “Oh, so you get the credit for my lap?”
“Well,” he said, tilting his head, “who gave you the secret to Turn 8?”
I groaned. “I hate that you have a point.”
Max’s smirk widened. “Get used to it.”
I chuckled, but the warmth in my chest only grew. This was what I had fought for—these moments. Belonging, growing, winning, in my own way.
And tomorrow, I was going to prove it again.
—
The hotel room was dimly lit, the only glow coming from my phone screen as I lay sprawled out on the bed, still in my sweatpants and hoodie from the day. My hair was damp from a quick shower, my body finally unwinding after the adrenaline rush of qualifying.
I should have been resting.
Instead, I was sucked into the absolute flood of edits and memes that had taken over social media.
Max Verstappen & Ghost.
The latest grid father-son duo.
I snorted, thumb scrolling through endless video edits of today’s moments. Someone had clipped the footage of Max pulling me aside in the paddock earlier, his arm casually slung around my shoulders as we talked. Another edit pieced together clips of our ‘mentorship’—Max watching me during practice, giving me advice, and walking over to congratulate me in the garage.
The music choices were hilarious.
Some were heartwarming, like dramatic, emotional montages of Max ‘taking in the lone rookie’ under his wing, while others were absolute jokes—slow-motion clips of us with captions like Max Verstappen adopts the paddock’s feral child.
I covered my mouth to stifle a laugh as I stumbled upon one that had really blown up.
It compared our duo to the way the older drivers had once taken Mick Schumacher under their wing.
Side-by-side clips showed Seb protecting Mick from interviewers, Lewis throwing an arm around him, the entire grid rallying behind him as Michael Schumacher’s legacy continued through his son. Then, it cut to Max and me.
Max Verstappen, the new grid dad in training.
I actually laughed out loud at that one.
Oh, this is gold.
The comments were just as entertaining.
—
@F1Fanatic22: This is the most wholesome thing I’ve seen in ages. Max really said ‘I’ll protect this one’ 🥹
@LightsOutMemeLord: Max adopting Ghost as his problem child is the best subplot of the season 😂
@PaddockTea: No bc imagine Ghost’s first podium and Max is just there all proud like a real dad 🥹
—
I shook my head, tossing my phone onto the bed and rubbing my temples.
This was perfect.
If the entire fanbase already believed Max and I had this cute mentor-mentee relationship, it meant the journalist had nothing on him. Even if they tried to spin some secret ‘scandal’ about us meeting in private, the world had already made up their own, much better narrative.
I chewed on my lip, mind already spinning with ideas for tomorrow.
I was going to lean into this—hard.
If we played it right, there wouldn’t be a single person left who thought there was anything suspicious about us spending time together.
The journalist could try all they wanted. They wouldn’t take Max down with me. And if they really did have my identity? Well… I wasn’t going to let it show just how terrified I was. Not yet.
—
I stepped into the paddock with a renewed sense of determination. Today, I wasn’t just racing—I was playing a part, controlling the narrative before anyone else could. If the world wanted to see Max and me as a wholesome mentor-mentee duo, then I’d make damn sure that’s all anyone saw.
I walked through the Cadillac garage, nodding at the mechanics already hard at work prepping the car for the race. The usual pre-race buzz filled the air—team members double-checking setups, engineers staring at data, and crew members rushing between stations.
As I turned a corner, I spotted Franco leaning against the tool chest near our section, arms crossed as he sipped from a water bottle. His sharp eyes landed on me immediately.
“Morning, Ghost,” he greeted, a teasing lilt in his voice. “Feeling good today?”
I smirked. “Better than you will when I leave you in the dust.”
He scoffed. “You wish.”
We both chuckled, but I could tell he was eyeing me a little closer than usual. His gaze flickered toward the Red Bull garage, then back to me. “So…” He stretched out the word. “What’s up with you and Verstappen?”
I raised a brow. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, don’t play dumb. He’s suddenly everywhere around you. First, he finds you before quali, then he walks over to congratulate you personally? Not even Lando and Oscar get that kind of VIP treatment.” He tilted his head. “You sure you didn’t secretly sign with Red Bull?”
I let out a short laugh. “God, no. I’d rather retire than be in the Red Bull media machine.”
“Then what’s going on?”
I glanced around, making sure no one was within earshot. “Not here,” I muttered. “Come with me.”
Franco frowned but followed without hesitation as I led him past the garage and into one of the quieter service hallways behind the paddock. It wasn’t completely secluded—people occasionally walked by—but it was empty enough for a private conversation.
Once we were alone, I turned to face him.
“There’s a journalist,” I started, keeping my voice low. “They’ve been trying to dig into my identity.”
Franco immediately tensed. “What?”
I nodded. “I got a text last night. They claim they know who I am.”
His jaw clenched. “Do they?”
I exhaled sharply. “I don’t know. They didn’t use my real name, didn’t say anything specific, but they’re blackmailing me. And Max.”
Franco’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Max?”
“The journalist texted him too,” I explained. “Tried to spin it like there was some scandal between us just because I hid out in his driver’s room the other day.”
Franco cursed under his breath, shaking his head. “That’s some serious bullshit.”
“I know.” I crossed my arms. “Max is helping me. We’re playing into the mentor thing to make sure no one believes the journalist’s angle.”
Franco ran a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. “So let me get this straight—this guy is either trying to out your identity or just ruin your career in any way he can?”
I nodded.
His expression darkened. “I’m going to kill him.”
I snorted despite the situation. “Get in line.”
Franco took a deep breath, hands on his hips. “Alright. First things first—we need to be sure he doesn’t actually know who you are.”
“My manager’s already working with Max’s lawyers to figure out what he knows,” I assured him. “Until then, I just have to act normal. Which means you also have to act normal.”
Franco scoffed. “Oh yeah, because normal means watching a creep try to ruin my best friend’s life and doing nothing about it.”
I softened slightly. “You won’t be doing nothing. Keep an eye out for him, and if you see anything—anything weird—let me know.”
His lips pressed into a thin line, but after a beat, he nodded. “Fine. But if I see him first, I will deck him.”
I grinned. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
—
The grid was gathering near the trucks for the drivers’ parade, the usual pre-race tradition where we’d wave to the crowd and do some quick interviews before the chaos of the main event.
I stood near my usual group—Lando, Oscar, and Franco—idly chatting as we waited to hop onto the flatbed trailer.
“So what’s the bet for today?” Lando asked, smirking at Franco. “If I finish ahead of you, you have to post an embarrassing picture of yourself.”
Lando rolled his eyes. “You’d have to finish ahead of me first.”
“I will finish ahead of you at some point.”
I snorted, but before I could add anything, a familiar presence appeared at my side.
Max.
“Ghost,” he greeted casually, nodding at me before glancing at the others. “Mind if I steal them for a bit?”
Lando raised a brow, but he and Oscar didn’t question it and even joked. “Go ahead, grid dad.”
Max shot him a flat look before turning back to me. “Come on.”
I followed him as he led the way up to the parade trailer, the cameras already clicking in the distance. Perfect. Let them see.
“So,” Max started as we settled onto the truck, the vehicle starting to move. “Feeling good about today?”
I hummed. “I think so. Struggled a bit yesterday, but your advice helped.”
He smirked. “Of course it did.”
I rolled my eyes. “Okay, mentor of the year.”
Max leaned back against the railing, glancing at the crowd before looking at me again. “You still holding up?”
The question caught me off guard.
I hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Still worried, but… I feel better.”
His blue eyes studied me for a moment before he nodded approvingly. “Good.”
I smiled slightly. “Thanks, Max.”
He scoffed. “Don’t thank me yet. You still have a race to get through.”
I grinned. “Oh, trust me, I plan on making you proud.”
Max smirked. “That’s what I like to hear.”
The cameras continued snapping in the distance.
Let the world see. Let them believe the story we were telling.
Because as long as they did, the journalist had nothing.
As the parade truck continued its slow lap around the circuit, I leaned against the railing, taking in the sea of fans waving flags and holding up signs. It was always surreal, seeing so many people show up for a sport I’d fought so hard to be a part of. The moment felt lighter than before—maybe because the plan with Max was working, or maybe just because I had people who had my back.
I felt a presence shift next to me, and when I turned, I saw Kimi Antonelli sliding into the space Max had just left, followed closely by Ollie Bearman who took my other side.
“What, Verstappen gets your attention first, and we don’t even get a hello?” Ollie teased, nudging my arm lightly.
I huffed out a small laugh. “You two were busy gossiping with the Ferraris. Figured I’d let you get all your inside team secrets in before I interrupted.”
Kimi smirked. “What makes you think I would tell you anything?”
I gave him a pointed look. “Because you like proving you’re faster than me, and you’d want me to know exactly how to lose.”
Ollie chuckled. “He’s got a point.”
Kimi just shrugged, clearly unbothered by the claim. “So, Ghost, how are you feeling about the race?”
“Good,” I answered, though the word felt a little automatic. “Car’s been great all weekend. Just need to get through Turn 1 clean.”
“Yeah, I heard about your quali lap,” Ollie said. “P7, not bad. You think you can keep Max in sight this time?”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Rub it in.”
Ollie smirked, but there was something softer in his expression—like he was studying me. Kimi, too, wasn’t looking away.
“You’ve been quiet this weekend,” Kimi said after a beat.
My grip on the railing tightened slightly. “I have?”
“You have,” Ollie agreed. “You’re usually the one cracking jokes, but you’ve been… I don’t know. More reserved.”
I felt a slight pang in my chest. Had I really been that obvious?
“I’ve just been focused,” I lied, forcing a small smirk. “You know, making sure you guys don’t embarrass me out there.”
I hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. “Yeah. Just a lot going on.”
Kimi hummed, clearly not convinced, but he didn’t push. Instead, he leaned back slightly, crossing his arms. “Well, whatever it is, don’t let it get to your head. You drive better when you’re annoying.”
That made me laugh. “Wow. High praise from you two.”
Ollie grinned. “He’s right, though. Don’t disappear on us.”
I softened slightly. It wasn’t often that Kimi or Ollie got openly sentimental, but this was their way of saying they cared. And after everything with the journalist, it was nice to be reminded that even without them knowing the full truth, they had my back.
I bumped my shoulder lightly against Ollie’s. “Don’t worry, Bearman. I’m still here.”
Kimi nodded approvingly. “Good. Would be a shame if I didn’t have you to beat on track.”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, shut up.”
They both chuckled, and for the first time that weekend, I felt like I could breathe a little easier.
—
The roar of the crowd faded into a distant hum as I focused on the track ahead. My hands gripped the wheel tightly, my breathing steady despite the hammering of my heart. The race had been relentless so far—strategy calls, tire management, every move calculated down to the millisecond. But as I settled into the rhythm, my mind wandered.
The past few days had been chaos. The journalist, the blackmail, the constant eyes watching me and Max, the creeping anxiety of not knowing if my secret was truly at risk. For a split second, I felt like I was drowning in it again—until I caught sight of the papaya car just ahead.
Oscar.
P5.
I snapped back into focus, my foot pressing heavier on the throttle as I closed the gap. The McLaren was quick, but I was quicker. He was in my way, and I wasn’t leaving this race without a podium.
“Ghost, Oscar ahead. You’ve got the pace. Go get him.” My engineer’s voice was calm, but I could hear the excitement laced behind it.
I didn’t need the encouragement.
Oscar was a fighter, and I knew he wouldn’t give up the position easily. For three laps, I pushed, trying to find an opening. Every time I got close, he defended masterfully, forcing me to back off or risk a collision. But on lap 40, I saw it—a tiny misstep, a fraction of a second where he went slightly wide into the turn.
I took my chance.
Diving down the inside, I sent it, my tires kissing the curb as I squeezed through. For a moment, we were side by side, inches from disaster, but I had the momentum. Coming out of the corner, I was ahead.
“YES! Beautiful move, Ghost! P5!”
I barely heard my engineer over the rush of adrenaline. P5 wasn’t enough. Not yet.
I kept pushing.
Lap after lap, I hunted down the next driver, then the next. I overtook each one with precision, determination burning through me. My tires screamed, my arms ached, my body was on fire, but I didn’t care. The podium was right there.
When I finally crossed the finish line in P3, my radio exploded with cheers.
“P3, Ghost! That’s a podium! Amazing drive!”
I let out a breathless laugh, gripping the wheel so tightly my knuckles ached. My third podium. Another massive result for Cadillac.
As I pulled into Parc Fermé, the weight of everything finally hit me. The tension, the stress, the doubt—it all melted away. I climbed onto my car, throwing my arms up in victory as the crowd erupted. Cameras flashed, capturing the moment as I stood tall, taking it all in.
When I jumped down, the first person I saw was Lando.
“Mate!” He barely gave me a second before pulling me into a hug, shaking my shoulders with excitement. “That was insane! You’re actually ridiculous, you know that?”
I laughed, hugging him back. “Took me long enough to catch up to you!”
He pulled away, grinning. “Podium club’s getting too full, I might have to kick you out.”
I was about to fire back when I felt another strong hand on my shoulder.
Turning, I barely had time to react before Max pulled me into a hug, his grip firm and proud.
“Now that—” He stepped back slightly, giving my helmet an approving tap. “—was some damn good racing.”
I could hear the pride in his voice, and something warm settled in my chest.
“Guess I had a good mentor,” I teased.
Max smirked. “Obviously.”
I felt the weight of his words—the unspoken understanding between us. He had my back. And for the first time in days, I truly believed I wasn’t fighting this battle alone.
The podium ceremony was a blur of flashing lights, roaring cheers, and the rush of adrenaline that still pulsed through my veins. Standing on the third step, I watched as Max climbed onto the top, followed closely by Lando to P2.
As Max got comfortable, I felt a tap on my helmet.
I turned to see him grinning before he casually stepped down onto my podium step—just for a second—before pushing up onto his own.
I huffed out a laugh. “Really?”
He smirked. “Might as well give them more content to work with, right?”
I shook my head, but I knew he was right. By tonight, the internet would be flooded with edits of our little moment, adding to the ‘mentor and mentee’ narrative we’d been carefully building.
But then, the announcer called my name.
I turned to accept my P3 trophy, gripping the sleek silver and blue design in my hands. The weight of it was grounding. Real. As I raised it high above my head, the crowd erupted again, and I felt it—something raw, something that made my chest ache in the best way.
This.
This was why I did it.
As I watched Lando lift his trophy, followed by Max holding his high above his head like he’d done so many times before, I felt a rush of emotions wash over me.
The stress, the fear, the constant weight of my secret—it all disappeared in this moment. Because here, standing under the bright lights, with the cheers of thousands ringing in my ears, I remembered.
I loved this sport.
I loved the fight, the struggle, the grit it took to get here. I loved the feeling of pushing myself beyond my limits and proving that I belonged. That I deserved this. No blackmail, no journalist, no threats could take this away from me.
As the national anthem played, I let the moment sink in, committing every second to memory. Because no matter what happened next, no matter how hard things got, I knew why I was fighting. And I wasn’t going to stop.
—
The night was quiet, a stark contrast to the roaring engines and adrenaline-fueled battles of the day. I sat in Max’s driver’s room, still buzzing from the podium, my body exhausted but my mind too wired to sleep.
Max was lounging on the couch, legs stretched out in front of him, one arm resting lazily on the backrest as he sipped from a bottle of water. I was sitting across from him, still in my team hoodie, my race suit tied around my waist.
We had been talking about the race—breaking down moments, analyzing overtakes, and laughing at some of the more ridiculous things that had happened on track. But then, his expression shifted, growing more serious.
“I found out something today,” he said, setting his bottle down and looking directly at me.
I tensed, my pulse immediately kicking up. “About what?”
“The journalist.”
That was enough to make my stomach twist. I had nearly forgotten about that mess in the chaotic good of the race, but reality had a cruel way of creeping back in.
“What about him?” I asked, trying to sound indifferent, but I knew Max could see the way my fingers curled against the fabric of my hoodie.
Max tilted his head slightly, observing me for a moment before continuing. “He doesn’t actually know who you are.”
I stared at him, my mind stalling for a second. “What?”
He smirked a little, but there was no humor in it—just the satisfaction of someone who had figured out a crucial piece of a puzzle.
“He’s wrong. The identity he has—it’s not yours,” Max said, watching for my reaction.
My breath caught in my throat. “How do you know?”
His smirk widened slightly. “Because the person he thinks you are is a man.”
I blinked. The room felt smaller, the air thicker. My brain tripped over itself as I processed what he was saying.
Then it hit me.
My stomach dropped. My heart pounded against my ribs as I forced myself to meet his gaze. “And how do you know I’m not?”
Max let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “Come on, Ghost.” He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. “I knew after the hug.”
I inhaled sharply.
“The one after the race,” he clarified. “You might’ve hidden it well with all the baggy clothes and the way you carry yourself, but when you hugged me—” he gave me a pointed look, “—it was obvious.”
My entire body went rigid, my mind racing through every possible response, every possible way to deflect, to deny, to—
But then Max grinned, leaning back again like he had just won a bet with himself. “Relax. I think it’s brilliant.”
I blinked at him, completely thrown off. “You—what?”
Max shrugged. “You’ve done an insane job keeping this a secret. Honestly, I’m impressed. I can’t even imagine the kind of discipline it takes to make sure no one finds out.” His expression softened just a little. “And I like it. I like this. Whatever or why-ever this whole mystery thing is, I think it’s fun.”
I exhaled slowly, still trying to wrap my head around the fact that Max Verstappen, of all people, had figured me out—just like that.
“And don’t worry,” he added, “I’m not going to tell anyone. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
I searched his face for any sign of doubt, but all I saw was certainty.
A shaky breath left me as I finally allowed myself to relax, if only slightly. “So… what now?”
Max grinned. “Now? Now we keep playing the game. We sell the mentor-mentee thing even harder. The longer we keep this up, the bigger the moment will be when the truth finally comes out.” His eyes gleamed with mischief. “I can’t wait to see the look on everyone’s faces.”
A small, disbelieving laugh escaped me. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Absolutely,” he agreed without hesitation. Then, in a softer voice, he added, “And for what it’s worth, I really enjoy our little dynamic. You’re good company, Ghost.”
Something in my chest tightened—not in fear, but in something strangely close to relief.
discoholicmusic
romaincrisis
germansingergirl
2087
tangentwithtanner
prguitarman
andulkaphoto
yousharknotpass