warnings: this story contains 18+ content (mdni), dom!oscar, sub!oc, explicit sexual content, power imbalance, consensual bdsm elements, spanking, choking, orgasm control, fingering (f receiving), cunnilingus, blow job, p in v, unprotected sex (pls be safe!), masturbation, public fingering
wc: 17k+ (one, two, three, four, five)
a/n: I’m so sorry for making you all wait for part 6 🥹 I know I said I’d post it a week after the Miami GP but somehow it’s already after the Canadian GP 😭 Work and personal stuff have just been keeping me really busy lately. But anyway, thank you for being patient with me 🫶 I really hope you enjoy this part, and any comments/thoughts are muchhhh appreciated <3 I genuinely love hearing what you all think!!!
The Miami heat was nothing compared to the white-hot frustration radiating off Oscar as he walked back into the garage. The engine failure had been sudden, a violent jolt of mechanical betrayal that sent him spinning into the barriers at Turn 14. To the cameras, he was the composed and controlled driver. He’d climbed out of the wreckage, gave a clipped, professional radio message about the loss of power, and did his media pen interviews with a calm, stoic face.
But she knew. She saw the way his jaw was set like granite and how the pulse in his neck was thrumming at a dangerous tempo.
Silence filled the hotel room like a tomb, heavy enough to suffocate, until the heavy thud of the door clicked shut. That sound sealed out the humid, neon roar of the Miami night, leaving only the low hum of the air conditioning and the frantic, jagged sound of breathing.
Oscar didn’t reach for the light switch. He stood in the narrow entryway, a tall, imposing silhouette framed against the windows where the South Beach skyline bled electric pink and cyan into the room. He was still clad in his team shirt and fireproof leggings, the fabric clinging to his frame. The scent of Nomex, track asphalt, and the metallic tang of adrenaline clung to him like a second skin. The driver who had calmly climbed out of a smoking car in the pit lane, the one who had given a stoic, one-sentence interview to the press, was gone.
"Strip. Now." His voice was a guttural vibration that seemed to rattle the very air in her lungs. There was no warmth in it, only the lethal intensity of a man who had lost control of his machine and was desperate to find it elsewhere. "Get on the bed. Hands on the headboard. Don't make me tell you again."
She moved with a trembling urgency. Her fingers, slick with nervous sweat, fumbled blindly with the buttons of her shirt. She could feel his eyes, dark, stormy, and focused, tracking every inch of skin she revealed. The silence was absolute as she climbed onto the mattress, her knees sinking deep into the plush white duvet. She reached out, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the cold bars of the headboard.
Oscar moved toward her like she's a prey and invaded her space. He stood directly behind her, the heat radiating off his body hitting her back in waves. Without a word of warning, his hand flew back, descending in a sharp, echoing crack that sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room.
"First sector..." Slap. "The car felt perfect." Slap.
She let out a sharp, choked gasp, her spine snapping into a violent arch as the sting bloomed across her flesh. He wasn't holding back. Every blow was a physical manifestation of the laps he’d lost, the points that had slipped through his fingers because of a mechanical failure he couldn't fix with his hands.
"The MGU-H failed..." Slap. "Total power loss at three hundred kilometers." Slap. "I watched them pass me. I watched the win disappear into a cloud of smoke." Slap.
By the fifth strike, her eyes were swimming in hot, silent tears. She could feel the fire radiating from her skin, his large, calloused palms were leaving stark, angry traces of red against the pale, vulnerable curve of her backside.
"Oscar... please," she whimpered, her voice breaking as another blow landed, the sound of skin on skin loud and rhythmic.
"And then there's the team. There's Sarah," he growled, his voice dropping into a dangerous, dark territory she had never heard him enter. He stopped the spanking, but the reprieve was short-lived. He stepped closer, his hands sliding down to grip her hips with bruising force, his thumbs digging into her hipbones to anchor her. "She’s pushing Naomi down my throat. She wants me to sit at dinner, to play the part, to smile for the cameras for the 'good of the brand' while I'm fucking bleeding inside."
He let out a jagged, frustrated breath, a sound halfway between a snarl and a sob. He shoved his leggings down, the rigid, pulsing heat of his desire snapping free, unyielding and urgent. He didn't use any prep, didn't offer any gentle transition. He simply aligned the heavy, blunt tip of his length against her entrance and drove forward in one devastating, unrelenting surge that pushed her chest flat against the mattress.
"Oh God!" she cried out, her forehead slamming into the duvet as he bottomed out. He filled her so completely, so suddenly, that she felt like her body might literally split under the weight of him.
He didn't give her a second to adjust to the intrusive fullness. He began to move with a frantic, punishing rhythm. His hips slammed against hers with a rhythmic, wet thud that echoed the relentless heartbeat of a racing engine at full throttle. He was venting every ounce of his professional heartbreak into her, his movements raw, uncoordinated, and stripped of his usual grace.
"I don't... want... her," he grunted, each word punctuated by a heavy, deep thrust that made the headboard rattle against the wall. "I don't... want... the PR... bullshit. I don't want the scripts."
He reached forward, his hand snaking through her hair and tangling his fingers at the roots to yank her head back. She let out a small, needy cry of mixed pain and pleasure as her neck arched, exposing the long line of her throat to the cool air. Oscar leaned down, his mouth hovering just an inch from her ear, his hot, ragged breath hitching as he spoke.
"It's only you," he hissed, the words a lethal, desperate vow against her skin. "I’m tired of the secrets. I’m tired of the masks we wear in the paddock. I want to scream your name until every camera, every fan, every person in that garage knows exactly who I belong to."
He increased the pace, his thrusts becoming a blurring, desperate friction that pushed them both toward the edge. She was sobbing now, the sounds of her pleasure mixing with the remnants of her fear and the overwhelming release of the tension they’d carried all weekend. Her hips rose instinctively, begging for more, meeting his every strike with a hunger that matched his own.
"Daddy... please... right there... please..." she moaned, her voice a shredded whisper.
He let out a low, guttural roar that vibrated through her entire body. His frame tensed, muscles locking like a car hitting the barriers at high speed, as he drove into her one last time with everything he had left in him. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his sweat-slicked skin pressing into hers as he finally broke. In the fading neon light of Miami, he finally melted, surrendering to the only person who truly knew the wildfire raging beneath the frost.
The silence of the room was broken only by the sound of their syncing breaths. Oscar remained draped over her for a long moment, his weight a grounding anchor, before she shifted beneath him. She didn't let him retreat into the shadows of his own head. Using her forearms to brace herself, she turned and gently pushed against his chest, urging him back onto the rumpled silk sheets.
She didn't offer platitudes about the car or the points lost. She knew him well enough to know that "it’s okay" was a lie he’d already heard from the engineers. Instead, she crawled over him, her movements soft and deliberate. She pressed a tender kiss to the center of his forehead, then moved to the bridge of his nose, and finally feathered light, lingering kisses across his cheeks until she found his lips. It wasn't a kiss of passion, but of sanctuary, a quiet promise that here, behind this door, he was allowed to be human. He was allowed to be just Oscar.
Oscar’s hands, still trembling slightly from the comedown of the adrenaline, came up to rest tentatively on her waist. His chest was still heaving, his ribs expanding sharply against his team shirt.
"Did I..." he started, his voice cracking, filled with a sudden, haunting guilt. He swallowed hard, his eyes searching hers in the dim neon light. "Did I hurt you? I was... I lost it for a second. I didn't mean to be that rough."
Her heart physically ached. It was so typical of him, even when his professional world was glitching, even when his career felt like a chess piece being moved by Sarah, his first instinct was to check the perimeter of her safety. He had just admitted he wanted her, only her, and yet he was still worried he’d overstepped a boundary she had long ago invited him to cross.
I only want you. The words echoed in her mind. Did he want her as his best friend? As his sugar baby? Or was he trying to tell her that the "arrangement" was just a poor excuse to keep her close?
She leaned down, brushing her lips against his once more before whispering against his skin. "I’m okay, Daddy. I promise."
She let out a small, breathless huff of a laugh, trying to ease the tension in his jaw. "My butt stings like crazy and I’m definitely going to have your handprints on me tomorrow, but I liked it. I liked seeing you let it out. I’m just happy you have somewhere you can be frustrated without having to control your emotions."
She settled her weight against him, tucking her head under his chin. "You don't have to be perfect here. You don't have to be the driver or the brand. You just have to be Oscar."
Oscar’s grip on her tightened. He didn't speak, but he pulled her in until there wasn't a single inch of air between them, his face buried in her hair as he finally let his eyes close.
—
The energy in the garage was frantic as a scramble of mechanics work on Oscar’s car to ensure the engine failure wouldn't repeat itself.
They were standing near the back of the telemetry station, hidden slightly by a stack of spare front wings, when Sarah appeared. She looked immaculate, her team kit pressed and her expression set in that terrifyingly efficient "PR Mode" that usually meant someone’s personal life was about to be sacrificed for a headline.
"Oscar, thank God," Sarah said, her voice a low, urgent hum. She didn't even look at the screens, her focus was entirely on him. "Naomi is already in the hospitality suite. She’s ready. We’ve drafted the narrative, a 'chance meeting' in the paddock followed by a dinner tonight. It’s perfect. It buries the engine failure talk and shifts the focus to your 'blossoming' personal life."
Oscar’s jaw tightened so hard it looked like marble. He didn't say a word, his gaze fixed on the floor.
Sarah, sensing his resistance, turned her sharp eyes toward her. She didn't know about the hotel room, the bruises, or the "Daddy" whispered in the dark. To her, she was just the trusted best friend, the one person Oscar actually listened to.
"Help me out here," Sarah said, reaching out to touch her arm with a forced, sisterly familiarity. "Tell him. For the sake of his career, he needs this. And honestly? It’s for your safety, too. The more the fans and the tabloids focus on a high-profile model, the less they’ll be digging into your life. You don't want that kind of heat, right? Convince him this is the right move."
The air left her lungs. She looked from Sarah’s expectant face to Oscar’s rigid profile. The irony was a bitter pill, being asked to help pimp out the man she loved to another woman just to keep her own secret safe. Her world felt like it was shrinking, the words dying in her throat as she struggled to find a way to agree without breaking her own heart.
"I... I think—" she started, her voice barely a whisper.
"That’s enough."
The voice didn't come from her. It was Oscar. His voice was low, but the sheer, cold weight of his tone made Sarah flinch. He stepped forward, putting himself physically between her and the PR manager, his shadow looming over Sarah.
"It is none of her business, Sarah," Oscar said, his voice quiet, vibrating with a repressed fury that was far more terrifying than a scream. "She is my guest and my friend. She is not a tool for you to use to manipulate me."
"Oscar, please, I’m just trying to—"
"You’re overstepping," he cut her off, his eyes flashing with a lethal brilliance. "You do not involve her in my career decisions. You do not talk to her about 'safety' as if it’s a bargaining chip. I make the decisions about who I am seen with and what narrative goes out. Not you. And certainly not through her."
The silence in the small corner of the garage became deafening. Sarah looked stunned, her mouth opening and closing like a landed fish.
"Get Naomi out of the hospitality suite," Oscar commanded, his voice flat and final. "There is no dinner. There is no narrative. Now, let me get in the car."
He didn't wait for a response. He turned, his hand briefly, recklessly, brushing against hers in the shadows before he grabbed his helmet and walked toward the pit lane, leaving Sarah standing in the wake of his coldest lap yet.
Sarah watched Oscar walk away, her jaw set in a tight, professional line. She wasn't offended, she was a fixer, and fixers didn't have the luxury of feelings. In her mind, Oscar was a young asset who didn't yet understand that in Formula 1, the image was just as vital as the aero package. If he wouldn't cooperate for his own good, she would simply curate the reality he refused to acknowledge.
She turned on her heel and headed straight for the hospitality suite where Naomi was waiting. "Change of plans," Sarah said, her voice crisp and authoritative. "We’re skipping the get to know each other more. When he comes back from the media pen after qualifying, I’ll signal you. You’re going to walk up, offer a congratulatory hug, and stay in his space for at least thirty seconds. I’ve already tipped off two 'candid' photographers. Just look like you’ve been waiting for him all day."
The afternoon was a triumph of skill over mechanical ghosts. Oscar drove with a precision that silenced the critics of the crash. When the chequered flag dropped for Q3, the screen showed him in P3, a remarkable recovery.
As he pulled into the pit lane, the adrenaline was high. He climbed out of the MCL38, sweat-drenched and grinning, his eyes immediately scanning the garage for the one person who made the victory feel real.
But Sarah was already moving.
As Oscar stepped back into the paddock, still pulling his fireproof sleeves down, Naomi appeared like a choreographed dream. She glided through the crowd, her radiant smile catching the sunlight perfectly. Before Oscar could react, she was in his personal space, her hands resting lightly on his chest as she leaned in for a "congratulatory" cheek-to-cheek hug.
The shutters of a dozen cameras clicked in a frantic, rhythmic chorus.
"Great job, Oscar," Naomi murmured, loud enough for the nearby mics to catch.
Oscar froze. His body went rigid, his arms hanging awkwardly at his sides. He couldn't push her away, not with the world watching, not without creating a PR disaster that would haunt the team for months. He stood there, looking miserable, his mask fracturing into a look of sheer, trapped discomfort.
A few meters away, the crowd parted just enough for him to see her.
She was standing by the hospitality entrance, her hands tucked into the pockets of his oversized hoodie. When her eyes met Naomi’s, she didn't scowl or show anger. She simply offered a small, heartbreakingly polite smile, the kind of smile you give when you’ve accepted defeat. It was the look of someone who felt like a ghost in her own life.
She didn't wait to see the rest. She turned and began to walk away, her shoulders hunched as she disappeared into the sea of team kits and VIP passes.
Oscar’s heart plummeted faster than it ever had in a high-speed corner. He looked at the cameras, then back at Naomi, the P3 trophy suddenly feeling like lead in his hands. He was on the podium of the world's most glamorous sport, yet as he watched her retreating back, he had never felt more like he was losing.
—
The debrief was a blur of fuel loads and tire degradation, but Oscar couldn't have told you a single detail if his life depended on it. His mind was miles away, anchored to the image of her small, polite smile as she walked away from the media circus he’d been forced into.
The moment the meeting was adjourned, Oscar didn’t wait for the usual handshakes with the mechanics. He practically bolted for the back of the garage, his eyes darting through the crowded workspace, searching for a flash of that oversized McLaren hoodie.
When he realized she was truly gone, not in the engineering room, not at the catering station, a cold, hollow panic settled in his gut. He yanked his phone from his pocket, his thumbs flying across the screen.
Oscar: Where are you? I’m finished with the debrief. Please tell me you didn’t go back to the hotel alone.
He waited ten seconds. Twenty. No "typing" bubble appeared.
He looked up, his jaw tight, and spotted the source of his misery. Sarah was standing by the hospitality entrance, looking entirely too pleased with herself as she checked her tablet, likely reviewing the "candid" shots of Oscar and Naomi that were already detonating across social media.
Oscar didn't just walk over, he cornered her. He used his physical frame to box her into the small corridor leading to the private offices, his shadow falling over her with a sudden, oppressive weight.
"What was that?" Oscar asked. His voice wasn't loud, but it had a jagged, lethal edge that made a passing junior engineer freeze and immediately turn around.
Sarah didn't look up at first, her finger still scrolling. "It was a success, Oscar. P3 on the grid and P1 in the trending topics. The engagement on those photos is three times higher than your post-qualifying interview. Naomi looked great, you looked... well, you looked surprised, which actually made it look more authentic."
"I told you no," Oscar hissed, leaning in closer. His eyes were cold, flat, and utterly devoid of the composure. "I told you to leave it alone. I told you specifically not to involve her, and you staged that right in front of her face."
Sarah finally looked up, her professional mask unbothered by his fury. "Oscar, I am managing a global brand. You are that brand. I don't care about hurt feelings or 'best friends' being sensitive. I care about the fact that right now, the narrative is about a power couple and a podium, not a mechanical failure and a best friend who probably shouldn't be in the garage anyway."
"She is the only reason I'm focused enough to put that car on P3," Oscar snapped, his voice trembling with the effort of not shouting. "You think you're protecting me? You're suffocating me. If you ever, and I mean ever, orchestrate a stunt like that again, I will walk into the media pen and tell them exactly how fake it is. See how that helps the brand."
He didn't wait for her reply and shoved past her, his heart hammering as his phone finally buzzed in his hand. He didn't care about the cameras or the fans waiting at the gates. He just needed to find her.
—
The buzz of her phone in her hand was the only thing grounding her as she sat in the back of the team car. Outside, the world was screaming Oscar’s name. Inside, she was drowning in the blue light of her screen.
The photos were already everywhere. #Naoscar was already a tag. The fans were obsessed with how "stunning" they looked together, the rising star and the elite model.
Her thumb hovered over a photo of Naomi’s hand on Oscar’s chest. The ache in her heart was physical, a dull throb that made her want to curl up and disappear. But then she remembered the weight of the MCL38, the millions of dollars in sponsorships, and the twenty years Oscar had spent climbing to this peak.
She wasn't his girlfriend. She wasn't his fiancée. In the eyes of the contract, she was an arrangement. And a sugar baby had no right to be selfish.
Her phone buzzed. Oscar.
Oscar: Where are you? I’m finished with the debrief. Please tell me you didn’t go back to the hotel alone.
She took a breath, blinking back the moisture in her eyes, waited until she's calm and typed with steady fingers.
You: I'm just waiting in the car for you! Don't worry, the AC is on. Take your time.
Less than five minutes later, the car door yanked open. Oscar scrambled in, smelling of sweat, fireproofs, and a desperate, frantic energy. He didn't even wait for the door to click shut before he was leaning over the center console, his eyes scanning her face with a terrifying look.
"I am so sorry, baby," he rasped, his voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel. "Sarah staged that. I didn't even know Naomi was in the paddock. I didn't want—"
"Oscar," She interrupted him with a soft, steadying tone. She didn't pull away, instead, she squeezed his hand, forcing a small, tranquil smile to her lips. "It’s okay. Really. I saw the photos on the way here. You guys look incredible together. The fans are already obsessed."
Oscar’s thumb stopped its restless stroking against her knuckles. He stared at her, his eyes searching hers desperately, waiting for the crack in the facade.
"I think you should go through with it," she continued, her voice light, almost casual. "The Naomi narrative... it’s smart. It buries the best friend drama and keeps the sponsors off your back. It keeps the heat off me, too. Sarah’s just doing her job."
She leaned in, her eyes beaming with a practiced, hollow brightness. "You're still my Daddy. Nothing changes where it matters. We have the hotel rooms, the apartment, the privacy. I’m happy as long as I get the real you all to myself after the cameras are off."
Oscar didn’t answer.
He seemed to freeze from the inside out. His grip went slack. He looked at her and he felt like he was looking at a stranger again.
He had spent the last few days convinced that they were standing on the precipice of something real. He had saved her from Marcus not because she was an "arrangement," but because he loved her with a ferocity that terrified him. He had convinced himself that the way she looked at him, the way she held him after a bad session, meant she felt it too. He thought she was in this because she loved him.
But as she sat there, smiling and practically pitching the benefits of him dating a supermodel for the sake of his career, the truth hit him like a high-speed collision.
She’s okay with it.
The realization was a cold, jagged blade in his chest. If she loved him, the way he loved her, she would be screaming. She would be jealous. She would be telling him to burn the contract and tell Sarah to go to hell.
But she wasn't. She was being "reasonable." She was being a perfect sugar baby. She was being a best friend.
His throat felt tight, a bitter swallow of realization settling in his gut. To her, this was still just a transaction. She loved the luxuries, the five-star hotels, the security he provided, and the physical pleasure they shared in the dark. But she didn't love him. Not enough to want to be seen with him. Not enough to fight for a place by his side in the light.
Oscar turned his gaze away, staring out the tinted window at the blurred lights of the Miami circuit. He didn't argue. He didn't tell her she was wrong. He just let out a slow, shallow breath that felt like the last bit of warmth leaving his body.
"Right," he said, his voice devoid of any emotion, flat and distant. "The arrangement. Of course."
He leaned back into the leather seat, the space between them suddenly feeling wider than the Atlantic. He had won P3 today, but as the driver pulled the car away from the track, Oscar felt like he had just lost the only race that ever mattered.
—
The ride back to the hotel was filled in a suffocating silence. Oscar sat perfectly still, his head leaning back against the leather headrest, eyes fixed on the passing lights. The usual post-qualifying debrief chatter, the talk of tire temps and brake bias was non-existent.
She felt the shift in the air, a cold front that had moved in the moment she’d given him her blessing to pursue the Naomi narrative. Misinterpreting his distance as lingering guilt for the paparazzi stunt, she reached over and placed her hand on his thigh. She began to knead the tense muscle just above his knee, a gentle, massaging rhythm intended to soothe him.
Oscar looked down at her hand, then up at her face. He didn't pull away, but the connection felt mechanical. He forced a faint, tight smile, the kind he gave to sponsors he didn't particularly like, before returning his gaze to the window.
Inside, Oscar was mourning. Every rhythmic press of her thumb against his leg felt like a reminder of what they were. A girl who was content with the shadows and a man who would pay any price to keep her there if it meant he didn't have to lose her. If being a "Sugar Daddy" was the only category she had for him, he would wear the label. He would swallow his pride that wanted to scream that he would trade every luxury he owned just to hear her say she was jealous.
When the valet opened the door at the hotel, Oscar moved with a robotic grace. They made it to the suite in silence, the tension vibrating in the small space of the elevator.
As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, she decided to break the frost. She knew how to bring him back, or so she thought. She kicked off her shoes and skipped into the center of the room, turning around with a bright, playful grin that had always been his weakness.
"Oh, come on, don't look so grumpy, P3!" she chirped, her voice light and honey-sweet as she walked toward him, looping her arms loosely around his neck. She tilted her head, her eyes wide and teasing. "The car is fast, the model is pretty, and you still have me all to yourself tonight. Isn't that right, Daddy?"
The word usually acted like a spark to a fuse, but for a split second, Oscar’s expression flickered with a raw, hidden pain. To hear her call him that right after she’d essentially signed off on him dating someone else felt like a twist of a knife. It reinforced the "arrangement." It reinforced the wall between them.
But as she stepped closer, pressing her body against his and pouting those lips he spent his Sundays dreaming about, the resolve in his chest began to crumble. He looked down at her, at the way she seemed so genuinely happy, so unbothered by the idea of him with Naomi, and the sheer, magnetic pull of her presence overrode his heartache.
He couldn't stay mad at her for not loving him the way he wanted, not when she was looking at him like he was her entire world.
A slow, weary breath escaped his lips. His hands, which had been hanging stiffly at his sides, finally rose to find her waist. His grip was firm, pulling her flush against him until the heat of her body began to thaw the ice in his veins.
"You're a brat," he murmured, the corners of his mouth finally twitching into a real, albeit tired, smile. He leaned down, his forehead dropping against hers. "You know exactly what you’re doing, don’t you?"
"I don't know what you mean, Daddy," she whispered playfully, her fingers toyed with the hair at the nape of his neck.
Oscar let out a short, dry huff of a laugh. He hated that he was so easy for her to manipulate, but in the quiet of the room, with her scent filling his lungs, he allowed himself to sink back into the fantasy. He couldn't have her heart, not fully, not yet, but he had her tonight. And for a man who lived his life at 300km/h, he knew better than anyone that sometimes, you just had to take the win you were given.
The tension in Oscar’s jaw finally gave way, though a shadow remained behind his eyes, one she didn't quite see. He let her pull him toward the bed, her playful energy acting as a buffer against the crushing weight of his own realizations. To her, this was a celebration of a successful day and a solid "business" move. To him, it was a bittersweet surrender.
"You really think you're so clever," Oscar murmured, his voice losing its icy edge and dropping into that low, intimate register that always made her toes curl.
He sat on the edge of the mattress, and she didn't hesitate, climbing into his lap and straddling him. She felt the heavy thud of his heart against her chest, still elevated from the adrenaline of the track and the frustration of the paddock. She leaned in, nipping at his earlobe before whispering, "I just know what my Daddy likes."
Oscar’s hands tightened on her hips, his fingers digging into the soft skin. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the word wash over him. It was a beautiful, gilded cage. She was calling him exactly what he had agreed to be, and yet every time the word left her lips, it felt like she was drawing a line in the sand, reminding him that their connection had a price tag and a set of rules.
"I like you being quiet," he rasped, though there was no real bite in his tone.
He shifted his grip, sliding his hands under the hem of his hoodie that she was wearing, his palms hot against her lower back. He began to track the path of the red marks, his touch now infinitely more tender, almost apologetic. He traced the phantom handprints on her skin, his thumb lingering over the heat he had caused.
"Does it still sting?" he asked softly, his eyes flicking up to meet hers.
"Only when I move," she teased, leaning forward to press a lingering, open-mouthed kiss to the pulse point in his neck. "But I told you, I like it. It reminds me you’re human, Oscar. Not just some... robot in a racing suit."
Oscar let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. He wanted to tell her that he wasn't a robot, and he wasn't just a benefactor, that he was a man who was drowning in her. But instead, he did what he did best. Performed his role.
He leaned her back against the pillows, his body hovering over hers. He began to kiss her with a slow, agonizing thoroughness, his lips moving from her jaw to the hollow of her throat.
As they moved together in the quiet of the suite, the rhythm was familiar, comfortable, and devastatingly beautiful. She was joyous, responsive, and vocal, calling his name and his title with equal fervor. And Oscar kept his secrets locked tight. He poured all the love he couldn't speak into the way he held her, the way he lingered on her skin, and the way he looked at her when she finally drifted off to sleep an hour later.
He stayed awake long after her breathing leveled out. He watched the light of the city flicker against the walls and thought about the "Naomi" headlines that would greet them in the morning. He thought about the secret life they were building in the shadows of the world's fastest sport.
If this was the only way he could have her, by being the man who paid for the luxury and kept the secrets, then he would be the best "Daddy" the world had ever seen. Even if it meant his heart had to break a little more every time she smiled at the idea of him with someone else.
—
The room was silent now as Oscar lay on his side, his head propped up on his hand, staring at her face. The neon glow from the window caught the damp trail of a dried tear on her cheek, a remnant of the intensity from earlier, and it made his chest tighten with a familiar, crushing weight.
He reached out, his fingers hovering just millimeters away from her skin, wanting to touch her but terrified of waking her and having to put the mask back on.
I love you.
They had said it. In the heat of the moment, in the aftermath of the terror with Marcus, those three words had been their lifeline. When he had been ready to burn his entire life to the ground, to let the investigator leak the files, to let the sponsors walk, to let the world see him for exactly who he was, he had done it because he loved her more than the seat in the MCL38. He had been willing to drown his career just to keep her head above water.
But today... today had felt like a cold shower.
He thought about the way she had beamed at him in the car. The way she had logically, calmly explained why he should date Naomi. How she had dismissed his hatred for the fake narrative as something they could just "work around" in the shadows of hotel rooms.
Why can't you fight for me? the thought echoed in his mind, bitter and hollow.
If she loved him, the man, not the provider, why was she so willing to share him? Why wasn't she angry? He wanted her to be selfish. He wanted her to grip his hand and tell Sarah to find another way. He wanted her to tell him that she couldn't stand the thought of another woman’s hand on his chest, even for a photo op.
Instead, she had handed him over with a smile and a "Daddy."
It felt like a fundamental misalignment. He was ready to be her hero, her partner, her husband in everything but name. But to her, it seemed he was still just a role she needed him to play. A sugar daddy. A protector with a black card. A secret to be kept safe so the "arrangement" wouldn't be compromised.
He felt a sudden, sharp pang of loneliness, even with her body pressed against his. He wondered if she truly saw him at all, or if she only saw the safety he provided. Was her "I love you" just a response to his protection, or was it for Oscar Piastri, the boy from Melbourne who just wanted to be enough for her without the luxury?
Oscar let out a long, silent sigh, finally closing his eyes. He pulled her closer, his arm draping over her waist in a possessive, aching grip. He would do the Naomi narrative. He would play the part. He would keep being the man who paid the bills and kept the secrets.
He would be her "Daddy" because he was too terrified to find out what would happen if he demanded to be her everything. If this was the only way she knew how to love him, he would take the scraps and call it a feast, even as the silence of the room mocked him with the truth.
—
Stifling heat wrapped around race day in Miami as they stepped out of the team transport and into the paddock, where the familiar gauntlet of cameras and fans surged forward. Oscar instinctively moved to create a barrier between her and the crowd, his hand hovering near the small of her back without ever touching. The driver Oscar was back in full force, his expression unreadable behind his dark sunglasses.
They were halfway to the McLaren hospitality unit when the sea of people parted, and Naomi appeared. She was dressed in a sleek, white linen outfit that screamed effortless wealth, her camera-ready smile brightening the moment she spotted them.
"Oscar! There you are," Naomi chirped, her voice projecting perfectly for the nearby boom mics. She ignored the professional distance Oscar was trying to maintain and stepped directly into their path, forcing them to stop.
She glanced at the girl standing beside Oscar, the "best friend,” and gave a polite, practiced nod before turning her full attention back to the driver. "I just wanted to make sure we’re still on for tonight. Sarah sent me the details for the dinner after the race. At nine? I’ve already told the press I’m looking forward to celebrating your podium finish."
Oscar’s jaw tightened so hard the muscle leaped in his cheek. He felt a wave of nausea at the calculated nature of it all, the way Naomi was claiming his time, his image, and his night, right in front of the woman he actually loved. He looked down at Naomi, his eyes cold and flat. He didn't speak. The silence stretched, becoming awkward, a heavy void that the cameras were greedily capturing. He was seconds away from saying something that would ruin Sarah’s carefully constructed plan.
But before he could utter a word of protest, she stepped forward.
"Oh, he’ll definitely be there!" she said, her voice bright and bubbling with that same joyful, supportive tone she’d used in the car. She beamed at Naomi, her eyes crinkling in a way that looked entirely too genuine. "He’s been looking forward to a good meal after the race. I’ll make sure he’s on time and looking his best for you."
Oscar felt like he’d been slapped. He looked down at her, his heart sinking into his stomach. Every word she spoke was like another brick in the wall she was building between them. He hated that tone, the "best friend," the "arrangement partner." It was the sound of her giving him away with a smile. It was the sound of her choosing the secret over him.
Naomi’s smile widened, her eyes flickering with a hint of triumph. "Perfect. I’ll see you then, Oscar. Good luck out there today." She reached out, patting Oscar’s arm before gliding away toward the VIP section, trailed by a flock of photographers.
The cameras followed Naomi, leaving the two of them in a brief pocket of relative privacy. Oscar didn't move. He stood frozen, staring at the spot where Naomi had been, his hands curled into white-knuckled fists at his sides.
"Why do you do that?" he asked, his voice a low, jagged whisper that barely carried over the roar of the pre-race festivities. He didn't look at her. He couldn't. "Why do you say it like you’re happy about it?"
"Oscar, the cameras were right there," she whispered back, still maintaining that pleasant, neutral expression just in case anyone was still watching. "I’m just helping. This is what we agreed on, remember? It’s just business."
Just business.
Oscar finally looked at her, and the raw, silent hurt in his eyes was enough to shatter the humid air. He wanted to tell her that it wasn't business to him. He wanted to tell her that hearing her "pimp him out" to a model felt worse than any engine failure or crash. But he saw the way she was holding herself, the way she was playing her part so perfectly and he realized she didn't want the truth. She wanted the arrangement.
"Right," he rasped, his voice cold and hollow. "Business."
He turned and walked toward the garage without another word, his stride long and purposeful. He had a race to run, a podium to fight for, and a dinner to attend with a woman he didn't want. And as he pulled on his balaclava and helmet, he welcomed the silence of the carbon-fiber cockpit. It was the only place left where he didn't have to hear her being "happy" about losing him.
—
Oscar pushed the car harder than ever. There was a raw, predatory recklessness in his driving that the whole paddock had never seen from him before. He wasn’t being precise, he was out there driving like a guy with a full-on death wish.
He took the kerbs at Turn 11 so hard the car vibrated violently, his hands white-knuckled around the steering wheel. Every time he thought of her voice, that cheerful, bubbly tone as she handed him over to Naomi, he pushed the throttle deeper.
"Oscar, we’re seeing some high oscillation on the sensors. You're pushing the entry speeds too far. Watch the tires, we need to make this one-stop work," his strategist's voice crackled over the radio, calm but laced with underlying concern.
"Copy," Oscar snapped, his voice a low, dangerous growl. He didn't slow down. He dove down the inside of Lewis with a move so aggressive it forced the Ferrari driver to take evasive action.
"Oscar, that was late. Very late," the radio crackled again. "Settle down. We have P2 secured if you just bring it home. Don't throw it away."
Throw it away, Oscar thought bitterly, his vision tunneling. Everything is already thrown away.
Somehow, through the red mist, he crossed the line. P2. A career-best finish in Miami. But as he stood on the podium, showered in champagne and fake cheers, his eyes weren't on the trophy. They were searching the back of the garage.
The moment he was cleared from the post-race media duties, he retreated to his private dressing room to change. He didn't even have his fireproofs halfway down before she burst in, the door slamming against the wall.
"What were you thinking?!" she screamed, her voice high and trembling with pure terror. She marched right up to him, her face flushed. "You were driving like a lunatic, Oscar! I watched the telemetry, I watched the on-boards, you almost clipped the wall three times! You could have crashed! You could have been hurt! Do you have any idea what it felt like watching that?"
Oscar didn't even look at her. He sat on the bench, peeling the damp Nomex from his shoulders, his movements slow and mechanical. He ignored her, the silence between them stretching until it felt like it would snap.
"Answer me!" she pushed, her hand reaching out to grab his shoulder to force him to look at her. "Oscar, I’m talking to you! You can't just—"
In a flash of movement that blurred the air, Oscar surged upward. He grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her back, pinning her against the cold, hard wall of the trailer. The impact knocked the breath out of her, and she gasped, her eyes wide as she looked up into a face she didn't recognize.
"Stop talking," Oscar hissed, his face inches from hers. His pupils were blown wide, his blue eyes dark with a suppressed, jagged fury. "I don't want to hear another word from you. Not one."
"Oscar... I was just worried about you," she whispered, her voice shaking, tears of shock welling in her eyes. "I thought I was going to lose you out there..."
"I'm still okay, aren't I?" he spat, the words dripping with a cold, cruel sarcasm. He didn't let go, his grip bruising her arms before he abruptly released her, the sudden lack of pressure making her stumble. "I'm alive. The car is fine. The brand is intact. Now, shut up."
He turned his back on her, grabbing his evening suit from the rack with a violent jerk.
"Oscar, what is wrong with you?" she asked, her voice small and broken. "I’m just worried about you—"
"I don't need you to be worried right now," he muttered, not looking back. "I have a dinner to get to. Go home."
She stood frozen for a moment, heart shattered and mind racing as she desperately tried to understand what she had done to deserve this cold version of him. She hated the way he looked at her, as though she were a nuisance, just another exhausting part of the job he was tired of performing.
Without a word, she turned and walked out, her head down as she navigated the crowded paddock, ignoring the fans and the lights. She caught a solo ride back to the hotel, the silence of the backseat a hollow reminder of how quickly their "arrangement" had turned into a nightmare.
Meanwhile, back in the trailer, Oscar stood in front of the mirror. He straightened his tie, his hands steady, though his heart was a jagged mess of ice and fire. He looked at the P2 trophy on the table and felt nothing. He had a job to do. He had to be the rising star. He had to take Naomi to dinner.
He walked out of the garage, his jaw set, ready to play the part she had so happily scripted for him.
—
Elegance filled the restaurant with a symphony of clinking crystal and hushed elite conversations, tucked away in a quiet corner of Miami where a single bottle of wine could cover a year’s tuition. Oscar sat beneath the soft amber glow of a designer chandelier, yet the warmth failed to reach him. He felt encased in ice, his tuxedo jacket constricting across his shoulders like a straitjacket.
Naomi sat across from him, the light catching the diamonds at her throat. She was a professional, she knew exactly how to tilt her head to catch the flicker of the candlelight, how to rest her chin on her hand so the paparazzi outside the frosted windows got the perfect "candid" shot of a woman enthralled by her date.
"You're doing it," Naomi murmured, her voice smooth and devoid of any real heat. She didn't look at him, she was focused on elegantly deconstructing a piece of sea bass. "The thousand-yard stare. If you're going to look that miserable, you might as well have stayed in the garage. The cameras are watching, Oscar. Give them something to work with. Smile. Touch my hand. Act like you just took a podium in the most glamorous city on the calendar."
Oscar didn't move. He looked at his own hands, the ones that had been white-knuckled on a steering wheel at three hundred kilometers per hour just hours ago. The same hands that had gripped his best friend’s shoulders and shoved her against the cold, hard wall of his dressing room.
"I’m tired," he said, his voice a flat, hollow rasp. He felt a sickening twist in his gut every time he replayed the scene in the trailer. The way her eyes had widened in shock. The way the light had died in them when he told her to shut up. He had seen her terrified before, when Marcus had been looming over her, but this was different. This time, he was the monster. He was the one she was afraid of.
"We're all tired," Naomi replied, her tone shifting. The flirtatious mask she’d worn for the entrance dropped, revealing a woman who looked just as bored as he felt. She leaned back, resting her wine glass against her lip. "But some of us get paid to hide it."
Oscar looked up, his brow furrowing. "Paid? Sarah said you were 'interested' in the sport. That you wanted to be part of the brand."
Naomi let out a dry, melodic laugh that didn't reach her eyes. "Oscar, don't be naive. You're a brilliant driver, but I have a life in Paris and a schedule that doesn't include standing in a humid paddock in Florida. Sarah is paying my management a 'representation fee' to be your public interest for the next few races. I’m a line item in your PR budget. That’s it."
The admission left Oscar breathless. He was sitting in this temple of excess with a woman who was literally on the clock, while the only person who had ever looked at him without seeing a "brand" was back at the hotel, possibly crying because of him. He had chosen this. He had allowed Sarah to dictate his reality, and in doing so, he had treated the woman who loved him like she was disposable.
He thought of her in the dressing room, her voice trembling as she told him she was just worried. She had watched him drive like a man with a death wish, because he was driving like one, fueled by a petty, selfish anger that she wouldn't "fight" for him. He had punished her for being the very thing he’d asked her to be. A secret.
I'm still okay, aren't I? Now, shut up.
The echo of his own voice made him want to retch. He had used his strength to silence her, to dismiss her care as a nuisance. He had looked at her crushed expression and walked away to put on a suit for a paid stranger.
"I'm a jerk," he whispered into his glass, the realization sinking in like lead. He was a man who had broken his own heart by trying to break hers.
"You're a man in a complicated situation," Naomi said, her professional mask sliding back into place as she noticed a flash from a camera near the bar. She leaned forward, her hand fluttering toward his on the table. "Now, lean in. Look at me like you’re telling me a secret. We have twenty more minutes of this before we can go our separate ways. Don't make me work harder for the check than I have to."
Oscar leaned in, but he didn't see Naomi. He saw the dark hallway of the hotel. He saw the closed door of the suite. He saw the shadow of the man he had become, and he realized that P2 meant absolutely nothing if he had to lose himself, and her, to keep it.
—
Oscar made the driver stop at a 24-hour gourmet cafe, his hands trembling slightly as he grabbed her absolute favorite, a thick, decadent iced chocolate drink, topped with a mountain of extra whipped cream. He then ducked into a boutique jeweler next door that was just closing, emerging with a small, velvet-lined box containing a delicate gold anklet.
When he finally swiped his key card and stepped into the dim suite, the silence was heavy. She was curled up on the far side of the oversized bed, still wearing his hoodie, her back turned to him in a silent, rigid protest.
Oscar set the drink and the gift on the nightstand. He stood there for a long moment, drowning in regret.
"Baby?" he called out, his voice barely a whisper, thick with exhaustion.
She didn't move. "Go away, Oscar."
The bite in her voice was deserved. He sat on the edge of the mattress, the bed sinking under his weight. "Have you eaten? I brought you something. Your chocolate drink. And a little something else."
"I'm not hungry," she muttered into the pillow.
Oscar reached out, his hand hesitating before he gently rested it on her hip. "I know you’re upset. I know I was a monster in the dressing room." He leaned over, his lips brushing the fabric of the hoodie near her ear. "Daddy’s sorry, baby. I was frustrated and I took it out on you. That was wrong. Can you forgive Daddy for being so difficult?"
She finally turned over, her eyes red-rimmed, but her expression had shifted from hurt to a sharp, bratty defiance. She sat up, crossing her arms over her chest, looking him up and down with a judgmental pout.
"You think a drink makes it okay?" she challenged, her voice tilting into that playful, demanding tone he both loved and feared. "You were mean, Daddy. You were a big, scary, grumpy driver who told me to shut up. Maybe I don't want to forgive you. Maybe I want you to work for it."
Oscar let out a shaky breath, a small, relieved smile tugging at his lips. "I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll work for it all night if I have to. Just please don't be mad at me anymore."
"Hmph." She looked at the velvet box with a feigned air of boredom. "Is that the gift? It’s probably ugly."
"Open it and see," he coaxed, sliding the box toward her.
She flipped it open, her eyes widening slightly at the shimmer of the gold anklet, but she quickly masked it. "It’s... alright. I guess. I've seen better." She looked at him through her lashes, her inner brat taking full control. "If Daddy wants me to wear it, he has to put it on me. On his knees."
Oscar didn't hesitate. He dropped to his knees on the carpeted floor, his heart hammering as he carefully took her ankle in his hand. He felt like a devotee at an altar. As he clicked the clasp into place, he looked up at her. "There. Is that better, baby?"
She didn't answer right away. Instead, she reached for the chocolate drink, eyeing the whipped cream critically. "The straw isn't even in yet. Honestly, Daddy, your service is lacking tonight."
Oscar chuckled, reaching up to guide the straw to her lips. She took a long, slow sip, her eyes closing as the sugar hit her system. The tension finally drained from her shoulders, and a small, involuntary hum of delight escaped her.
"Fine," she whispered against the straw, her eyes snapping open with a mischievous glint. "I guess I can forgive you. But only because this chocolate is perfect. And because you look cute when you’re begging."
She lunged forward then, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him up onto the bed with her. She buried her face in his neck, her voice turning soft and sweet again. "Don't ever do that again, Daddy. I don't like it when you're mean to me."
"I won't," Oscar promised, holding her so tight it felt like he was trying to merge their heartbeats.
She took another long, satisfied sip of the chocolate drink, the whipped cream leaving a tiny white dot on the tip of her nose. Oscar watched her, his chest finally feeling light enough to breathe. He reached out, his thumb gently swiping the cream away before he leaned in to kiss the spot he’d just cleared.
"I haven't said it yet," she whispered, her voice losing its bratty edge as she set the cup down on the nightstand. She reached out, her fingers tracing the sharp, tired lines of his face. "Congratulations, Oscar. P2... after everything that happened with the car in practice, it’s incredible. I’m so proud of you."
Oscar closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. "Thank you, baby."
"But," she added, her tone suddenly turning serious, her eyes locking onto his with a firm, maternal intensity that brooked no argument. "Don't you ever drive like that again. Do you hear me?"
Oscar opened his eyes, seeing the lingering shadow of the fear he’d put her through earlier that afternoon.
"I’m serious, Oscar," she continued, her voice trembling just a fraction. "I don't care about the points, and I don't care about the podium. If you drive recklessly because you're mad at me, or mad at Sarah, or just mad at the world... you’re going to get hurt. And I can’t…I won’t watch that. If Daddy wants to stay in my good graces, he has to promise to be safe. No more stunts."
Oscar felt a wave of profound shame wash over him. He realized then that while he was busy being upset that she wouldn't "fight" for him publicly, she was fighting every single second just to keep her composure while he put his life on the line.
"I promise," he murmured, his voice thick with sincerity. He took her hand, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to her palm. "I was an idiot. I let my head get messy, and I forgot that you were waiting for me. It won't happen again. I'll be safe for you."
"Good," she whispered, the last of her defenses finally melting away. She crawled into his lap, tucking her head under his chin and wrapping her arms tightly around his neck. "Because P2 looks a lot better when you're walking around to celebrate it, not stuck in a medical center."
Oscar held her close, the gold anklet he’d just put on her shimmering in the dim light of the room. He knew the "Naomi" drama wasn't over, and he knew they still had a long way to go before the shadows felt like home, but for tonight, he was content just being the man who had been forgiven by the only person who truly mattered.
"Got it, baby," he whispered into her hair.
—
Oscar dropped his gear bag by the entryway the moment they arrived at their apartment and immediately stepped into her space, his arms winding around her waist with a desperate, heavy finality. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the familiar scent of her shampoo, free from the lingering smell of paddock exhaust and Naomi’s expensive perfume.
"Finally," he groaned, his voice muffled against her skin, his grip tightening as if he were making sure she was actually there and not another PR hallucination. "Just you and me. No cameras, no Sarah, no scripted dinners."
He held her there for a long beat. In the privacy of these walls, he didn't have to pretend. Yet, even as he breathed her in, the ghost of Miami lingered in the back of his mind. He still couldn't wrap his head around how she could watch him walk into a restaurant with another woman and be fine with it. It gnawed at him, the fear that her heart wasn't as invested as his.
But as she leaned back against him, sighing into his chest, he made a silent, grim pact with himself. If being her "Daddy" was the only role that kept him in this apartment, he would play it perfectly. He would fake date the entire paddock if that was the "arrangement" she required to stay. He was hers, utterly and pathologically, even if the price was a scripted lie to the rest of the world.
"I missed this," she whispered, patting his arms. "I missed us."
"Me too, baby," he murmured, kissing her temple.
The peaceful moment was interrupted by the sharp, familiar chime of the doorbell. Oscar pulled back reluctantly, smoothing his shirt. "That’ll be your parents."
Her parents walked in, smiling warmly, carrying a travel crate and a small bag of premium kibble. They had been cat-sitting Noodle while the pair were in Miami.
"There they are! P2! We saw the highlights on the news," her father beamed, clapping Oscar on the shoulder.
"Great job, Oscar," her mother added, giving him a quick, maternal hug. "We kept Noodle entertained, but I think he knew you were gone."
"Thanks for watching him," Oscar said, his voice polite and controlled, his posture shifting into that of the respectful, reliable "best friend" her parents had known for years. He didn't dare call her "baby" or even look at her with too much heat while they were in the room.
She immediately dropped to her knees near the travel crate, her face lighting up. "Noodle! Come here, my sweet boy! Mommy’s home!"
She unlatched the door, expecting the cat to stroll out and rub against her face as he usually did. Instead, a blur of fur shot out of the crate. Noodle didn't even glance in her direction. He ignored her outstretched hands entirely, his tail twitching with excitement as he sprinted across the rug, his claws lightly catching the fabric.
The cat ran straight to Oscar.
Noodle let out a loud, demanding meow and began weaving frantic figure-eights around Oscar’s ankles, purring so loudly it could be heard across the room. He stood up on his hind legs, stretching his front paws up to lean against Oscar’s jeans.
"Hey! Traitor!" she laughed, sitting back on her heels and shaking her head. "I’m the one who takes care of you, Noodle! Come here!"
Oscar looked down at the cat, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He knelt down, scratching Noodle right under the chin where he liked it best. He glanced up at her, a flash of secret, playful triumph in his eyes that only she would understand.
"Sorry," Oscar said to her parents, his voice smooth and professional, though his eyes stayed locked on hers. "I guess he missed his favorite person."
Her father settled into the armchair, leaning forward with a curious glint in his eyes that usually preceded a "dad talk." He tapped his phone screen, where a grainy screenshot of Oscar and Naomi at the restaurant was prominently displayed on a news site.
"So, Oscar," her dad started, his tone hovering somewhere between casual interest and protective interrogation. "The headlines are moving pretty fast. Is this Naomi girl the real deal? The news is making it sound like you two are the new 'it' couple of the paddock."
Oscar felt a familiar tightening in his chest. He looked at her, his actual life,sitting on the floor with Noodle, before forcing himself to look her father in the eye. He couldn't tell them it was a cold, calculated PR stunt choreographed by Sarah, that would lead to too many questions about why he needed a cover story in the first place.
"The media likes to get ahead of itself, especially in Miami," Oscar said, his voice smooth and practiced. "Naomi is... she’s a friend of the team. We were at the same event and grabbed dinner. You know how the paparazzi work, they see two people at a table and they’ve practically moved them into a house together by dessert."
"So, no 'Power Couple' status yet?" her dad pressed with a chuckle.
"I'm focused on the championship," Oscar replied with a polite, non-committal shrug. "My personal life isn't nearly as exciting as the tabloids want it to be. It's mostly just debriefs and early mornings."
Her father laughed, shaking his head as he glanced between Oscar and his daughter. "Well, that's a relief. I tell you, the internet is a wild place. We've been seeing news where people were convinced that you two were the ones secretly dating."
He gestured between them, clearly finding the idea hilarious. "I told your mother, 'Can you imagine?' These two? They've been thick as thieves since they were kids. It’d be like dating a sibling. I told the neighbors, 'Don't believe everything you read, they're just best friends!'"
Oscar felt a sharp, stinging irony at the word sibling. He forced a small, tight laugh to join in, though it felt like ash in his throat. He looked down at the cat, who was still purring contentedly against his leg, and then flicked a glance toward her.
"Yeah," Oscar said, his voice steady despite the chaos in his head. "People will come up with anything for a click, I guess. We're just lucky we know the truth, right?"
He looked at her, the secret of the "Daddy" she’d whispered in the dark and the "arrangement" they shared burning behind his eyes, invisible to the man sitting just three feet away. It was the perfect cover, and yet, hearing her father dismiss the idea of them so completely made Oscar want to do exactly what he’d promised not to, drive recklessly and tell the whole world the truth.
Her mother, who had been quietly setting a box of tea on the counter, let out a soft snort at her husband’s "sibling" comment. She turned around, leaning against the marble island with a knowing, playful smile that made the air in the room feel suddenly thin.
"Oh, hush," she said, waving a hand dismissively at her husband. "Don't listen to him. You know he thinks no one is ever going to be good enough."
She shifted her gaze to Oscar, her eyes twinkling with a warmth that was far more dangerous than the father's skepticism. "Honestly, I think the fans might be onto something. I’ve always said Oscar would be good for her. He’s stable, he’s focused, and he’s already stuck by her side through everything. It’d certainly save us the trouble of getting to know someone new."
"Mom!" she gasped from the floor, her face flushing a deep, sudden crimson. She busied herself with Noodle, burying her face in the cat’s fur to hide the sheer panic in her expression. "Don't say things like that. It’s weird."
Oscar felt his heart do a slow, heavy roll in his chest. For a split second, the mask slipped, and he caught her eye, a silent, electric moment of what if. The irony was almost unbearable, her parents were joking about a reality that was actually happening behind closed doors, yet they were treating it like a comedy sketch.
"See?" her mother laughed, nudging her husband. "Look at her getting all flustered. I’m just saying, Oscar, if you ever get tired of the supermodels, the position is open. We already know you look good in the family photos."
Oscar cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck as he felt the heat creep up his own collar. He had to be careful. One wrong look, one lingering touch, and the "best friend" narrative would crumble right in front of them.
"I think I’m already high enough on the 'family' list as it is," Oscar said, his voice forcedly casual, though his pulse was racing. He looked down at her, seeing the way her shoulders were shaking, not from laughter, but from the sheer stress of the secret. "I don't want to lose my 'best friend' status by being a bad boyfriend, right?"
"Spoken like a true diplomat," her father chuckled, standing up to head toward the kitchen. "Come on, let’s get this tea started."
As her parents moved toward the kitchen, Oscar stayed where he was for a moment. He looked down at her, and the playful brat from the hotel room was gone, replaced by a girl who looked like she was holding her breath. He reached down, to pet Noodle, but his fingers brushed against hers for a fleeting, forbidden second.
If only they knew, he thought, the weight of the lie feeling heavier than ever. If only they knew I was already yours.
The conversation shifted as her mother poured the tea, the domestic clink of spoons against porcelain settling the room into a more serious tone. Her father leaned back, his eyes moving from the P2 highlights on the TV to his daughter, who was still seated on the floor with Noodle.
"So, now that the graduation festivities are finally over," her father began, his voice taking on that supportive yet expectant parental edge. "What’s the move? You’ve got that Accountancy degree in your hand. Have you looked into the enrollment dates for the CPA program yet? Or are you looking at the CA route?"
Oscar, who had been mid-sip, paused. He lowered his mug slowly, his eyes narrowing as he looked at her.
"I think," she started, her voice a little too breezy as she smoothed down Noodle’s fur, "I'm just going to enjoy my free time for a while. It was a long four years. I want to travel a bit, maybe just... decompress before I dive into the licensure exam prep and the formal program."
"Well, don't wait too long," her mother added gently. "You don't want all that technical knowledge to get rusty. It’s a grueling program once you start."
Oscar didn't say a word, but his gaze was heavy, burning into the side of her face with a suspicious intensity. He knew every inch of her life, or he thought he did. In the months they had been "arranged," the topic of her career had never really come up as a serious reality. In his mind, she didn't have to work. That was the point of the apartment, the allowance, and the luxury. He provided so she could simply be.
The mention of a CPA program, of a future that involved her sitting in an office or buried in ledgers, felt completely foreign to the girl he spent his nights with. She had never mentioned a plan. She had never talked about wanting to start a career.
He felt a strange, uncomfortable prickle of unease. Was this a performance for her parents, or was there an entire side of her life, a plan for independence, that she was keeping from him?
"The CPA program is quite the commitment," Oscar said, his voice deceptively smooth, though he was watching her reaction like a hawk. "Lots of late nights and long hours. Are you sure you're ready to jump into that after the break?"
She caught the underlying edge in his tone and finally looked up, her eyes meeting his for a fraction of a second. "It’s just the natural next step, Oscar. You know that."
Oscar felt a hollow thud in his chest. He realized that he didn't know the "natural next step" of her life at all. He knew what she liked to drink, he knew how she liked to be touched, and he knew how to keep her safe. But as her parents talked about her future, he realized he was looking at a girl who might be planning a life that didn't involve being a secret in a racing driver’s shadow forever.
He took another sip of tea, the liquid suddenly tasting bitter. He didn't like the thought of her having a plan that didn't require him. He didn't like the thought of her needing a "next step" when he was ready to give her the world.
"Of course," Oscar murmured, his voice cold and distant. "The natural next step. I'm sure you'll be great at it."
—
The door had barely clicked shut behind her parents before the air in the apartment shifted from domestic warmth to a heavy, pressurized silence. Oscar stood by the kitchen island, his fingers tracing the rim of his empty mug, his mind racing through the conversation he had just overheard.
He cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the quiet room. He hesitated, looking at her as she gathered up Noodle’s stray toys from the floor.
"So," he began, his voice low and carefully neutral. "The CPA program. You’re actually serious about that?"
She looked up, startled by the sudden change in his energy. "Yeah. I mean, I have the degree, Oscar. It would be a waste not to."
Oscar walked toward her, his expression darkening with a protective, almost possessive concern. "You know what that entails. I saw you during finals. You’re going to have to spend so many sleepless nights again. Nights where you’re going to be crying at your desk because the stress is through the roof and the exams are designed to break you. Why would you want to go back to that?"
She didn't look intimidated. Instead, a playful, knowing smile tugged at her lips. She stood up, closing the distance between them until she was close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. She looped her arms around his neck, her fingers tangling in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him down to her level.
"Why?" she whispered, her eyes dancing with mischief. "Do you already miss me just by thinking about it, Daddy?"
Oscar’s resolve flickered. He looked down at her, his hands instinctively finding her waist to steady her. He let out a weary, frustrated sigh, his forehead dropping to rest against hers.
"Okay... yes," he admitted, his voice dropping to a vulnerable rasp. "I do. But it’s more than that. I just... I hated the sight of you looking so stressed out. I hated watching you cry over professors and work and endless lines of numbers. I know you’re good at it, better than anyone I know, but I hate that it hurts you."
He tightened his grip on her, his thumbs tracing the line of her hips. "You don't have to do it. You know that. I can take care of everything. I want to take care of everything."
Her smile softened, the "bratty" playfulness fading into something much deeper and more grounded. She pulled back just enough to look him squarely in the eye, her expression turning uncharacteristically serious.
"Oscar," she said, her voice firm. "I love that you want to take care of me. I love this... whatever this is that we have. But I want a career for myself. I want to know that I can stand on my own two feet, even if I never have to."
She reached up, cupping his face with both hands, her thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. "I want to build something of my own. I want to work hard, and pass those exams, and have my own success..."
She paused, her gaze softening with an intensity that made his heart stop. "...because I want to make you proud."
Oscar stared at her, the words hitting him harder than any physical impact. He had been so focused on keeping her safe and "provided for" that he hadn't realized her ambition was fueled by her love for him. He looked at her and realized that his heart was even deeper in his chest than he'd thought.
"You already make me proud," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "You don't need a license for that."
"I know," she smiled, pulling him into a kiss that tasted like a promise. "But I’m going to get it anyway."
Oscar stared at her for a long beat, his eyes searching hers. He saw the fire in them, the same quiet, stubborn determination that he felt when he was sitting on the grid waiting for the lights to go out. He realized that trying to keep her in a gilded cage, even a comfortable one, would only dim the light he loved so much.
He let out a long, defeated breath, but this time it was filled with a soft, relenting smile. He slid his hands from her waist to the small of her back, pulling her flush against him.
"Alright," he murmured, his voice thick with a new kind of pride. "If that’s what my baby wants, then that’s what we’re doing. I’m not going to be the one to hold you back."
He leaned down, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to her forehead. "I'll be there for every sleepless night. I’ll make the coffee, I’ll buy the textbooks, and I’ll be the one holding you when the numbers start to blur. I’m in your corner, through and through. Always."
She beamed up at him, the radiance of her smile making the entire apartment feel warmer. She tightened her hold around his neck, her fingers playing with the collar of his shirt.
"I know you will," she whispered, her voice returning to that sweet, slightly playful tone that always worked him over. "I know Daddy will be watching me. Making sure I’m always doing my best and staying on track."
She tilted her head, a mischievous glint returning to her eyes. "And maybe... rewarding me when I pass my practice exams?"
Oscar huffed a laugh, his eyes darkening with a familiar, possessive warmth. The idea of her working hard, of her being ambitious and brilliant, only made him want her more. It wasn't just about providing anymore, it was about being the partner of the woman she was becoming.
"You have no idea," he rasped, his hands sliding down to rest firmly on her hips again. "I’ll be watching very closely. And I expect nothing but top marks."
He leaned in, his lips hovering just an inch from hers. "But remember... no matter how busy you get with those books, you’re still mine first. Don't let the accounting world think they can have more of your time than I do."
"Never," she promised, closing the gap between them.
—
With a rare three-day gap in the schedule before the relentless machine of McLaren marketing kicked into gear, Oscar had pulled every string he had to secure a private villa tucked away from the prying eyes of the European paparazzi. It was meant to be a getaway, just them, the sea, and a total blackout from the racing world.
But before they could even leave the apartment, the vacation had already begun in the form of a whirlwind "wardrobe intervention."
Oscar stood by the bed, looking down at his open suitcase with a look of mild bewilderment. He had packed his essentials, three plain white tees, two pairs of black shorts, and his favorite worn-in hoodie. To him, it was efficient. To her, it was a crime against the aesthetic.
"Absolutely not," she chirped, dumping a pile of linen and soft pastels onto the duvet. She began tossing his basic tees back into his dresser with ruthless efficiency. "We are going to a private cove, Oscar. You are not wearing a sponsor-adjacent color palette for seventy-two hours. You’re going to look like a man on holiday, not a man waiting for a pit stop."
"It’s just a shirt," Oscar protested, though his voice lacked any real conviction. He watched as she held up a sage-green linen button-down against his chest, her tongue poking out slightly in concentration.
"It’s an identity, Daddy," she teased, flashing him a bright, impish grin as she tucked the shirt into his bag. "I want you in soft fabrics. I want you looking relaxed. I’ve already picked out my matching sets, so the least you can do is keep up."
She moved with an infectious, buzzing energy, fluttering between her closet and his, holding up outfits and debating between tan loafers and leather sandals. She looked so genuinely thrilled, her eyes wide and sparkling, that Oscar didn't have the heart to tell her he’d rather just wear his team kit.
"Fine," he sighed, reaching out to catch her by the waist as she tried to zip past him with a pair of tailored cream trousers. He pulled her flush against him, his resistance melting into a soft, relenting chuckle. "If it makes you happy, I'll wear the linen. I'll even wear the sandals. But I draw the line at anything with a floral print."
"We’ll see about that," she whispered, looping her arms around his neck and bopping his nose. "Now, be a good boy and finish packing what I laid out. Daddy wants to look his best for me, doesn't he?"
Oscar watched her as she skipped back to her own suitcase, humming a light tune. In that moment, a wave of something heavy and profound crashed over him. He felt deeply, hopelessly, and terrifyingly in love with her. It wasn't just the way she looked, but the way she breathed life into his sterile, calculated world. She was the only person who looked at him and saw a man who needed more color in his wardrobe and more joy in his life.
He wanted to say it. The words were right there, vibrating in his throat, threatening to break through the "arrangement" and the "Daddy" persona and the "best friend" lies. He wanted to tell her that he’d wear a neon pink suit if it meant he got to keep seeing that specific, radiant smile for the rest of his life.
But he stayed silent. He couldn't risk the balance they had found. He couldn't risk her realizing just how much power she truly held over him, that he wasn't just her benefactor, but her captive.
"I'll look however you want me to look," he murmured, his voice thick with a truth he wasn't ready to name.
"Good answer," she called out over her shoulder, tossing a silk scarf into her bag. "I knew you’d see it my way."
Oscar just smiled, quietly folding the sage-green shirt. He was a man who lived for the thrill of the chase, but as he watched her vibrate with excitement for their three days of peace, he realized he had already found his finish line. He was hers, completely and irrevocably, linen shirts and all.
—
The private jet was a far cry from the cramped commercial flights of their youth, but even the sprawling leather seats couldn't contain her energy. She was a whirlwind of motion, flitting from the window to check the view of the sparkling Mediterranean below, to her phone to show him the local bakery she’d researched, and then back to him just to bounce on her heels.
"Oscar, look! The water is literally turquoise. I’ve never seen anything like it," she exclaimed, pressing her face against the cool glass. She turned back to him, her eyes wide with a childlike wonder that always managed to pierce through his calm exterior. "Are we really staying right on the cliff? Can we jump off into the water?"
Oscar sat back, a glass of water in hand, watching her with a steady, indulgent smile. He didn't need the view outside, the only scenery he cared about was right in front of him. "The villa has its own private dock," he said softly, his voice grounded and warm. "So yes, you can jump in as many times as you want. Just try not to scare the fish."
"No promises!" she chirped, skipping over to drop into the seat opposite him. She reached out, kicking her feet playfully. "I’m going to wear that white linen set first. And you’re wearing the tan one. We’re going to look like we’re in a movie, Daddy."
Oscar’s smile deepened, but as he looked at her, so bright, so full of life and unburdened joy, a quiet ache settled in his chest. This was it. This was the life he dreamed of during those lonely 20-hour flights to races or the high-stress debriefs in Woking. Not the trophies, not the fame, but this. The quiet, the privacy, and her.
He watched the way her hair caught the sunlight streaming through the cabin, and for a fleeting moment, he let himself hope. He hoped that one day, the "arrangement" wouldn't be necessary. He hoped that she would eventually grow tired of the shadows and the fake "Naomi" headlines.
He found himself wishing, praying, even, that she would start to feel the same desperate need for the world to know the truth. He wanted her to look at him not just as her protector or her provider, but as the man she couldn't stand to share with the public eye. He wanted her to fight for him the way he was ready to fight for her, to see her get just a little bit jealous, a little bit possessive.
Fight for me, he thought, his gaze lingering on her laughing face. Don't just be okay with the lies. Tell me you want me all to yourself.
But as she reached across the table to grab his hand, her thumb stroking his knuckles, he pushed the thought down. He wouldn't ruin this. He wouldn't break the peace.
"Whatever you want, baby," he murmured, his voice a low, secret vow. "As long as you're happy, I'm happy."
"I am happy," she whispered, her gaze softening for a rare, serious second as she squeezed his hand. "Thank you for this, Daddy."
Oscar just nodded, his heart heavy with a love he was too terrified to name, content, for now, to be the man who made her world beautiful, even if he had to stay a secret to do it.
—
The villa was everything the brochure had promised, and more. Perched precariously on a limestone cliff, the whitewashed walls seemed to glow against the deep, impossible blue of the Mediterranean. As soon as the housekeeper handed over the keys and disappeared, she was a blur of motion, running from room to room, throwing open the floor-to-ceiling windows to let the sea breeze swirl through the house.
"Oscar, look at the pool! It looks like it just falls off into the ocean!" she shouted from the terrace.
Oscar followed at a slower pace, his hands shoved into the pockets of the new linen trousers she’d picked out for him. He felt lighter here. The constant pressure of being Oscar Piastri, McLaren Driver had stayed behind at the airport. Here, he was just a man watching the person he loved most in the world rediscover her joy.
"It’s beautiful, baby," he said, stepping out onto the hot stone of the terrace.
She turned around, already halfway out of her travel clothes, her eyes sparkling with that bratty, infectious mischief. "It’s perfect. And since it’s private, I don’t have to worry about anything, right? No cameras."
She skipped toward him, looping her arms around his neck and leaning back to look up at him. "I want to go down to the private dock. Right now. I want to see the water up close. Will you take me, Daddy?"
Oscar’s heart did that familiar, painful skip. He looked down at her, his hands finding the small of her back. The way she said the word here, away from the tension of the paddock, surrounded by nothing but the sound of the waves, felt different. It felt less like a role and more like a tether.
"Of course I will," he murmured. He leaned down, his forehead resting against hers for a moment, letting himself drown in the proximity. "I’ll take you wherever you want to go."
As they made their way down the winding stone stairs carved into the cliffside, she wouldn't stop talking about her plans for the next three days, the picnics she wanted to have, the books she wanted to read while lounging on the deck, and how she was going to make sure he didn't check his emails even once.
Oscar watched the way she navigated the steep steps, her hair catching the gold of the afternoon sun. He felt a wave of that hopeless, silent devotion wash over him again. He wanted this forever. He wanted to wake up to this energy every day of his life.
If I told you right now, he wondered, his gaze tracking the line of her shoulders. If I told you that I don’t want to go back. That I don’t want the Naomi stories or the secret apartment. Would you stay? Would you fight for this version of us to be the only one?
But when they reached the wooden dock, she let out a squeal of delight and immediately dipped her toes into the crystal-clear water, looking back at him with a grin so radiant it made his lungs ache.
"It’s warm! Oscar, come here!"
He sat down on the edge of the dock, kicking off his leather sandals and dipping his feet in beside hers. She leaned her head on his shoulder, her hand resting on his knee, and for a long time, they just sat in silence, watching the ripples they made in the water.
"You're so quiet today," she whispered, her fingers tracing the hem of his shorts. "Is Daddy tired?"
"Just thinking," Oscar replied, his hand moving to cover hers, pinning it against his skin.
"About the race?"
"No," he said, turning his head to kiss the top of her hair. "About how I never want to leave this dock."
She hummed in agreement, snuggling closer. "Me neither. But we have three whole days. Let's make them count."
Oscar nodded, closing his eyes. He would make them count. He would give her everything she asked for, every outfit, every drink, every moment of protection. He would be her Daddy, her best friend, and her secret, hoping that somewhere in the quiet of the Mediterranean, she would realize he was the only one who truly saw her, and finally decide she wasn't willing to share him anymore.
—
The second day at the villa was supposed to be the peak of their peace. The morning had been perfect, breakfast on the terrace, the air smelling of salt and jasmine, and her looking radiant in a white crochet cover-up she’d forced him to compliment at least ten times.
They were lounging by the infinity pool, the sun baking the stone around them. Oscar’s phone, which he had promised to ignore, buzzed insistently against the side table. He tried to let it go, but the sheer volume of notifications forced his hand. It was a message from his PR lead, a link to a major F1 news outlet.
The headline was bold, fueled by the Miami "date" photos: "PIASTRI AND NAOMI: SOURCES CONFIRM THE GRID'S NEWEST POWER COUPLE."
The article was a mess of "insider" quotes and speculation, but it was gaining massive traction. Oscar’s jaw tightened. Neither McLaren nor Naomi's agency had put out a formal statement yet, this was all just the "fire" Sarah had wanted to start. He hated it. He hated seeing his name tied to a contract in the same sentence as "love."
He scrolled down to the comments, his heart sinking with every "they look so good together" he read. But then, he saw a handle that made his blood turn to ice.
A familiar profile picture. A little red heart next to the post.
She had liked it.
Oscar felt a flare of white-hot rage, a mixture of betrayal and confusion that made his vision blur for a second. He looked over at her. She was lying on her stomach on a sun lounger, her eyes closed, looking completely at peace.
"Why did you like it?"
The voice that came out of him was cold. She startled, blinking her eyes open and propping herself up on her elbows.
"What? Like what?"
Oscar stood up, the chair scraping harshly against the stone. He held the phone out, his hand steady but his eyes burning. "This. This post. You liked it. Why?"
She looked at the screen, then back at him, her expression shifting from confusion to a guarded, casual indifference that only made him angrier. "Oh. That. It popped up on my feed. I thought the photo looked nice."
"The photo looked nice?" Oscar repeated, his voice rising. "Naomi’s agency hasn't confirmed this. I haven't confirmed this. It was supposed to be a rumor to shift the fans' attention. By liking it, you’re practically giving people a green light to think it’s official."
"Oscar, it’s just a like," she said, sitting up and trying to reach for his hand, but he stepped back. "Everyone expects me to be your supportive best friend. If I didn't like it, people would think I'm jealous or that something's wrong."
"I don't care what 'people' think." Oscar snapped, his chest heaving. "I care that you are okay with it. You’re pushing me into her arms. You’re helping them build this cage around me. Do you even care that I’m sitting here with you while the whole world thinks I belong to her?"
He looked at her, his heart breaking in real-time. He wanted her to say she hated the post. He wanted her to say she’d liked it by accident or that she was being a brat. But her calm acceptance of his public "relationship" felt like a rejection of everything they were doing in private.
"I don't want this confirmed," Oscar hissed, his voice trembling with the weight of the words he couldn't say. "I don't want to be hers. Why are you the only one who seems to be in a hurry to give me away?"
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs below, mocking the supposed peace of their getaway.
She stood up slowly, the playful energy from earlier completely extinguished. The sight of Oscar, usually so composed, so immovable, looking so genuinely fractured over a single tap on a screen made the guilt pool in her stomach. She reached out, her hands hovering near his forearms, waiting for him to let her in.
"Oscar, please. It’s not like that," she said, her voice dropping into that soft, melodic tone she used when the world became too loud for him. "I wasn't trying to push you away. I promise."
Oscar didn't move, his gaze still fixed on the horizon, his jaw so tight it looked painful. "Then why? Why would you validate the one thing that’s keeping us in the dark?"
She stepped into his space, ignoring the coldness radiating off him, and gently wrapped her arms around his waist. She pressed her cheek against his chest, listening to the frantic, heavy thrum of his heart. It was a racing driver's heart, built for high pressure, but right now, it was beating for her.
"I’m sorry," she whispered into his shirt. "I didn't think about how it would look to you. I was just... I was trying to be supportive. I it would make things easier for you."
She pulled back just enough to look up at him, her eyes searching his. "I can see how much this is eating at you. This entire PR circus, the fake dates, the scripted life... it stresses you out more than a qualifying lap, doesn't it? You’re carrying so much, and the last thing I wanted was to add to that weight."
Oscar’s shoulders finally dropped an inch. The rage was still there, simmering, but her touch was a cooling balm. He looked down at her, seeing the genuine remorse in her expression. He wanted her to say 'I liked it because I was jealous' or 'I hate her.' He wanted her to fight him for his own heart. But all she was giving him was understanding.
"I just hate it," he rasped, his hands tentatively finding her waist. "I hate that you're the one helping them build the wall between us."
"I know," she murmured, reaching up to brush a stray hair from his forehead. "I’m sorry. But look where we are. We're here. In private. In our own world." She stood on her tiptoes, pressing a lingering kiss to his jaw, her voice turning sweet and coaxing again. "Don't let a stupid news speculated post ruin this. Can you do that for me, Daddy?"
Oscar closed his eyes, let out a long, shuddering breath, and finally pulled her flush against him. He buried his face in her neck, the scent of her skin finally overriding the bitter taste of the PR news. He was still frustrated, still terrified that she was too comfortable with the lie, but for now, the feel of her in his arms was the only truth he could handle.
"I'm trying," he whispered against her skin. "I'm trying so hard."
She saw the way his chest was still heaving, struggling to keep his emotions from boiling over, and she knew she had to bring him back. Gently but firmly, she placed her hands on his shoulders and pushed. Oscar, caught off guard by the sudden move, sank back down onto the cushioned sun lounger.
Before he could protest, she moved with fluid grace, straddling his lap. Her weight settled against him, grounding him in the reality of the sun-drenched terrace rather than the digital chaos on his phone. She looped her arms loosely around his neck, her eyes searching his dark, turbulent ones.
"Look at me," she whispered, her voice a soft command.
Oscar’s gaze snapped to hers, his pupils blown wide with lingering frustration. He looked like he wanted to argue, to demand why she was so okay with the world seeing her as a secondary character in his life, but the proximity of her was starting to do its work.
"I’m sorry I made you feel like you’re doing this alone," she murmured. She leaned in, pressing a feather-light kiss to his temple. "Can you forgive me, Daddy? Please?"
Oscar let out a jagged breath, his hands coming up to rest on her thighs, his grip almost desperate. "It’s not just about the post. It’s the principle of it."
"I know," she breathed against his skin. She shifted her focus, trailing a line of soft, lingering kisses along his cheekbone, moving slowly toward the corner of his mouth. "And I’m sorry."
She kissed the tip of his nose, then his forehead, her touch intentional and soothing. Every time he tried to speak, she silenced him with another delicate press of her lips, on his jaw, behind his ear, on the pulse point at his neck. It was a slow, rhythmic undoing of his anger.
"Daddy’s been so stressed," she cooed, her voice dropping into that sweet, manipulative tone that she knew turned his brain to mush. "I don't want you thinking about Naomi or Sarah or the news. I just want you to think about me."
She pulled back just an inch, her nose brushing against his. Her expression was a mix of bratty confidence and genuine affection. "Are you still mad at me? Or is Daddy going to let it go so we can enjoy the rest of our afternoon?"
Oscar stared at her, the tension finally draining out of his limbs. The rage was still a dull throb in the back of his mind, but with her sitting on his lap, looking at him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered, he couldn't hold onto it. He was hopelessly, utterly defeated by her.
"I’m not mad anymore," he rasped, his hands sliding up her back to pull her even closer, until there was no air left between them. "Just don't do it again. I mean it."
"I won't," she promised, a triumphant little smile playing on her lips before she finally captured his mouth in a real kiss. "I promise."
The soft, apologetic kisses quickly lost their gentleness, turning into something much more primal as the friction between them set off a slow-burning fuse. Oscar’s hands, previously just resting on her thighs, tightened their grip until his knuckles went white. He could feel the warmth of her through the thin fabric of her white crochet cover-up, a maddening contrast to the cool sea breeze.
As his length began to harden beneath her, the frustration from the news post transformed. It became a possessive, desperate energy. He shifted his hips, moving her slowly and deliberately back and forth against him. He wanted to feel the weight of her, the reality of her, to remind himself that no matter what the internet said, this was the only truth that existed.
She let out a low, shaky breath into his mouth, her own body responding to the friction. She began to find a rhythm of her own, her hips rolling in a way that had Oscar seeing spots behind his eyelids.
His hand flew from her waist to the back of her head, his fingers tangling deep into her hair. He didn't just want to kiss her, he wanted to consume her. He adjusted the angle of her head with a firm, dominant tug, tilting her face up to deepen the kiss until it was deep, messy, and desperate.
"Oscar..." she whimpered against his lips, her movements becoming more frantic as she felt the hard ridge of him pressing into her.
"Shh," he rasped, breaking the kiss for only a second to look into her blown-out pupils. His voice was a dark, gravelly command that vibrated through her chest. "Just move for me, baby."
She followed his lead, her hands clutched in the linen of his shirt, pulling him closer as she rode the friction he was providing. The terrace, the infinity pool, and the Mediterranean sun all blurred into the background. In that moment, the power dynamic shifted, the protector became the predator, and the bratty girl became the anchor that kept him from drifting away into the cold world of PR and racing.
Oscar let out a low, guttural sound that was half-groan and half-growl as he surrendered to the physical pull of her. He shifted his focus from her lips, his head dipping low to find the sensitive cord of her neck.
Oscar began to leave a trail of heavy, wet kisses down the length of her throat. He wasn't being gentle anymore, each press of his lips was a claim, a mark of ownership that made her breath hitch in jagged spurts. He moved to her shoulder, his teeth grazing the skin just enough to elicit a sharp gasp, before trailing downward toward her collarbones.
While his mouth worked its magic, his hand wandered with a heavy, possessive intent. He slid his palm upward, finding the swell of her breast through the delicate crochet. He didn't just touch her, he mounded the soft weight of her, his thumb rhythmically brushing against the peaking center, demanding her full attention.
She was unraveling beneath him, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she sought more contact. She continued to move against his hard, unrelenting length, her hips rolling with a desperate need to feel the friction. The thin fabric between them felt like a barrier she wanted to tear away.
The sun was nothing compared to the furnace growing between their bodies. Every slide of her hips was met by a firm, upward tilt of his, a silent conversation of shared desire. He watched her face through heavy-lidded eyes, captivated by the way her expression shifted from playful brat to a woman completely consumed by him.
"You're so desperate for me, aren't you?" Oscar rasped, his voice dropping an octave as he captured her breast more firmly. He leaned up, his breath hot against her ear.
He tightened his grip on her waist, anchoring her firmly against him as he picked up the pace, his composure entirely sacrificed at the altar of the woman in his lap.
—
a/n 1: anyway! where do we think this is going? 😭 is she gonna fight for her man or will oscar continue with the pr shit???
this new oscar video is giving so much daddy vibes, guys 😭 and i'm still on my trip, but I AM ITCHING to finish writing Cross The Line part 6 because of it!!
HELLO! I’m so sorry I’ve been gone for a bit 😭 work has been hectic (got promoted yayyy) and I’ve got a trip coming up soon. I’ll try (emphasis on try 🫠) to get CTL part 6 out around a week after the Miami GP. Thank you for being patient with me 💗
warnings: this story contains 18+ content (mdni), dom!oscar, sub!oc, explicit sexual content, power imbalance, consensual bdsm elements, spanking, choking, orgasm control, fingering (f receiving), cunnilingus, blow job, p in v, unprotected sex (pls be safe!), masturbation, public fingering
wc: 17k+ (one, two, three, four)
Her focus remained locked on the sickening ultimatum glowing on her phone. Marcus’s threat felt like a jagged blade pressed against the throat of Oscar’s future. Although he knew nothing of the luxury gifts, the secret transfers, or how their "childhood best friend" dynamic had shifted into an arrangement of mutual benefit, to Marcus, the recording was simply proof of a scandalous lust that would wreck Oscar's pristine public image. He didn't realize he was actually holding the key to a much deeper, more complex secret.
She looked out at the pit lane, her heart aching as she watched Oscar climb out of the MCL38. He looked powerful, untouchable, the golden boy of the grid. If she stayed, Marcus would pull the trigger, and the world would see a side of Oscar that his sponsors and fans weren't prepared for. The secret nature of their bond was a private sanctuary, a delicate balance of deep-rooted history and new, carnal boundaries. If that sanctuary was breached, the fallout would be radioactive.
I have to be the one to leave, she realized, her throat tight. I’d rather he hates me for walking away than loses everything because I stayed.
With trembling fingers, she typed a reply to Marcus, her eyes blurring with unshed tears.
Her: I need time. You can't just leak that, it would destroy me too. Give me time to talk to Oscar. I need to tell him I’m moving on, that I want someone else. If I just disappear, he’ll hunt you down.
She hit send and tucked the phone away, feeling like she had just signed a death warrant for her own happiness.
A few meters away, Oscar was already in a heated standoff with Sarah. The PR manager was clutching her tablet like a shield, her face set in the rigid lines of a woman who viewed human emotions as PR liabilities. She didn't know about their "arrangement", she only saw two attractive people whose "friendship" was starting to look far too intimate for the brand's comfort.
"The engagement on the graduation photos is 80% speculative, Oscar," Sarah hissed, her voice barely audible over the roar of a passing Ferrari. "The fans are dissecting the way you held her waist. It’s messy. It’s distracting. We will leak the dinner with Naomi tonight. You will go, you will smile, and you will be the focused professional the team pays you to be."
Oscar ripped off his fire-resistant balaclava, his hair damp with sweat and his eyes burning with fury. "I told you no, Sarah. I'm not using a stranger to hide the most important person in my life."
"She is a distraction to your career!" Sarah countered, her frustration finally boiling over. "If the fans think you’re more focused on your 'best friend' than the championship, your value drops. My job is to protect the asset. You are the asset."
"She isn't a distraction. She's the reason I can do this at all," Oscar growled, leaning into Sarah’s space, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low vibrato. "I don’t care about the metrics. I don’t care if the internet thinks we’re 'too sweet.' I’ve spent my whole life being composed and calm for the cameras, but I won't let you turn her into a secret I’m supposed to be ashamed of."
He wasn't thinking about the "sugar" aspect of their life, the high-end hotels or the financial support he provided. He was thinking about the girl who knew his favorite childhood meal, the girl who had been there before the fame, and the woman who had surrendered herself to him in that dark room just two nights ago. To him, their arrangement was just a way to take care of her, the love, however complicated, was the foundation.
"If you keep pushing this, Sarah, you aren't protecting my image, you're destroying my home," Oscar stated, his jaw set in a line of iron. "I'm not going to that dinner. And if I see even one leaked story about me and a model, I’m going to the press myself to tell them exactly who I’m with."
He turned on his heel, leaving a stunned Sarah behind. His eyes immediately sought her out. He saw her slumped shoulders and the way she was staring at nothing, her usual spark replaced by a haunted, distant look. He didn't know about Marcus’s recording or the clock she had just started. All he knew was that she looked like she was already mourning them, and he was prepared to burn his entire career to the ground just to keep her from saying goodbye.
She stood by the tool chests, her fingers tracing the cold, industrial metal as she watched the exchange between Oscar and Sarah from a distance. She couldn't hear every word over the hum of the cooling fans, but she heard enough, the sharp bite in Sarah’s tone, the words "distraction" and "asset," and the low, rumbling thunder of Oscar’s refusal.
Each word felt like a brick being added to the wall Marcus was building around them. She looked away before Oscar could catch her staring, blinking back the sudden sting in her eyes. She couldn't let him see her break, if he saw her cry, he’d hunt down the cause, and Marcus was waiting with his finger on the trigger.
A moment later, the heavy vibration of footsteps approached. She didn't have to look up to know it was him, she could feel the shift in the air, the way the atmosphere seemed to tighten and warm all at once.
Oscar stepped into her space, his shadow falling over her. He didn't say anything at first. He just stood there, smelling of Nomex, sweat, and that expensive, metallic scent of the garage. He reached out, his hand hovering near her shoulder before he gently squeezed it.
He looked at her. His gaze was analytical, the same way he studied telemetry data, and she knew he was picking up on the minute tremors in her hands and the way she wouldn't meet his eyes. He sensed the shift, the sudden distance that hadn't been there when they woke up that morning. But he didn't ask. He knew the pressure of the paddock, and he likely thought the Sarah drama had leaked into her headspace more than he wanted.
Instead of pressing her, his expression softened.
"Hey, baby," he murmured, his voice low enough to stay between just the two of them.
"Hey," she replied, finally looking up and forcing a small, tight smile. "Good session. P1 looks good on you."
"It’s just practice," he dismissed, though a small, private smirk played on his lips. He leaned in closer, his shoulder brushing hers. "Listen, I’m done with briefings in an hour. Sarah’s been chirping in my ear about some fancy sponsor dinner, but I told her I have a 'technical conflict.'"
He bumped his shoulder against hers playfully, trying to draw out the girl he knew was hiding behind that haunted look.
"There’s this hole-in-the-wall spot about twenty minutes from the hotel," Oscar said, his eyes searching hers with a desperate kind of hope. "No cameras, no PR, just the best spicy tonkotsu in the prefecture. I know you’ve been craving real ramen since we landed. My treat. Whatever you want on the menu, plus those gyoza you like."
The kindness in his voice was almost her undoing. He was trying so hard to protect their bubble, to keep her happy and fed and safe, while she was currently plotting her own disappearance to save him.
"Spicy tonkotsu?" she managed to say, her voice cracking slightly. "With the extra egg?"
"Two extra eggs if you want," Oscar promised, his thumb grazing the back of her neck in a soothing, rhythmic motion. "Just you and me and dinner."
She nodded, leaning her head against his arm for a fleeting second, allowing herself one last moment of his warmth before the clock in her pocket ticked another minute away. "Okay. Dinner sounds perfect, Oscar."
"Good," he whispered, his eyes lingering on her with a fierce intensity. "I'll see you at the car in sixty minutes. Don't be late, Princess."
He turned back toward the engineers, his gait more confident now that he had a plan to lighten her up leaving her standing in the shadows of the garage, wondering how a bowl of ramen could feel so much like a goodbye.
—
Stifling and cold, the quiet in the car felt like a physical burden. She stared at her phone, the screen dark, but the ghost of Marcus’s threat burned in her retinas. She couldn't do the public dinner. She couldn't sit in a crowded restaurant in Suzuka and pretend the world wasn't collapsing.
Her: Can we just do the ramen at the hotel? My head is pounding. Just a quiet night?
Oscar: Of course, baby. I’m picking up the bags now. Extra eggs, extra gyoza. See you in twenty.
By the time Oscar swiped his keycard and kicked the door shut with his heel, she was already sitting on the edge of the unmade bed, her hands folded tightly in her lap. The room was dim, lit only by the architectural glow of the Suzuka skyline outside. Oscar moved with ease that felt like a knife to her chest, setting the steaming white takeout containers on the small desk and peeling back the lids. The rich, salty scent of tonkotsu filled the air.
"Smells incredible," Oscar said, his voice soft, trying to bridge the gap he’d felt all day. He began separating the wooden chopsticks, his movements precise. "I got the extra chili oil on the side just in case."
He turned, offering her a bowl, but stopped. She wasn't reaching for it. She was just staring at the steam rising from the broth, her eyes glazed and distant.
"Hey," he said, stepping closer. "Eat, baby. You’ve been running on fumes since we landed."
"Oscar," she interrupted, her voice toneless and jarringly steady. "You should do it. You should date the model. Call Sarah and tell her the dinner is back on for tomorrow."
Oscar froze, the chopsticks still in his hand. He let out a short, disbelieving breath. "How did you—We’re really doing this now? I already told Sarah, I’m not playing that game. It’s corporate noise."
"It’s not noise, it’s logic," she said, finally looking at him. Her gaze was chillingly rehearsed, a mask of cold pragmatism she’d spent the last hour perfecting. "Look at the trajectory. You’re at the top of the standings. The brand is global. This 'best friend' narrative is getting messy, Oscar. The fans are turning, the sponsors are asking questions... it’s a liability. A high-profile, clean relationship with someone like Naomi? It fixes everything. It stabilizes your image."
Oscar set the bowl down hard on the desk. The broth splashed against the plastic. "Since when do you care about 'stabilizing my image'? You’ve never talked like a PR strategist in your life."
"I'm being realistic," she snapped, her voice rising. "I’ve finished my degree. I have my own life to start. We’re blurring lines that shouldn't have been touched, Oscar. This... this arrangement? It was an impulse. A mistake born out of being close for too long. You don't get to ruin your life and your career because of me."
"Ruin my life?" Oscar stepped toward her, his face flushing with a rare, hot frustration. "Choosing you isn't ruining my life, it’s the only part of it that makes sense right now. I don't care about the narrative. I don’t care if the internet is confused. I'm not faking a life with a stranger when I have you."
As he moved to grab her waist, to pull her into the reality of his touch, she flinched. She scrambled back, putting the desk between them, her breathing becoming jagged.
"Don't," she hissed.
Oscar stopped dead, his hands hanging in mid-air. His eyes narrowed, the analytical part of his brain, the part that could read a track at 200mph, finally seeing the cracks. This wasn't a logical argument. This was a panic attack disguised as a breakup.
"What aren't you telling me?" he asked, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly quiet register. "Something happened at that cafe. What did he say to you?"
"Nothing! He said nothing!" she lied, her voice cracking. "I just realized that I don't want this anymore. I don't want this… this sugar dating, I don't want to be the 'best friend' who's actually a secret. This was a mistake, Oscar. We crossed a line and we ruined the only good thing we had, our friendship. It’s messy, it’s wrong, and I’m done."
The words hit him like a physical blow. Oscar shook his head, his jaw tight. "Don't do that. Don't you dare rewrite the last few months like they didn't mean anything. You didn't feel like it was a mistake last night. You didn't feel like it was 'wrong' when you told me you were mine."
"I was caught up in the moment!" she yelled, the lie tasting like poison. "It was convenient! You’re Oscar Piastri, of course I got swept up in it. But I don't want to be your secret anymore. I want a normal life, with a normal man who doesn't have a PR manager dictating who I am."
"A normal man? Like Marcus?" Oscar’s voice was lethal now.
Before he could demand the truth, his phone on the nightstand erupted. The caller ID screamed SARAH. The timing was surgical.
Oscar snatched it up, his eyes never leaving her face. He swiped 'accept' and held it to his ear. "What?"
"Oscar, the model is at the restaurant. The 'leak' is ready to go. The team principal is on board. We need you downstairs in five minutes to finalize the narrative. This is the fix, Oscar. Do you understand?"
She watched him, her heart breaking, waiting for him to say yes, waiting for him to take the path that kept his world safe.
Oscar didn't hesitate. He didn't even blink. "No," he said into the phone, his voice echoing in the small room. "The answer is no, Sarah. Not tonight, not tomorrow. Tell the model I’m sorry for her time, but I’m occupied. And if you call me about this again, I’m not talking to you for the rest of the weekend. Deal with it."
He ended the call and tossed the phone onto the bed. "There. It's done. Now tell me the truth."
But she was already at the door, her hand on the handle. She couldn't stay. If she stayed, she’d break and tell him everything, and Marcus would destroy him.
"The truth is I'm leaving, Oscar," she whispered, her eyes brimming with tears she refused to let fall. "Enjoy your ramen."
She pulled the door open and vanished into the hallway, the sound of the latch clicking shut echoing like a final lap bell. She ran toward the elevator, convinced she was saving him, while behind her, Oscar stood in the center of the room, surrounded by the scent of the dinner he’d bought to make her smile, realizing for the first time that some races couldn't be won with speed alone.
—
Humming with a low, taunting electricity, the fluorescent lights of the near-empty 24-hour café vibrated straight through her skull. She sat in a corner booth, her hands tucked between her knees to stop the violent shaking, but the phantom weight of the handcuffs from nights ago still seemed to ghost around her wrists. Her phone buzzed against the tabletop, a harsh, jagged sound.
Marcus: I’m waiting.
She tapped it with a leaden finger. A video file attached, but the screen remained black, only the audio was crisp, high-definition, and devastating. It was Oscar’s voice, raw and unfiltered, the way he only spoke when the world was locked out. "I want that silk on the floor. I'm so turned on right now just looking at how much skin you're showing for me...." The sound of a sharp intake of her own breath followed.
Her stomach dropped, a cold, oily nausea rising in her throat. Before she could even lock the screen, a shadow fell over the table. Marcus slid into the booth across from her, his movements fluid and unnervingly casual. He wasn't breathing hard, he wasn't angry. He looked like a man who had just finished a pleasant stroll through the Suzuka circuit.
"You took your time," Marcus said, his voice a calm, conversational tether that felt like a noose. "I figured the breakup would be shorter, considering how 'logical' you are."
He reached out, his fingers idly tracing the rim of her untouched water glass. "But don't think for a second that walking out of that room makes us even. Ending it with him isn't a victory, it's just the removal of an obstacle."
She flinched as her phone lit up again, a news notification about the GP. She stared at it, her thumb twitching toward the glass.
"You’re still looking at that thing like you expect him to call," Marcus noted, his smile never reaching his eyes. It was a predator’s observation. "You're waiting for him to come charging down the hallway to save you. But we both know if he does that, I hit 'upload.' One mistake and that audio becomes the soundtrack to his downfall. I'll make sure every sponsor sees the transcript of how their 'clean' athlete treats his 'best friend'."
"I did what you wanted," she whispered, her voice sounding like broken glass. "I told him it was a mistake. I told him I didn't want him. Isn't that enough?"
"Ending it isn't the same as choosing me, love" Marcus countered, leaning forward until the scent of his cologne, too sharp, too artificial, filled her lungs. "I don't want you wandering the pits like a ghost, pining for a man who thinks you've abandoned him. I want you present. I want the world to see you with me."
Back in the suffocating silence of the hotel suite, Oscar hadn't moved from the desk. The two bowls of ramen sat abandoned, the fat congealing on the surface of the broth. He was replaying every syllable of the last twenty minutes, his driver’s brain searching for the 'glitch' in her telemetry.
It was a mistake... we blurred lines... I want a normal man.
The words were wrong. They didn't match the way she had melted into him in the garage, or the way she had looked at him when he was kissing her. His phone chimed, a final, polished draft from the PR team: “Oscar Piastri and Model Naomi Carter spotted enjoying the sights of Suzuka...” With a low growl, Oscar didn't just reject it, he deleted the entire thread. His gut was screaming at him that she wasn't being selfish, she was terrified. He thought back to the cafe, to the look on Marcus’s face. The academic "friend" who had been just a little too comfortable, just a little too testing.
What aren't you telling me? He picked up his phone, his thumb hovering over her contact. He needed to hear her voice. He needed to hear the lie again so he could tear it apart. He hit 'call.'
In the café, the table began to vibrate. Oscar’s face flashed on the screen, a candid photo she’d taken of him laughing in the simulator.
Marcus glanced down at the phone, then back up at her. A thin, cruel smile spread across his lips. He didn't snatch the phone away. Instead, he stood up, smoothing his jacket, and offered his hand to her across the table, a mocking, chivalrous gesture.
"Go ahead," Marcus urged, his voice a soft, deadly purr. "Answer it. Tell him where you are. Tell him to come get you. I’d love to see the look on his face when he realizes his career is over before the first turn tomorrow."
She stared at the vibrating device. Each ring felt like a heartbeat she was losing. If she answered, she might hear him say he loved her, and she would crumble. If she didn't, the silence would be the final nail in the coffin of their history. She looked at Marcus’s outstretched hand, the hand of the man who was holding her heart in a vice.
She felt the heat of tears behind her eyes, but she forced them back. With a trembling hand, she reached out and swiped the red icon on the screen. Call Declined.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Slowly, she placed her hand in Marcus’s cold, firm grip. He squeezed her fingers, his smile widening as he pulled her toward him.
"That's my girl," he whispered. "Now, let’s go. We have a long weekend ahead of us."
She walked out of the café with him, her legs feeling like lead, leaving the ghost of Oscar Piastri ringing into the empty air of a darkened hotel room.
—
The flight back from Japan was a blur of high-altitude silence and the cold, professional hum of the private jet. Oscar sat in the back, his gaze fixed on the shifting clouds, refusing to look at the empty seat beside him, the one he’d booked months ago. Sarah sat across from him, her stylus tapping a rhythmic, irritating beat against her tablet.
"The Suzuka data is strong, Oscar. P2 was a solid recovery given the... internal distractions," Sarah said, her voice carefully neutral. "But the Noami narrative is ready. We need a sighting in Monaco or London. Just a lunch. A walk. It’s a clean slate. You can leave the 'best friend' drama in the paddock."
Oscar didn’t even turn his head. "I'm not going to lunch, Sarah. I’m going home."
"Oscar—"
"I said I’m going home," he repeated, his voice dropping into that terrifyingly calm register that usually preceded a fastest lap. "If you mention her name or a PR stunt again before we land, I’m locking myself in the simulator for a month and ignoring every media request on the calendar. Do you understand?"
Sarah went quiet, sensing the frayed edges of his composure.
She had missed the flight back home Oscar had booked. Marcus had "insisted" they take a later, commercial flight, a move designed to show her that her schedule was no longer dictated by a McLaren itinerary.
Every time Marcus reached for her hand in the airport lounge, she felt a bolt of revulsion so strong she had to look at the floor. She was trying to convince herself this was the sacrifice required. I am saving his life, she repeated like a mantra. If I can just make Marcus feel like he won, he won't click that button. But opening her heart to him was like trying to breathe underwater. Every "date," every forced conversation about their "future," felt like she was drowning in slow motion.
Oscar unlocked the door to their shared apartment, the click of the latch echoing in the hallway. It was late, the city lights bleeding through the windows. He dropped his gear bag by the door and walked into the living room, but he didn't turn on the lights.
The silence was a deafening. Everywhere he looked, he saw the ghost of her. Her favorite book was still face-down on the coffee table. A stray hair tie sat on the kitchen counter next to the espresso machine. The scent of her perfume, vanilla and something bright, still lingered in the air, mocking him.
A soft meow broke the quiet. Noodle, her cat, trotted out from the hallway, his tail twitching in a question. The cat circled Oscar’s ankles, looking toward the door, waiting for the person who usually followed him inside.
"She’s not here, buddy," Oscar rasped, his voice cracking in the dark.
He sat heavily on the sofa, burying his face in his hands. Noodle hopped up beside him, nudging Oscar’s elbow with a persistent head-butt until Oscar finally reached out to scratch behind the cat’s ears. It was the only comfort he had left.
He knew she would come back. Her clothes were in the closet, her degree was on the shelf, her life was woven into the very fabric of these walls. But as he sat there in the dark, he felt utterly defeated. He replayed every moment of the last few months, searching for the error, the mechanical failure in their relationship.
Was I too possessive? Did the money make her feel trapped? Did I turn her into a secret she couldn't carry anymore?
The thought that he had somehow broken her, that his love had become a burden she had to run from, was a pain more acute than any racing shunt. He looked at the empty hallway, praying for the sound of her key in the lock, wondering if he was waiting for a woman who had already decided he wasn't worth the wreckage.
—
The shadows in the apartment hadn't shifted for hours, mirroring the stagnant, heavy silence that had settled over Oscar. He was still in the same spot on the sofa where he’d collapsed 48 hours ago, the grey fabric of his hoodie bunched around his jaw. The collected driver was a ghost, in his place was a man who looked like he’d been through a multi-car pileup and walked away with only the internal bleeding.
His phone sat on the coffee table, the screen a cruel, dark mirror. Every few minutes, he’d reach for it, his thumb hovering over her name, his heart hammering against his ribs in a painful, uneven rhythm.
Where are you? he’d type, only to delete it.
Please just tell me you’re safe, he’d try again. Delete.
He was terrified. If he pressed her now, would she vanish completely? If he demanded the truth, would she tell him another lie that felt like a serrated blade? He hadn't slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the flickering lights of the Suzuka paddock and the cold, rehearsed distance in her eyes. He hadn't eaten, the very thought of food made his stomach churn with a bitter, oily nausea.
Even Noodle had given up on him, the cat sitting by the front door, staring at the wood with a quiet, heartbreaking expectancy that Oscar couldn't bear to look at.
Across the city, the air in Marcus’s guest room felt like it was laced with poison. For two days, she had been a prisoner of her own fear, flinching every time Marcus entered the room, forcing herself to endure the "trial run" of a relationship she loathed. Marcus had been relentless, playing the role of the devoted boyfriend while keeping his phone, the detonator to Oscar’s life, always within arm's reach.
"I need to go home, Marcus," she finally whispered, her voice sounding thin and foreign to her own ears. "I have... I have a job interview tomorrow. My parents set that up. If I don't show up, they'll worry. They'll start asking questions you don't want them to ask."
It was a gamble, a desperate reach for a logical excuse, and for a moment, she saw Marcus’s eyes darken. But the mention of her parents, and the potential for unwanted attention, seemed to flip a switch in his head.
"Fine," Marcus said, his voice a smooth, terrifying purr. "Go. But remember what I told you. One word to Piastri, and the whole world gets to hear how much of a 'distraction' you really are."
—
The sound of the key in the lock was so soft Oscar almost thought he’d hallucinated it.
He stood up so fast his vision blurred, his heart leaping into his throat. The door swung open, and there she was, looking pale, exhausted, and wearing clothes he didn't recognize.
For a second, the relief was so overwhelming he almost moved to gather her in his arms. But then, the reality of the last forty-eight hours hit him. The worry, the lack of sleep, and the agonizing silence curdled into a sudden, sharp burst of anger.
"Two days," Oscar rasped, his voice raw and jagged. He didn't move toward her. He stayed by the sofa, his hands curled into white-knuckled fists. "You didn't go home for two days. No text. No call. I’ve been sitting here wondering if you were even alive, and you just... you just walk in like nothing happened?"
She flinched at the volume of his voice, her eyes darting to the floor. "Oscar, I—I told you. I needed space. I needed to think."
"Space?" Oscar let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh that sounded more like a bark. He stepped into the light, the dark circles under his eyes and the stubble on his jaw making him look feral. "You didn't need space. You needed to run. Who were you with? Were you with him? Was Marcus there the whole time?"
"Oscar, please, don't do this," she pleaded, her voice breaking. She wanted to run to him, to tell him that she’d spent every second of those two days wanting to die of shame, but the ghost of the recording held her tongue.
"Don't do what? Care?" Oscar’s voice rose, completely shattered by the raw, bleeding hurt of a man who felt replaced. "I’ve spent my whole life being the one people can rely on, and the one person I would give everything for just treats me like... like an option. Like a mistake. If you wanted him so badly, why did you come back here at all? Just go back to him! Go have your 'normal' life and leave me alone!"
He turned away from her, slamming his hand against the back of the sofa, his chest heaving. He didn't see the way she crumbled against the doorframe, her hand over her mouth to stifle a sob. He didn't know that every cruel word he spoke was a price she was willing to pay, as long as it meant he was still the golden boy the world loved.
At that moment, the apartment wasn't a sanctuary anymore. It was a battlefield where only one of them knew they were fighting on the same side.
The silence that followed Oscar's outburst was filled with the metallic tang of unspoken grief. He turned back to her, his chest heaving, his eyes clouded with a dark, turbulent storm. He looked at her, searching for the girl who used to read his telemetry for fun, the woman who had whispered "I’m yours" in the quiet of a hotel room.
"Is this it?" Oscar asked, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous vibrato that vibrated in the small space between them. "Is this what you really want? You want to throw away twenty years of us for a guy who probably couldn't even handle how spoiled you are? You want a life that doesn't have me in it?"
He stepped closer, his shadow falling over her, his presence a suffocating, familiar heat. "Look me in the eye and tell me you don't love me. Tell me you want him more than you want this. Tell me, and I’ll walk out that door right now, and I won’t look back."
She looked up at him, her vision blurring. The "no" was screaming in her throat, clawing at her teeth. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and tell him about the recording, about the blackmail, about how Marcus was a monster holding a detonator to his career. But as she looked at Oscar, at the exhaustion etched into his handsome face, at the way the world was waiting for him to fail just so they could tear him down, she knew she couldn't.
She had to be the villain. She had to be the one to break him so he wouldn't be destroyed by the world.
"Oscar," she whispered, her voice sounding like dry leaves skittering over pavement. She forced her gaze to turn cold, a mirror of the pragmatic mask she’d worn in Suzuka. "You need to leave."
Oscar froze. "What?"
"You need to move out. Permanently," she said, the words cutting her throat like shards of glass. "This is my apartment. My name is on the lease. I can't have Marcus coming over and seeing your things here. I can't have him wondering why my bestfriend is still sleeping in the next room."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Oscar’s jaw went slack for a fraction of a second before it set into a line of iron. He looked around the room, at the shared memories, the half-finished espresso, the life they had built in the margins of his racing schedule, and then back at her.
"You're kicking me out?" he rasped, the hurt in his voice so sharp it felt physical. "Because of him?"
"He’s my future, Oscar," she lied, her hand gripping the door handle so hard her knuckles turned white. "And you’re just... you’re the past. It’s messy, and it’s distracting, and I’m done with the arrangements. I want a new start. I want him to feel at home here, and he can't do that with your racing trophies on the shelf."
Oscar let out a short, jagged laugh that sounded more like a sob. He didn't argue. He didn't plead. His expression becoming a mask of absolute, chilling indifference.
"Fine," Oscar said, his voice deathly quiet. "If that’s the life you want, I won't stand in your way. I'll have a crew come for my things. I wouldn't want to distract you from your new life."
He walked toward the door, his shoulder brushing hers as he passed. He didn't look at her. He didn't even slow down. He stepped out into the hallway, the heavy thud of his boots echoing against the tiles like a final lap bell.
"Oscar—" she started, the impulse to stop him nearly breaking her.
He didn't turn around. He reached the elevator, hit the button, and vanished behind the sliding steel doors.
The apartment was suddenly, violently empty. She slumped against the wall, sliding down to the floor as the first sob finally broke through her chest. She had saved his career. She had protected his image. But as she sat in the dark, surrounded by the ghost of the man she loved, she realized she had just burned her entire world to the ground to do it.
—
The elevator doors hadn't even fully settled into their track before Oscar was storming out of the lobby, his vision tunneling into a blur of grey concrete and humid evening air. His heart was a frantic, jagged rhythm in his chest, the weight of her rejection pressing into his lungs like he was taking a high-speed corner without a headrest. He was halfway across the sidewalk when he collided with a solid frame.
The impact jolted him back, his racing instincts flaring into a defensive posture. He looked up, his eyes narrowing into slits of pure, lethal as he recognized the man standing there, casually already in the process of leaning against a sleek black sedan.
Marcus.
The other man didn't look surprised. In fact, he looked entirely too satisfied, his arms crossed over a designer jacket, a thin, smirk playing on his lips. He’d clearly just dropped her off, and based on the predatory stillness of his posture, he’d stayed long enough to hear the echoes of their shouting through the thin hallway door.
"Watch where you’re going, Piastri," Marcus drawled, his voice a smooth, taunting tether. "Though I suppose I’d be distracted too if I’d just been evicted from my own life."
Oscar’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek. He took a step forward, invading Marcus’s personal space until they were chest-to-chest. "You’ve been hovering around her like a vulture since Japan, Marcus. I don't know what kind of pathetic game you're playing, but if you think you’re actually what she wants, you’re more delusional than I thought."
Marcus let out a short, dry laugh, shaking his head with a mock-sympathy that made Oscar’s blood boil. "Is that what you think this is? A choice?" He stepped closer, his voice dropping into a low, cryptic hum. "You’re standing here shaking with rage, ready to burn the world down because she told you to leave. You’re so blinded by your own ego that you actually believe she’d throw you away for fun."
"She told me what she wants," Oscar spat, though the words felt like ash in his mouth. "She wants a life that isn't 'messy.' She wants someone who isn't a distraction. She wants you."
Marcus’s smirk widened, but there was a flicker of something sharper in his eyes, a calculated hint of the truth designed to twist the knife. "You really are cold, aren't you? All logic, no intuition. You heard her words, but you didn't look at her face. If you actually trusted her, if you actually knew the woman you’ve been 'protecting' for years, you’d realize that she’d never betray you like this. Not unless her hand was being forced."
Oscar froze, the anger in his chest suddenly eclipsed by a cold, prickling confusion. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm saying you're a fool, Oscar," Marcus purred, stepping around him to open his car door. "You’re out here being hurt and angry, playing the victim while she’s upstairs breaking her own heart to keep yours beating. If you were half the man you think you are, you’d ask yourself why a girl who was in your bed days ago is suddenly terrified of being in the same room as you."
He paused, his hand on the door handle, looking over his shoulder with a chillingly triumphant look. "But go ahead. Believe the lie. It makes my job much easier."
Marcus slid into the car and pulled away, leaving Oscar standing alone on the darkened sidewalk. The roar of the engine faded, but Marcus’s words remained, ringing in Oscar’s ears like a mechanical alarm.
She’d never betray you... unless her hand was being forced.
The anger that had been fueling Oscar’s exit vanished, replaced by a sickening, hollow realization. He looked back up at the glow of their apartment window. He had assumed she was being selfish, that she was choosing a normal life over their complicated one. But Marcus hadn't just hinted at a secret. He had confirmed the one thing Oscar’s gut had been trying to tell him all along.
Marcus didn't have her heart. He had a leash. And Oscar had just walked away right when she needed him to fight the most.
—
The click of the front door echoing through the hallway had felt like a gavel slamming down on the rest of her life. She didn't move from her spot against the wall, her legs finally giving out as she slid down to the cold floor. The silence now was louder than their shouting had been, a deafening, hollow vacuum that made the apartment feel like a tomb.
A soft, weightless pressure brushed against her knee. Noodle had padded over from the kitchen, his fur glowing in the dim light of the entryway. He let out a low, questioning meow, his head tilting as he watched the tears track down her face.
When she didn't move, the cat stood on his hind legs, resting his front paws on her arm. He began to lick her cheek, his tongue sandpaper-rough against her skin, a small, instinctive attempt to groom away her distress.
"Oh, Noodle," she choked out, a broken, watery laugh bubbling up through a sob. She reached out, burying her face in the thick fur of his neck, her shoulders shaking violently. "You saw that, didn't you? I was... I was so mean to him."
Noodle let out a soft purr, the vibration buzzing against her ear, steady and grounding. He pulled back just enough to boop his nose against hers, staring at her with those unblinking, emerald eyes that had seen Oscar carry him around like a trophy only days before.
"He's gone, Noodle," she whispered, her voice hitching as she tried to swipe the tears away with the back of her hand. She looked around the living room, seeing the empty space where Oscar’s gear bag usually sat, the physical evidence of his absence already starting to settle in.
She let out a sharp, hysterical giggle that quickly melted back into a cry. "I guess... I guess it’s just the two of us again. No more Daddy to give you the expensive tuna when I’m not looking."
The word Daddy felt like a brand on her tongue, a reminder of the private world they had built, the world Marcus was currently holding for ransom. She stroked Noodle’s head, her fingers trembling.
"He probably hates me now," she said to the cat, her breath hitching. "He thinks I’m a monster. He thinks I’d rather have that... that jerk Marcus in his place." She looked at the door, half-expecting Oscar to burst back in, but the hallway remained dark.
"I did it for him, Noodle," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the air conditioning. "I had to. If he loses his seat... if the world hears that tape... he’ll never forgive himself. And I’d rather he be a world champion who hates me than a nobody who’s stuck with me."
Noodle let out another chirp, settling into her lap and curling into a tight, warm ball of fur. She leaned her head back against the wall, closing her eyes as the tears continued to fall, the ghost of Oscar’s scent still clinging to the air around her.
—
The sound of the front door opening again was like a crack of thunder in the quiet apartment. She bolted upright, wiping her face with the back of her hand, her heart nearly stopping as she saw Oscar’s tall frame silhouetted in the doorway. He didn't look like he had just left. He looked like he had come back to finish a race he refused to lose.
He didn't look at the tears on her face or the way Noodle scurried under the sofa. Instead, he walked straight to the hall closet, threw his jacket inside, and turned to face her with a jaw set in iron.
"I'm not leaving," Oscar said, his voice clipped and resonant, cutting through the heavy air.
"Oscar, I told you—"
"I don't care what you told me," he interrupted, stepping into the living room. He didn't mention Marcus. He didn't mention the cryptic warnings he'd just received on the sidewalk. He kept his expression guarded, a wall of composure that felt colder than the air conditioning. "I helped pay for this place. The lease, the furniture, the security, it’s as much mine as it is yours. If you want a new start with Marcus, you can find one somewhere else. But I am staying in the home I built."
He didn't mean for it to sound like he was throwing his money in her face, but he saw her flinch as if he’d slapped her. He looked away quickly, his throat tightening. He had to stay. He had to be in this room to figure out what was breaking her, even if it meant being the villain in her narrative for a while.
"I'll stay in the guest room," he added, his voice dropping to a flat, professional tone. "We don't have to talk. But I am not being erased because of a guy who just showed up."
Without waiting for her to respond, Oscar walked into the kitchen. The silence was agonizing, punctuated only by the mechanical sounds of him moving around. He didn't look at her, but his actions betrayed the persona he was trying so hard to project.
She watched from the sofa, her chest aching, as he pulled a fresh bottle of mineral water from the fridge and set it on the counter directly in her line of sight. He then moved to the pantry, pulling out the ingredients for a simple pasta, the one she always craved when she was stressed.
He moved with an efficient grace, the sound of the knife against the cutting board, the only dialogue between them. Ten minutes later, he placed a steaming bowl on the dining table, along with a clean fork and a napkin.
He didn't say "eat." He didn't ask if she was okay. He simply walked past her toward the guest wing, his shoulder stiff.
"The water is on the counter," he said quietly, his back to her. "Eat before it gets cold."
The door to the guest room clicked shut, leaving her alone with a bowl of pasta that smelled like home and a bottle of water that felt like a lifeline. He was acting cold, his words were sharp, and he was asserting his right to the space, but even in his anger, he was still the only person in the world who knew exactly how to take care of her.
She looked at the table, a fresh sob catching in her throat. He was staying, which meant he was safe from the world, but he was also closer to the blast zone if Marcus decided to pull the trigger.
—
The two-week break in the Formula 1 calendar usually felt like a luxury, a rare pocket of oxygen in a suffocating season. But inside the walls of their apartment, the air was static, filled with the ionizing tension of two people inhabiting the same space while pretending the bridge between them hadn't been incinerated.
Oscar operated like a ghost in his own home. He adhered strictly to the borders she had drawn, never lingering in the common areas when she was there, never attempting to catch her eye. Yet, his presence was everywhere. Every morning, she would wake up to find a fresh bottle of water and her vitamins sitting on the kitchen island. When she returned from a walk in the afternoon, a quiet container of nutritious takeout or a home-cooked meal would be waiting on the table, still warm, with a small note detailing the ingredients in his neat, cramped handwriting.
He was taking care of her with a detached devotion that hurt far worse than his shouting ever had. It was the Oscar at his most efficient, providing for her survival while denying her his soul.
One night, the silence in the guest room became too loud. Oscar sat at the small desk, his laptop glowing against his tired face. Marcus’s words from the sidewalk were a loop in his brain, a telemetry error he couldn't ignore. If you actually trusted her... you’d realize she’d never betray you like this.
He knew the paddock was a web of connections, and McLaren’s reach went far beyond the track. He picked up his phone and dialed a private number, one belonging to a senior logistics coordinator on the team who handled sensitive security arrangements for the drivers.
"Hey, it's Oscar," he murmured, his voice low enough not to carry through the vents. "Sorry for the hour. I need a favor. I need the contact of a private investigator. Someone discreet. Top-tier."
There was a beat of hesitation on the other end. Oscar cleared his throat, leaning into a practiced lie. "It’s a branding issue. Some third-party vendor is claiming they have exclusive rights to some of my likeness from the junior categories. I need a full background check on the individual behind it, financials, digital footprint, the works. I want to know exactly what leverage they think they have before I involve the legal team."
It was a plausible excuse. Drivers dealt with copyright trolls and fringe stalkers constantly. By the time he hung up, a name and an encrypted email address were sitting in his inbox. He didn't know about the recording yet, but he knew Marcus was a parasite, and Oscar was about to start digging into the host.
In the living room, she sat in the dark, staring at a bowl of cut fruit Oscar had left for her before retreating to his room. Her heart felt like a bruised muscle, aching with every beat. She could hear the faint, rhythmic tap of his keyboard from behind the guest room door.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to throw the fruit at the wall and demand he stop being so kind. If he were mean, if he were selfish or cold or truly angry, it would be so much easier to leave him. But he was standing there in the wreckage of their relationship, quietly holding up the ceiling so it wouldn't crush her, even though she had told him he was nothing more than a "distraction."
She picked up a piece of mango, the sweetness tasting like ash. She was treating him like a stranger, forcing him into a guest room in his own home, and he was still making sure she didn't skip a meal. She was unaware that he was currently hunting the very man she was trying to protect him from, and the irony was a slow-acting poison. She was breaking his heart to save his life, while he was risking his reputation to save hers.
The blue light of the laptop screen was the only thing cutting through the oppressive darkness of the guest room. Oscar sat at the small desk, his frame hunched, the mechanical hum of the air conditioning unit sounding like a countdown in the silence. He wasn't a digital forensic expert, but he knew how to read patterns. He knew that in racing, if a sensor was spiking, there was a heat source.
He opened the encrypted portal provided by the contact. His fingers hovered over the keys, his jaw tight. He didn't have a name for the weapon Marcus was holding, he didn't know about the audio, or the whispers from Japan. All he had was the memory of Marcus’s smug face and the way she looked like she was walking on a minefield every time she checked her phone.
To: [Encrypted Contact - V. Ross]
Subject: Asset Audit - Priority Alpha
I need a full digital sweep on a person of interest. Financials, cloud storage, and local device directories. I don't know exactly what he’s holding, but I need you to flag anything suspicious, specifically any large media files or encrypted folders that have an unusual number of backups.
Oscar paused, his eyes narrowing as he thought about the logic of a blackmailer.
Look for redundancies. If he’s holding leverage, he won't just have one copy. I’m looking for a file, audio, video, or data, that’s mirrored across multiple cloud drives and physical hardware. If he’s got a dead man’s switch set to a timer or a specific login failure, I need it mapped out before we touch it.
Target: Marcus Silvia.
He’s arrogant, but he’s cautious. He’ll have a primary source and at least three failsafes. Find the master file and tell me the moment you have a lock on it. I want to know exactly what he thinks he can use to burn a career down.
He hit Send, the soft click of the enter key feeling like a predatory snap.
Oscar leaned back, rubbing his face with his hands. He didn't know what was on those files. He didn't know if it was a fabricated scandal, a private moment, or something he couldn't even imagine. But he knew Marcus, and he knew that men like him didn't keep secrets in just one place. They kept them where they could be reached at a moment's notice.
Through the wall, he heard the faint, rhythmic sound of her shifting in bed, followed by the soft meow of Noodle. She was right there, only a few feet away, and yet she felt like she was on the other side of a glass wall.
"Just hold on, baby" Oscar whispered to the shadows, his voice a low, lethal vow. "I don't care what he's hiding. I'm going to find it out and I'm going to erase him from your life."
He closed the laptop, but he didn't go to sleep. He sat in the dark, a driver waiting for the green light, already visualizing the moment he could finally stop being patient and start being dangerous.
—
The morning was already stifling, the dawn air clinging to Oscar’s lungs like a weight. He kept his pace steady, finding a meditative solace in the sound of his feet hitting the asphalt; it was the only thing loud enough to quiet his thoughts. He was exactly five kilometers in when the spell broke, his smartwatch erupted in a series of frantic, demanding pulses.
He slowed to a jog, pulling his phone from his arm sleeve. SARAH.
"It's 6am, Sarah," Oscar rasped, his breathing heavy as he kept moving.
"The metrics came in overnight, Oscar," Sarah’s voice was crisp, already in mid-season form despite the time difference. "The speculation on the graduation photos and the 'best friend' narrative has dropped by nearly thirty percent. The fans are moving on to the next drama, which is good. But it’s a vacuum, and if we don't fill it with the Naomi narrative now, the internet will start digging again. If you want to protect her, if you want to keep her name out of the toxic side of the F1 fans space, you need to give them a different story to tell."
Oscar stopped under the shade of a large tree, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He looked at the traffic starting to build on the street, his jaw tightening.
"I’m not doing the dinner, and I’m not doing the 'sighting' in Monaco," Oscar said, his voice flat and unyielding.
"Oscar, be logical. This is how we shield her. You go to one lunch, the cameras catch you smiling at a model, and the heat on your personal life vanishes. It’s the safest way to protect your friendship."
"I have a plan, Sarah," Oscar interrupted, his voice dropping into a low, lethal register. "I’m handling it. I don't need a PR shield, and I don't need a fake girlfriend. I just need you to trust me on this for a few more days. Keep the press at bay, tell the team I’m focused on training, and just give me the time."
"Time for what?" Sarah pressed, her tone skeptical.
"To finish this," Oscar said, and before she could ask another question, he ended the call.
He walked the rest of the way back to the apartment, the adrenaline from the run mixing with focus. When he entered the unit, the silence was still there, heavy and suffocating. He didn't look toward her closed bedroom door, though he felt the pull of it.
He went straight to the guest bathroom, stripping off his damp running gear. He stepped into the shower, leaning his forehead against the cool tiles as the water sprayed over his shoulders. He closed his eyes, the steam rising around him, as he visualized the finish line. The investigator was moving, Marcus was overconfident, and Sarah was at bay. He just had to hold the line for a few more laps.
—
The morning in the apartment was eerily quiet, the only sound the distant, muffled hum of the city waking up far below. She stepped out of her bedroom, her hair a tangled halo from another restless night. Her throat felt like parched earth, and her only goal was the kitchen and a glass of ice-cold water.
She didn't realize Oscar was even awake until she heard the sharp, rhythmic trill of his phone. It was sitting on the marble kitchen island, vibrating against the stone with a persistent rattle.
A second later, the guest room door swung open.
Oscar stepped out, the steam from the shower still clinging to his skin in glistening beads. He was wearing nothing but a low-slung white towel wrapped around his hips, the terrycloth gripping his pelvic bones with a precarious tension. His hair was dark and dripping, a single stray drop tracing the line of his throat, traveling over the hard, defined muscle of his chest, and disappearing into the knot at his waist.
She stopped dead in the center of the kitchen, her breath hitching in her chest. Her eyes, betrayed by her own hunger, began a slow, agonizing trek over his body. She saw the familiar curve of his shoulders, the lean power in his arms, and the faint, jagged scar on his ribs from a karting accident years ago.
Images flashed through her mind like lightning, Oscar’s weight pressing her into the mattress, the rough calluses of his hands against her inner thighs, the way his eyes turned a dark, stormy navy when he looked at her in the heat of the night. She wanted to look away, to maintain the cold wall she had built, but the sight of him wet, raw, and standing just feet away, made a low, thrumming heat coil deep in her belly.
Oscar didn't rush. He walked toward the ringing phone, his movements fluid and predatory. He knew she was watching. He could feel her gaze like a physical touch on his skin, marking every inch of him.
His phone continued to scream for attention, but Oscar’s focus was entirely on the woman standing by the refrigerator. He wanted to cross the distance in a single stride, to pin her against the cold steel and devour the lie right out of her mouth. He wanted to kiss her until her lungs burned and she forgot the name "Marcus" ever existed.
He stopped just short of the island, his hand hovering near the vibrating phone, when he noticed her moving.
She wasn't retreating. She was walking toward him, her footsteps silent on the hardwood, her eyes locked on his lips with a desperate, starving intensity. The “new start” was gone. The logic was gone. There was only the visceral, agonizing need for the man who owned her.
Without a word, she reached out, her fingers tangling in the damp hair at the nape of his neck, and pulled his face down to hers.
The collision was violent and desperate. It wasn't a slow reconciliation, it was a crash.
She kissed him with a frantic hunger, her tongue darting out to meet his as a broken, needy moan escaped her throat. Oscar didn't hesitate. He let the phone ring out into the silence, his hands slamming onto the marble on either side of her hips before sliding up to grip her waist.
He pulled her flush against him, the dampness of his skin soaking into her thin silk camisole. She backed up until her spine hit the edge of the kitchen island, the cold stone a stark contrast to the inferno of Oscar’s body.
"Oscar," she whimpered into his mouth, the name a jagged plea.
"I know," he rasped, his voice a low, guttural vibration against her lips. "I'm here, baby."
His tongue swept into her mouth, claiming her with a possessive ferocity that made her knees buckle. He tasted of mint and the faint, metallic tang of the adrenaline he’d been living on for days. His hands moved with a frantic, searching energy, one sliding up to cup the back of her head, his fingers threading deep into her hair to tilt her face up, while the other moved to the small of her back, crushing her against his chest.
The sounds in the kitchen were raw, the wet, rhythmic slide of their mouths, the frantic hitching of her breath, and the low, needy growls Oscar made deep in his throat every time she pulled him closer.
He moved his hand from her back to her throat, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw before his fingers circled the column of her neck. He didn't squeeze, but the weight of his palm there was a familiar, grounding anchor. He tilted her head back, trailing his lips down the sensitive cord of her neck, biting gently at the skin he had missed so much.
"Say it," Oscar breathed against her pulse point, his voice thick with a desperate, beautiful pain. "Tell me you don't want me to stop."
"Don't stop," she sobbed, her hands gripping his wet shoulders, her nails digging into his skin as she arched into him. "Please, Daddy... don't ever stop."
The phone began to ring again, a shrill reminder of the world outside, but neither of them heard it.
The kitchen was a mess of friction and frantic, shallow breaths. The sterile, cold marble of the island bit into her lower back, but she couldn't feel the chill, only the radiating, tectonic heat of Oscar’s body crushed against hers. As his tongue swept against hers, a broken, high-pitched whimper escaped her throat, her voice vibrating with a raw, long-suppressed submission that shattered the last of his restraint.
"Daddy... please," she gasped into his mouth, the word a jagged, desperate plea that made Oscar’s pupils blow wide, turning his eyes into dark, bottomless pits of blue.
A low, guttural growl vibrated in Oscar’s chest. He didn't wait. He gripped her thighs, his fingers digging into her soft skin as he hoisted her up, seating her firmly on the edge of the kitchen counter. Her legs instinctively fell open, and he stepped into the space between them, his wet, heavy towel-clad hips grinding with a slow, agonizing pressure against her center. The hardening heat of him was a physical brand through the thin silk of her camisole, and she arched her back so violently her hands had to fly back, palms slamming onto the cold stone behind her to keep from falling.
Oscar’s mouth left hers, his head dropping to the sensitive crook of her neck. He bit down, not enough to bruise, but enough to make her toes curl. His hand slid upward, his palm flattening over the curve of her breast, his fingers kneading the soft weight of her. He paused for a fraction of a second, his thumb flicking over her hardening nipple through the fabric.
"You’re not wearing anything," he rasped against her skin, his voice a lethal, dark velvet. "You knew I was in the next room, and you walked out here like this. Do you have any idea what that does to me?"
"I missed you," she sobbed, her head falling back as he continued to fondle her, his touch both a torture and a cure. She wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, locking her ankles behind his back to pull him even deeper into her heat, needing to feel the friction of him against her every nerve ending.
Just as he was about to rip the silk away, his phone on the counter erupted for the third time. The vibration was violent, rattling against the marble inches from her hand.
"Wait," Oscar groaned, his forehead resting against hers, his breathing coming in jagged hitches. "I have to—it might be the team."
"No," she whined, her hips still rolling against him in a mindless, desperate rhythm. "Don't stop. Please, Oscar."
He pulled back just an inch, his eyes glazed with lust, but the persistence of the call forced his hand. He reached out and snatched the device, swiping it open without looking at the ID, pinning her against the counter with his chest to keep her from sliding off.
"Speak," Oscar barked into the phone, his voice thick and rough.
She didn't care. She was too far gone. While he held the phone to his ear, she leaned forward, her mouth finding the damp skin of his shoulder, her tongue tracing the line of his collarbone. She kept moving her hips, grinding her core against the hard ridge of him behind the towel, determined to make it impossible for him to focus on anything but her.
"Mr. Piastri," the voice on the other end was clinical and sharp—the investigator. "I’ve bypassed the primary encryption on the Silvia server. I’ve flagged a specific media file. It’s mirrored across four different cloud providers and hidden in a spoofed system folder. It’s a high-definition audio-visual capture. I’m pushing the raw file to your encrypted link now. I need you to confirm if this is the leverage before I initiate the shredding protocol."
Oscar’s hand tightened on the phone. His gaze shifted from her face to the screen as a notification pinged. He didn't drop her, he couldn't. He held her waist with one hand to steady her as she continued to trail wet, open-mouthed kisses across his chest, her hips still searching for that friction.
He tapped the link. A video player opened.
The audio hit the air before the image even stabilized, crisp, high-fidelity, and devastatingly intimate.
"I want that silk on the floor... I'm so turned on right now just looking at how much skin you're showing for me..."
The sound of Oscar’s own voice, raw with desire and stripped of all his public composure, filled the kitchen.
She froze. The desperate movement of her hips stopped instantly, her breath hitching in her throat. The heat in the room didn't just dissipate, it turned to ice. She pulled back, her eyes wide with a sudden, paralyzing horror as she looked at the screen in Oscar’s hand.
The silence that followed the recording was heavier than the scream of a Formula 1 engine. She stared at Oscar, her hands trembling on the counter, realizing that the secret she had destroyed her life to keep was now playing out loud in the one room she thought was safe.
The audio continued to bleed into the clinical stillness of the kitchen, a haunting, digital echo of a moment that had felt like their most private sanctuary. On the small screen, the interface of a recorded Zoom call was unmistakable.
Oscar’s grip on her waist didn't loosen, but it changed. It went from the desperate, white-knuckled grasp of a lover to the steady, grounding hold of a man who had finally found the missing piece of a devastating puzzle. He looked down at the phone, the flickering light of the video reflecting in his pupils, then slowly, painstakingly, he raised his gaze to hers.
The heat was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity that made his blue eyes look like splintered ice.
“The Zoom recording,” Oscar whispered, his voice cracking on the final syllable, sounding more like a realization than a question. “It was the Zoom recording?”
He didn't wait for her to answer. The data points were already aligning in his mind with the speed of a telemetry overlay.
“He kept the recording,” Oscar said, his chest heaving as the sheer, invasive violation of it settled into his bones. “He sat there and listened to a private moment between us, and he’s been using it to pull you away from me.”
She couldn't speak. Her lungs felt like they had been filled with lead, her heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against her ribs. The sight of the video, the proof of her greatest fear finally out in the open, made the room tilt. She looked at Oscar, at the damp hair clinging to his forehead and the raw, bleeding hurt in his expression, and the wall she had built finally, violently crumbled.
“He said he’d send it to the team,” she sobbed, the words finally breaking through the dam. Her hands, still resting on the marble, curled into claws. “He said he’d send it to the sponsors. He told me he’d make sure every tabloid had the transcript. I couldn't—Oscar, I couldn't let him ruin everything you’ve worked for.”
Oscar let out a sharp, jagged breath, his forehead dropping to rest against hers. He wasn't looking at the phone anymore. He was looking at the woman who had spent the last month in a living hell just to keep his world from burning.
“You'd think I’d care?” he rasped, his voice a low, vibrating growl of protectiveness. “You thought I’d care about a seat or a sponsor more than I care about you being blackmailed by a coward? You thought I’d let you walk away and call it a ‘distraction’ while he was holding this over your head?”
He pulled back, his thumb catching a stray tear on her cheek, his touch suddenly fierce. The investigator’s voice was still murmuring something through the speaker about “initiating the shredding protocol,” but Oscar ignored it.
“He’s done,” Oscar promised, the words sounding like a death warrant. “I don't care about the press. I don't care about the image. He’s never going to touch you again.”
He looked back at the screen, and then he looked at the door, his eyes darkening with a lethal, focused intent. He finally understood why she had pushed him away, why she had asked him to leave, and why she had looked so haunted. It wasn't a choice, it was a sacrifice. And he was done being patient.
He didn't let her go, he kept her pinned to the counter with his body, his damp chest rising and falling in jagged, heavy thuds against her silk camisole.
He swiped the call back to the active line, his voice dropping into a register that was colder and more precise than any post-race briefing. It was the voice of a man who had just identified the debris on the track and was moving to clear it with absolute prejudice.
"Ross," Oscar barked, his eyes never leaving hers. "The file you sent. That’s the one. It’s the leverage."
"Confirmed, Mr. Piastri," the investigator’s voice crackled back, devoid of emotion. "I have a lock on the primary server and the mirrored backups. I’ve also identified a hidden partition on a physical external drive currently connected to his home network. Do I have the go signal?"
Oscar’s grip on her waist tightened, his thumb digging into her hip. He could feel her trembling, the sheer terror of the last month finally bleeding out of her in a low, broken whimper.
"Do it," Oscar commanded, his jaw set in a line of iron. "I want every single byte of that data shredded. I want the cloud drives wiped, the physical drive corrupted, and I want the recovery keys overwritten. If there’s so much as a thumbnail left of her or me on his hardware, I want to know why."
"Understood. Initiating the wipe protocol now. It’ll look like a catastrophic system failure from his end. He won't be able to recover a single frame."
"And is there dead man's switch?" Oscar pressed, his voice a low, lethal hum.
"Located and neutralized. He can click 'send' all he wants, Mr. Piastri. He’ll be sending empty packets to a dead server. He has nothing."
"Good," Oscar said, and the word sounded like a gunshot. "Finish it."
He dropped the phone onto the marble counter, the device clattering as it slid toward the edge. The digital threat that had been a noose around her neck for weeks had just been severed in a matter of seconds.
Oscar looked at her, the mask finally fracturing. He saw the sheer, soul-deep relief flooding her eyes, the way her shoulders finally slumped as the weight of the world was lifted off them. He didn't say a word. He just leaned in, burying his face in the crook of her neck, his breath warm and ragged against her skin.
"It's gone," he whispered, the words vibrating through her entire body. "He's got nothing left, baby. You're safe. I got you."
The kitchen was silent again, but the air had changed. The suffocating, toxic tension was replaced by a raw, aching honesty. She reached out, her hands shaking as she cupped his face, pulling him back so she could look at him, really look at him, without the shadow of Marcus between them.
"Oscar," she sobbed, her forehead resting against his. "I was so scared... I thought I’d lost you forever."
"You could never lose me," he rasped, his eyes dark with a fierce, possessive devotion. "I don't care about my career, I don't care about the press. If the whole world heard that tape, I’d still be standing right here. But now? Now he’s the one who’s going to lose everything."
The tension that had gripped her chest for weeks finally splintered, and a small, shaky laugh bubbled up through her tears. It was a breathless, hysterical little sound that made her shoulders shake against the cold marble of the kitchen island. She looked at him, still damp from the shower, a towel precariously tied at his waist, his eyes burning with a protective fury, and she couldn't help it.
"You're such a liar, Oscar Piastri," she whispered, her voice hitching as she reached up to brush a damp stray hair from his forehead. "You don't care about the career? You live for that seat. You’d probably try to find a way to race a lawnmower if they took the car away from you."
Oscar didn't smile, but the lethal edge in his gaze softened, replaced by a raw, quiet vulnerability. He leaned into her touch, his cheek pressing against her palm as he took a deep, jagged breath of the air that finally felt clean again.
"Okay," he admitted, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated through her chest. "Maybe that was a bit of a stretch."
He let out a short, self-deprecating huff of air, his forehead dropping back against hers. There it was, the boy who had grown up with grease under his fingernails and the man who had just risked his reputation to dismantle a blackmailer.
"I love racing," he murmured, his hands sliding from her waist to her upper back, pulling her so close there wasn't a whisper of space left between them. "I love the speed, I love the car, and I love winning. It’s what I’m built for. I’ve spent twenty years sacrificing everything to get to that grid."
He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, his expression turning intensely solemn.
"But if the price of that seat was watching you suffer in silence while that coward held a leash on you? If I had to choose between a trophy and knowing you were safe in this house with me?" He shook his head, his grip tightening. "The car is just carbon fiber and an engine, baby. It’s not my home. You are. I can live without the podium, but I’ve spent the last few days realizing I can't breathe without you."
She swallowed hard, the weight of his admission hitting her harder than any of Marcus’s threats. She knew how much he had sacrificed, the move to Europe as a kid, the lonely hotel rooms, the relentless pressure of the academy. For him to say she was more important than the one thing he had dedicated his life to was the ultimate victory.
"You're going to get both," she promised, her fingers curling into the nape of his neck. "You're going to keep the seat, and you're going to keep me. And Marcus? He’s going to wake up to a very empty hard drive."
Oscar’s lips finally quirked into a ghost of a smirk, the sharp, competitive one that usually appeared right before a qualifying lap. "He’s going to wake up to a lot more than that once my legal team is done with him. But right now?"
He leaned in, his mouth hovering just inches from hers, the heat of his body radiating against her silk camisole. "Right now, I think I’ve earned the rest of that kiss you started."
She didn’t wait for him to finish the thought. She surged forward, her mouth crashing against his with a newfound ferocity, one stripped of the desperation and flavored instead with a sharp, intoxicating triumph. The fear that had acted as a physical barrier between them for weeks had finally dissolved, leaving nothing but the raw, electric current of two people who had nearly lost everything and fought their way back.
Oscar let out a low, rough sound, halfway between a groan and a growl, as he hoisted her further onto the counter, his large hands sliding up her thighs to pull her flush against his heat. The marble was cold beneath her, but Oscar was a furnace, his damp skin slick against the silk of her camisole.
"God, I missed this," he rasped against her lips, his teeth grazing her lower lip before he sucked it into his mouth. "I missed you."
His hands weren't clinical anymore, they were possessive, mapping out the curves of her body as if he were re-memorizing a track he’d been banned from for an eternity. He moved with a frantic rhythm, his hips grinding into her, the heavy towel between them the only thing keeping the encounter from becoming absolute.
She arched her back, her fingers digging into the hard, defined muscles of his shoulders. "Oscar... the bedroom," she breathed, her voice fracturing as he trailed a line of wet, biting kisses down the column of her throat.
"In a minute," he murmured, his voice a dark, vibrating command. He pulled back just enough to look at her, his blue eyes dark and heavy with a lethal mix of love and lust. "I want to look at you right here. No Marcus. No lies. Just us."
He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw, his touch suddenly incredibly tender despite the storm raging in his chest. "You really thought you could just walk away from me?”
"I thought I was saving you," she whispered, her eyes brimming with a different kind of tear now.
Oscar shook his head, a small, fierce smirk finally tugging at the corner of his mouth, the look of a man who had just taken the checkered flag against impossible odds.
"Next time," he said, his voice dropping into that low, authoritative register that made her heart skip, "remember that I'm a racing driver. I’m used to high-speed crashes. I can handle a little wreckage, as long as you're in the passenger seat with me."
He didn't give her a chance to argue. He swept her up into his arms, her legs instantly locking around his waist as he carried her toward the bedroom. The kitchen was left behind, the cold marble, the phone, and the ghost of the man who had tried to break them, all forgotten in the wake of the only thing that had ever truly mattered.
—
The mid-morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains of the bedroom, casting a soft, golden haze over the rumpled sheets. It was 11:00 AM, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, the room was silent, no frantic typing, no stifled sobs, no vibrating phones. Beside her, Oscar was dead to the world. His face, usually a mask of concentrated focus or guarded composure, was smoothed out in a rare, deep sleep. The dark circles beneath his eyes seemed a little less bruised in the morning light, his chest rising and falling in a steady, heavy rhythm that spoke of absolute exhaustion finally giving way to peace.
She propped herself up on one elbow, her gaze tracing the familiar lines of his profile. She watched the way his eyelashes brushed his cheekbones and the slight part of his lips. He looked younger when he was sleeping, less like a global sporting icon and more like the boy she had grown up with.
But as the silence stretched on, a cold, nagging insecurity began to seep back into her chest, replacing the warmth of their reunion.
She thought about the frantic way they had come together just hours ago. She thought about the word Daddy she had gasped against his skin and the way he had claimed her with such possessive intensity. For months, their arrangement had been a thrilling, secret game, a way to blur the lines of a twenty-year friendship with the spice of power dynamics and luxury. It had been exciting, a mutual agreement that added a layer of heat to their bond.
But now, staring at him, her heart felt heavy with a different kind of ache. Did he save me because I'm his best friend? she wondered, her throat tightening. Or did he save me because I’m an investment he wasn't ready to lose? The idea that Oscar might only see her as his "sugar baby,” a beautiful distraction he paid for and protected, used to be a fantasy. Now, it felt like a cage. She knew she loved him, truly, deeply, beyond any arrangement or contract. She loved the man who worried about her vitamins and the man who would burn his career down for her. But she couldn't be sure if he felt the same, or if he was simply maintaining the status quo of a high-end arrangement.
Unable to sit with the thoughts any longer, she slipped out of bed, careful not to wake him. She pulled on one of his oversized McLaren hoodies, the scent of him clinging to the fabric, and padded into the kitchen.
The apartment felt different now. The air was clearer, but she walked with her shoulders hunched, her movements sluggish as she began to pull eggs and bread from the fridge. She stood over the stove, staring blankly at the butter melting in the pan, the weight of her own doubt making her feel small. She felt like she was waiting for a second shoe to drop, terrified that the intimacy they had shared was just a temporary reprieve from a fundamental misunderstanding of what they actually were to each other.
An hour passed in a daze of sizzling bacon and quiet reflection.
In the bedroom, Oscar bolted upright. The sudden silence of the room hit him. He reached out, his hand sweeping across the empty, cold space where she had been lying.
"No," he rasped, his voice thick with sleep and a sudden, sharp spike of adrenaline.
His mind, still foggy, immediately went to the worst-case scenario. He thought of the breakup. He thought of her asking him to leave permanently. He thought Marcus had somehow gotten to her in the hour he’d let his guard down. He didn't even grab a shirt, he just threw on a pair of joggers and practically sprinted out of the room, his heart hammering against his ribs in a panicked, uneven cadence.
He rounded the corner into the kitchen, his eyes wide and frantic, his breath coming in short, jagged bursts.
He stopped dead when he saw her.
She was standing at the counter, her back to him, plating the toast. She looked so small in his hoodie, her hair still messy from his hands. The sheer, visceral relief that flooded Oscar’s system was so intense it almost made his knees buckle. He didn't say a word, he just rushed across the floor.
He crashed into her from behind, his arms wrapping around her waist with a crushing, desperate strength. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his forehead pressed against her skin as he let out a long, shaky exhale that sounded like a sob.
"Don't do that," he choked out, his voice trembling with a vulnerability she had never heard before. "Don't ever just... disappear like that. I woke up and the bed was cold, and I thought—I thought you’d changed your mind. I thought you were gone."
She dropped the tongs, her heart aching at the sheer terror in his voice. She turned in his arms, her hands coming up to cup his face, her thumbs brushing away the moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes.
Seeing him like this, this raw, terrified version of Oscar Piastri, shattered her. She had spent weeks trying to push him away to save him, never realizing that the mere thought of her absence was the one thing he couldn't survive.
"I'm here, Oscar," she whispered, her own tears starting to fall. "I'm not going anywhere. I was just making food. I promise, I'm right here."
She pulled his head down, kissing his forehead, his eyelids, his cheeks, trying to soothe the man who was so used to being the protector that he didn't know how to handle the fear of being left behind.
He held her tighter, his fingers curling into the fabric of his own hoodie on her back. He looked down at her with a desperate, searching intensity, as if he were trying to memorize her soul. Seeing him this undone, this terrified of a world without her, made her doubts feel small, yet the question still lingered in the back of her mind, waiting for the courage to be asked.
—
The fragile peace in the kitchen shattered with a violent, rhythmic thud. It wasn't the polite knock of a neighbor, it was a demanding, entitled pounding that vibrated through the wooden frame of the front door.
Oscar’s entire body went rigid. The vulnerability that had just been pooling in his eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, predatory focus. He didn't let go of her immediately, he tucked her behind his shoulder, his arm a protective barrier as he steered her toward the far side of the island.
"Stay here," Oscar commanded, his voice dropping into that low, flat "race mode" register.
He didn't grab a shirt. He didn't need one. He walked to the door with a measured, lethal calm, his bare chest heaving slightly with the remnants of his earlier panic. He gripped the handle and swung the door open with a force that nearly pulled it off its hinges.
Marcus was standing there, his hand raised for another strike. He looked disheveled, his hair uncharacteristically messy, his eyes bloodshot and frantic. He didn't even look at Oscar at first, his gaze was darting into the apartment, searching for a target.
"Where is she?" Marcus demanded, his voice high and strained. "She’s not answering her phone. She hasn't replied to a single text since last night. I told her what would happen if she went dark on me, I told her—"
Marcus stopped mid-sentence. His eyes finally focused on the man standing in front of him.
He looked at Oscar’s shirtless torso, the faint red marks on his shoulders, and the unmistakable, possessive set of his jaw. Then, his gaze shifted past Oscar to the kitchen.
She was standing there, her fingers white-knuckled as she gripped the edge of the marble counter. She was swathed in Oscar’s oversized McLaren hoodie, the sleeves hanging past her fingertips, the scent of him practically radiating off her. Her hair was a bird’s nest of tangles, her lips swollen and bitten red.
Marcus’s face went from frantic to a sickly, pale white, then flushed a dark, ugly purple. The dots didn't just connect, they slammed together with the force of a high-speed impact.
"You," Marcus hissed, his eyes darting back to Oscar. He let out a sharp, hysterical laugh that sounded like a choke. "You really are a glutton for punishment, aren't you, Piastri? I thought I made it clear. I thought she made it clear. You're supposed to be gone."
Marcus reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone with a trembling hand. He didn't realize he was holding a gun with no bullets. He didn't know the digital execution had already happened.
"I warned you," Marcus snarled, his thumb hovering over the screen as he looked at her with a look of pure, spiteful betrayal. "I told you what I’d do if you let him touch you again. You think this is a game? You think he can buy his way out of this? Watch your career go up in smoke, Oscar. Watch how fast McLaren drops you when they hear what you really do behind closed doors."
He stabbed at the screen, his face twisted in a mask of triumphant malice, waiting for the upload confirmation that would never come. He had no idea that Oscar was currently watching him drown in a dry pool.
Oscar’s expression didn't shift into a panic. Instead, he smoothed his features into a mask of confusion, the same face he wore when a steward called him in for a post-race investigation he knew he’d already won. He leaned against the doorframe, his bare shoulder blocking Marcus’s path, his voice dropping into a dangerously calm drawl.
"What are you talking about, Marcus?" Oscar asked, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You’re standing in my hallway at eleven in the morning, screaming about my career. You sound like you’ve had a mental break. What exactly do you think you have?"
Marcus let out a sharp, jagged laugh, his thumb hovering over the 'Send' button on a BCC email draft addressed to every major sports outlet in the UK. "Don't play dumb with me, Piastri! The Zoom call. I’ve got the whole thing. Every word, every look, every filthy little thing you said to her while you thought the world wasn't watching."
Behind Oscar, she gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. The sheer, naked malice in Marcus’s voice made the air in the kitchen feel oily.
"A recording?" Oscar repeated, his voice deceptively soft. He stepped an inch closer, his presence looming over the smaller man. "You’re telling me you’ve been spying on her? That you’ve been sitting in your room, watching us? That sounds like a criminal offense, Marcus. That sounds like something a judge would find very interesting."
"It doesn't matter what a judge thinks when the sponsors see it!" Marcus hissed, his face contorted. "I’m hitting send. Right now. You want to see the footage? Here.”
Marcus shoved the phone toward Oscar’s face, his finger trembling as he tried to refresh the preview. This was the opening Oscar needed.
With the lightning-fast reflexes that allowed him to react to a 300km/h snap of oversteer, Oscar’s hand shot out. He didn't punch him, he simply clamped his fingers around Marcus’s wrist and twisted just enough to force his grip to loosen. Before Marcus could even yell, Oscar had the phone in his hand.
"Hey! Give that back!" Marcus lunged, but Oscar used his free arm to shove him back against the hallway wall with a dull thud.
Oscar ignored him, his eyes scanning the screen. He saw the email draft. He saw the attachment icons, four of them, all showing the spinning wheel of a failed upload. 'Error: File Not Found.' 'Source Data Corrupted.'
Oscar scrolled through the gallery, his thumb moving with clinical speed. Every folder labeled with her name was empty. Every cloud backup he tried to open returned a 404 error. The investigator hadn't just deleted the files, he had salted the earth.
A slow, terrifyingly calm smirk spread across Oscar’s face. He looked up from the dead screen, his gaze locking onto Marcus’s panicked eyes.
"There's nothing here, Marcus," Oscar said, his voice a low, lethal hum. He held the phone up so Marcus could see the 'Upload Failed' notifications blinking in red. "The files are gone. The backups are gone. Even the source code on your hard drive at home is currently being overwritten with zeros."
Marcus’s jaw dropped. He snatched at the phone, his thumbs flying over the screen in a desperate, frantic dance. "No... no, that’s impossible. I had multiple copies! I had them on the encrypted drive!"
"You had a lot of things," Oscar said, stepping fully out into the hallway, forcing Marcus to take a stumbling step back. "But what you don't have is leverage. And what you do have is a very long list of felony charges for extortion, non-consensual recording, and harassment."
Oscar turned the phone off and tossed it onto the carpet at Marcus’s feet like it was a piece of trash.
"Get out," Oscar commanded, the cold-blooded man fully unleashed. "Before I stop being a distraction and start being the person who ensures you never work in this city, or any other, ever again."
The digital collapse had stripped Marcus of his power, but it had replaced his smugness with a frantic, unhinged desperation. He didn’t look like a blackmailer anymore, he looked like a man watching his entire life dissolve into a 404 error.
Instead of running, Marcus lunged past Oscar, stumbling into the kitchen.
"Wait—no! It’s okay!" Marcus shouted, his voice cracking with a high-pitched, terrifying mania. He didn't look at Oscar. He looked at her, his eyes wide and bloodshot. "It’s gone! You heard him! The files are gone, I can't hurt you anymore! We can go back to how it was. I’ll do anything! I’ll delete everything else, I'll never mention it again, just don't let him do this to me!"
Oscar was on him in a second. He didn't throw a punch, not yet, but he stepped directly into the space between them, his bare, scarred chest a solid wall. He raised a stiff hand, palm flat against Marcus’s sternum, shoving him back with the calibrated strength of an athlete.
"That’s enough," Oscar growled, his voice vibrating with a low, dangerous frequency. "You’re done. Get out of this apartment before I lose my patience."
"This isn't about you, Piastri!" Marcus screamed, his face twisting. "This is between us! You don't love her like I do! You're just the bestfriend!"
In a sudden, frantic burst of adrenaline, Marcus shoved Oscar’s arm aside. It was a clumsy, desperate move, but it caught Oscar off balance on the slick kitchen tile. Oscar stumbled a half-step to the side, his shoulder hitting the fridge with a dull thud.
"Mind your own business!" Marcus shrieked, seizing the opening.
He scrambled toward her. She backed up, her heels hitting the base of the kitchen island, her hands coming up to shield herself. But Marcus was faster. He reached out and snatched her upper arms, his fingers digging into the soft fabric of Oscar's hoodie, his grip bruising and frantic.
"Listen to me!" Marcus pleaded, shaking her slightly, his face inches from hers. "I can fix this! I love you! I only did it because I was losing you to him! Please, just tell him to stop, tell him to give me my life back—"
"Let go of me!" she sobbed, her voice breaking as the sheer terror of the last month culminated in this physical violation. The smell of his sweat and the frantic, wide-eyed look in his eyes made her feel like she was suffocating. "Marcus, stop! You’re hurting me!"
Tears streamed down her face, her breath coming in shallow, terrified hitches. She looked past Marcus’s shoulder, her eyes searching for the only person who had ever truly kept her safe.
She saw Oscar find his footing. His face went completely blank, his eyes turning a shade of blue so cold it looked like winter in the pits. He didn't shout. He didn't warn him again.
He simply moved.
Seeing Marcus’s hands on her, seeing those fingers bruising the fabric of the hoodie, snapped the last thread of professional restraint he possessed.
Oscar didn’t shout. He didn't roar. He moved with the terrifying, silent economy of a machine designed for high-speed impact.
One moment Marcus was leaning into her space, his frantic breath hot on her face, the next, a hand like a vice clamped onto Marcus’s shoulder. Oscar didn't just pull him, he pivoted his entire weight, using the torque of his core to rip Marcus away from her with such violent force that Marcus’s grip failed instantly.
Marcus spun, stumbling back, but Oscar wasn’t done. He closed the gap before Marcus could even find his footing, his forearm slamming against Marcus’s throat and pinning him against the far wall of the kitchen. The sound of the impact, the dull thud of skull meeting drywall, echoed through the apartment.
"I told you," Oscar hissed, his voice a low, guttural vibration that sounded more like an engine idling in the red than a human speaking. "To keep. Your hands. Off her."
Oscar’s face was inches from Marcus’s, his pupils dilated so wide his eyes were almost entirely black. The veins in his neck were corded, his shirtless chest heaving against Marcus’s designer shirt.
"Oscar, stop!" she cried out, her voice trembling. She was still pressed against the island, her hands clutching her elbows, her eyes wide as she watched the most composed man she knew turn into something lethal.
But Oscar didn't hear her. He was locked in. He watched the light of arrogance finally die in Marcus’s eyes, replaced by a raw, suffocating terror as Marcus gasped for air under the pressure of Oscar’s arm.
"You think this is about money?" Oscar’s voice dropped even lower, a terrifyingly calm whisper that cut through her sobs. "You think you can record us, threaten her, lay your hands on her, and then beg for a 'reset'? You’re not a man, Marcus. You’re a glitch. And I’m about to delete you myself."
Oscar’s hand curled into a white-knuckled fist, pulling back as his weight shifted, ready to deliver a blow that carried twenty years of friendship and a month of agonizing hurt behind it. His knuckles were white, his arm trembling with the sheer effort of not ending the man right there on his kitchen floor.
"Oscar, please!" she screamed, her voice finally breaking the trance. "Don't! Not for him! Don't ruin everything for him!"
The mention of "everything,” the career, the seat, the life they were supposed to have, finally reached the back of Oscar’s mind. He froze, his fist inches from Marcus’s jaw. He could feel the heat radiating off Marcus’s panicked skin, could hear the pathetic, wheezing sounds of a man who realized he had pushed a predator too far.
Oscar took a slow, shuddering breath, his chest expanding as he forced himself to calm down. He didn't lower his arm. Instead, he leaned in closer, his lips nearly brushing Marcus’s ear.
"If I ever see you within a mile of her again," Oscar promised, his voice deathly quiet and cold as a grave, "the investigator will be the least of your problems. I will spend every cent I have and every connection I’ve made to ensure you spend the rest of your life wishing you’d never learned her name. Do you understand me?"
Marcus could only manage a frantic, terrified nod, his eyes bulging.
Oscar abruptly let go, and Marcus slumped to the floor, clutching his throat and coughing violently. Oscar didn't even look at him. He turned his back on the wreckage of the man, his eyes instantly searching for her. The rage vanished, replaced by an agonizing, soul-deep concern as he stepped toward her, his hands out, trembling slightly from the adrenaline.
"Are you okay?" Oscar rasped, his voice breaking as he reached for her. "Baby, did he hurt you?"
—
The following week felt like a fever dream of domestic bliss, a stark, colorful contrast to the grayscale misery of the month before. The apartment was no longer a battlefield, it was a sanctuary.
Oscar was everywhere no longer a ghost, but a constant, grounding presence. He was back to his quiet, observant brand of spoiling her. He’d "accidentally" buy two of her favorite expensive lattes on his way back from a morning run, or she’d find a new, high-end skincare set sitting on her vanity with a post-it note that simply said: You looked like you were running low. Even Noodle was reaping the benefits. Oscar had started a covert operation of "accidentally" dropping pieces of premium dried fish near the cat’s bowl, whispering to the feline to keep it a secret while she watched from the doorway, her heart swelling at the domesticity of it all.
The banter was back, too, the sharp, dry wit that had always been their love language. But beneath the laughter and the shared meals, a quiet, persistent ache remained lodged in her chest.
Every time she called him "Daddy" in the heat of the night, or every time he swiped his black card to pay for a dinner that cost more than her monthly rent, the insecurity flared. Is this the only reason he’s here? she’d wonder, her smile faltering for a split second. She loved him with a depth that terrified her, a love that transcended the "arrangement" and the luxury. She wanted to ask him, to demand to know if he saw her as his partner or just a very high-maintenance, very loved "sugar baby."
But the memory of the silence, of the guest room door being closed, was too fresh. She couldn't risk it. If this, the role-play, the secret, the sugar dating, was the price of admission to his life, she would pay it. She would be whatever he needed her to be, as long as she never had to see that look of indifference again.
The hardest part, however, wasn't the internal doubt, it was the world outside their door.
A few days later, they were at a quiet, upscale mall. Oscar was wearing a baseball cap pulled low and a face mask, his head down as they walked toward a bookstore. She caught her reflection in a shop window, standing two paces behind him, looking like a stranger or a casual acquaintance.
Her hand twitched, her fingers longing to slide between his, to feel the familiar calluses of his palm. She wanted to lean her head on his shoulder while they looked at books. She wanted the world to know that the man everyone idolized on the TV screen belonged to her, and she to him.
She thought about the upcoming race in Miami. She thought about the cameras, the Paddock, and the "Naomi" narrative Sarah had mentioned. The realization that she would have to watch him from a distance, that she couldn't kiss him at the finish line or hold his hand during a post-race interview, felt like a slow-acting poison.
"You okay?" Oscar asked, stopping by a display and looking back at her. His eyes, the only part of him visible, were soft and full of that silent, intense focus he only saved for her.
"Yeah," she lied, forcing a smile that didn't reach her eyes as she tucked a stray hair behind her ear. "Just thinking about what Noodle is probably destroying while we're gone."
Oscar chuckled, the sound muffled by his mask, and reached out as if to touch her arm, but he caught himself, his hand dropping back to his side as a group of teenagers walked past.
The rejection of the touch, even though it was for her protection, felt like a physical blow. She followed him into the store, the weight of their "secret" feeling heavier than ever. She was back in his life, but as long as they were hiding, she felt like she was still living in the shadows of the man she loved.
—
After the suffocating tension of the weeks prior, being back in the paddock felt like stepping into a different dimension. But as she moved through the McLaren garage, the ghosts of her secrets still flickered in the corners.
"Hey, we missed you in the last rounds," one of the telemetry engineers said, looking up from his monitors with a friendly grin. "That guy who was coming around, Marcus, right? Everything sorted?"
She didn't flinch. She didn't let the name trigger the phantom sensation of his fingers on her arm. She simply adjusted her headset, her expression cool and professional. "Yeah, all sorted. He was just an acquaintance from the university."
The lie felt effortless now, a necessary shield. But the peace was short-lived.
"Oscar! We need you in the hospitality suite, now," Sarah’s voice cut through the air, sharp and urgent. She was holding her phone like a weapon, her thumb scrolling through a rapid-fire feed of social media notifications. "You and your 'best friend' are trending again. Someone caught a high-res shot of you two walking through the turnstiles this morning. The 'best friend’ narrative is peaking, Oscar. We have to pivot."
Oscar’s jaw tightened. He didn't look back as he followed Sarah toward the private offices in the back of the hospitality unit. She trailed behind them at a distance, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She knew she shouldn't listen, but the curiosity was a physical ache, she needed to know how much of their life was being negotiated behind closed doors.
She stayed in the shadow of the corridor as Oscar and Sarah entered the glass-walled lounge. She saw Oscar freeze, his entire posture turning rigid.
Standing in the center of the room was a woman who looked like she had been sculpted from moonlight and high-fashion editorials. It was Naomi. She was taller than she looked in photos, her hair a perfect silk curtain, wearing a McLaren team shirt that somehow looked like couture on her.
"Oscar, this is Naomi," Sarah said, her voice dropping into a smooth, PR-friendly lilt. "Naomi, this is Oscar. I think you two have a lot to discuss regarding the dinner tonight."
Oscar didn't move. He was a man who prided himself on manners, on the quiet Australian stoicism that demanded he be polite even in the face of a catastrophe. "Nice to meet you," he murmured, his voice flat, his hands shoved deep into his pockets to hide the fact that they were curling into fists.
Outside the glass, the world seemed to tilt. She watched through the window as Sarah began to gesture between them, the architect of a beautiful, public lie.
She felt a cold, hollow sensation wash over her, a weight in her chest that made it hard to breathe. This is it, she thought, her eyes stinging. This is the karma. She had spent weeks hurting Oscar, pushing him away, and treating him like a stranger to "protect" him. Now, the universe was giving her exactly what she’d asked for. A world where Oscar belonged to someone else in the eyes of everyone who mattered.
She couldn't watch Noami smile at him. She couldn't watch the way the light caught the model's perfect skin as she stepped closer to the man who, just hours ago, had been whispering baby into her ear in a darkened hotel room.
She turned on her heel and walked away, her vision blurring. She didn't leave the garage, she couldn't, but she retreated to the furthest corner of the engineering station, tucking herself behind a stack of tire blankets. She felt small, invisible, and utterly replaceable.
In the world of Formula 1, she was the secret, the "sugar baby," the distraction. Naomi was the story. And as the roar of the engines started up for Practice 1, she realized that keeping Oscar might mean watching him pretend he didn't even know her name.
⊹ ✿・・───・・✦・・───・・✿ ⊹
a/n: i ended up not rewriting this part 🤪 hopefully its still good, tho? 😭 cuz idk if this was boring, or i've just reread it so many times that it got boring??? 😭
warnings: this story contains 18+ content (mdni), dom!oscar, sub!oc, explicit sexual content, power imbalance, consensual bdsm elements, spanking, choking, orgasm control, fingering (f receiving), cunnilingus, blow job, p in v, unprotected sex (pls be safe!), masturbation, public fingering
wc: 17k+ (one, two, three, four)
Her focus remained locked on the sickening ultimatum glowing on her phone. Marcus’s threat felt like a jagged blade pressed against the throat of Oscar’s future. Although he knew nothing of the luxury gifts, the secret transfers, or how their "childhood best friend" dynamic had shifted into an arrangement of mutual benefit, to Marcus, the recording was simply proof of a scandalous lust that would wreck Oscar's pristine public image. He didn't realize he was actually holding the key to a much deeper, more complex secret.
She looked out at the pit lane, her heart aching as she watched Oscar climb out of the MCL38. He looked powerful, untouchable, the golden boy of the grid. If she stayed, Marcus would pull the trigger, and the world would see a side of Oscar that his sponsors and fans weren't prepared for. The secret nature of their bond was a private sanctuary, a delicate balance of deep-rooted history and new, carnal boundaries. If that sanctuary was breached, the fallout would be radioactive.
I have to be the one to leave, she realized, her throat tight. I’d rather he hates me for walking away than loses everything because I stayed.
With trembling fingers, she typed a reply to Marcus, her eyes blurring with unshed tears.
Her: I need time. You can't just leak that, it would destroy me too. Give me time to talk to Oscar. I need to tell him I’m moving on, that I want someone else. If I just disappear, he’ll hunt you down.
She hit send and tucked the phone away, feeling like she had just signed a death warrant for her own happiness.
A few meters away, Oscar was already in a heated standoff with Sarah. The PR manager was clutching her tablet like a shield, her face set in the rigid lines of a woman who viewed human emotions as PR liabilities. She didn't know about their "arrangement", she only saw two attractive people whose "friendship" was starting to look far too intimate for the brand's comfort.
"The engagement on the graduation photos is 80% speculative, Oscar," Sarah hissed, her voice barely audible over the roar of a passing Ferrari. "The fans are dissecting the way you held her waist. It’s messy. It’s distracting. We will leak the dinner with Naomi tonight. You will go, you will smile, and you will be the focused professional the team pays you to be."
Oscar ripped off his fire-resistant balaclava, his hair damp with sweat and his eyes burning with fury. "I told you no, Sarah. I'm not using a stranger to hide the most important person in my life."
"She is a distraction to your career!" Sarah countered, her frustration finally boiling over. "If the fans think you’re more focused on your 'best friend' than the championship, your value drops. My job is to protect the asset. You are the asset."
"She isn't a distraction. She's the reason I can do this at all," Oscar growled, leaning into Sarah’s space, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low vibrato. "I don’t care about the metrics. I don’t care if the internet thinks we’re 'too sweet.' I’ve spent my whole life being composed and calm for the cameras, but I won't let you turn her into a secret I’m supposed to be ashamed of."
He wasn't thinking about the "sugar" aspect of their life, the high-end hotels or the financial support he provided. He was thinking about the girl who knew his favorite childhood meal, the girl who had been there before the fame, and the woman who had surrendered herself to him in that dark room just two nights ago. To him, their arrangement was just a way to take care of her, the love, however complicated, was the foundation.
"If you keep pushing this, Sarah, you aren't protecting my image, you're destroying my home," Oscar stated, his jaw set in a line of iron. "I'm not going to that dinner. And if I see even one leaked story about me and a model, I’m going to the press myself to tell them exactly who I’m with."
He turned on his heel, leaving a stunned Sarah behind. His eyes immediately sought her out. He saw her slumped shoulders and the way she was staring at nothing, her usual spark replaced by a haunted, distant look. He didn't know about Marcus’s recording or the clock she had just started. All he knew was that she looked like she was already mourning them, and he was prepared to burn his entire career to the ground just to keep her from saying goodbye.
She stood by the tool chests, her fingers tracing the cold, industrial metal as she watched the exchange between Oscar and Sarah from a distance. She couldn't hear every word over the hum of the cooling fans, but she heard enough, the sharp bite in Sarah’s tone, the words "distraction" and "asset," and the low, rumbling thunder of Oscar’s refusal.
Each word felt like a brick being added to the wall Marcus was building around them. She looked away before Oscar could catch her staring, blinking back the sudden sting in her eyes. She couldn't let him see her break, if he saw her cry, he’d hunt down the cause, and Marcus was waiting with his finger on the trigger.
A moment later, the heavy vibration of footsteps approached. She didn't have to look up to know it was him, she could feel the shift in the air, the way the atmosphere seemed to tighten and warm all at once.
Oscar stepped into her space, his shadow falling over her. He didn't say anything at first. He just stood there, smelling of Nomex, sweat, and that expensive, metallic scent of the garage. He reached out, his hand hovering near her shoulder before he gently squeezed it.
He looked at her. His gaze was analytical, the same way he studied telemetry data, and she knew he was picking up on the minute tremors in her hands and the way she wouldn't meet his eyes. He sensed the shift, the sudden distance that hadn't been there when they woke up that morning. But he didn't ask. He knew the pressure of the paddock, and he likely thought the Sarah drama had leaked into her headspace more than he wanted.
Instead of pressing her, his expression softened.
"Hey, baby," he murmured, his voice low enough to stay between just the two of them.
"Hey," she replied, finally looking up and forcing a small, tight smile. "Good session. P1 looks good on you."
"It’s just practice," he dismissed, though a small, private smirk played on his lips. He leaned in closer, his shoulder brushing hers. "Listen, I’m done with briefings in an hour. Sarah’s been chirping in my ear about some fancy sponsor dinner, but I told her I have a 'technical conflict.'"
He bumped his shoulder against hers playfully, trying to draw out the girl he knew was hiding behind that haunted look.
"There’s this hole-in-the-wall spot about twenty minutes from the hotel," Oscar said, his eyes searching hers with a desperate kind of hope. "No cameras, no PR, just the best spicy tonkotsu in the prefecture. I know you’ve been craving real ramen since we landed. My treat. Whatever you want on the menu, plus those gyoza you like."
The kindness in his voice was almost her undoing. He was trying so hard to protect their bubble, to keep her happy and fed and safe, while she was currently plotting her own disappearance to save him.
"Spicy tonkotsu?" she managed to say, her voice cracking slightly. "With the extra egg?"
"Two extra eggs if you want," Oscar promised, his thumb grazing the back of her neck in a soothing, rhythmic motion. "Just you and me and dinner."
She nodded, leaning her head against his arm for a fleeting second, allowing herself one last moment of his warmth before the clock in her pocket ticked another minute away. "Okay. Dinner sounds perfect, Oscar."
"Good," he whispered, his eyes lingering on her with a fierce intensity. "I'll see you at the car in sixty minutes. Don't be late, Princess."
He turned back toward the engineers, his gait more confident now that he had a plan to lighten her up leaving her standing in the shadows of the garage, wondering how a bowl of ramen could feel so much like a goodbye.
—
Stifling and cold, the quiet in the car felt like a physical burden. She stared at her phone, the screen dark, but the ghost of Marcus’s threat burned in her retinas. She couldn't do the public dinner. She couldn't sit in a crowded restaurant in Suzuka and pretend the world wasn't collapsing.
Her: Can we just do the ramen at the hotel? My head is pounding. Just a quiet night?
Oscar: Of course, baby. I’m picking up the bags now. Extra eggs, extra gyoza. See you in twenty.
By the time Oscar swiped his keycard and kicked the door shut with his heel, she was already sitting on the edge of the unmade bed, her hands folded tightly in her lap. The room was dim, lit only by the architectural glow of the Suzuka skyline outside. Oscar moved with ease that felt like a knife to her chest, setting the steaming white takeout containers on the small desk and peeling back the lids. The rich, salty scent of tonkotsu filled the air.
"Smells incredible," Oscar said, his voice soft, trying to bridge the gap he’d felt all day. He began separating the wooden chopsticks, his movements precise. "I got the extra chili oil on the side just in case."
He turned, offering her a bowl, but stopped. She wasn't reaching for it. She was just staring at the steam rising from the broth, her eyes glazed and distant.
"Hey," he said, stepping closer. "Eat, baby. You’ve been running on fumes since we landed."
"Oscar," she interrupted, her voice toneless and jarringly steady. "You should do it. You should date the model. Call Sarah and tell her the dinner is back on for tomorrow."
Oscar froze, the chopsticks still in his hand. He let out a short, disbelieving breath. "How did you—We’re really doing this now? I already told Sarah, I’m not playing that game. It’s corporate noise."
"It’s not noise, it’s logic," she said, finally looking at him. Her gaze was chillingly rehearsed, a mask of cold pragmatism she’d spent the last hour perfecting. "Look at the trajectory. You’re at the top of the standings. The brand is global. This 'best friend' narrative is getting messy, Oscar. The fans are turning, the sponsors are asking questions... it’s a liability. A high-profile, clean relationship with someone like Naomi? It fixes everything. It stabilizes your image."
Oscar set the bowl down hard on the desk. The broth splashed against the plastic. "Since when do you care about 'stabilizing my image'? You’ve never talked like a PR strategist in your life."
"I'm being realistic," she snapped, her voice rising. "I’ve finished my degree. I have my own life to start. We’re blurring lines that shouldn't have been touched, Oscar. This... this arrangement? It was an impulse. A mistake born out of being close for too long. You don't get to ruin your life and your career because of me."
"Ruin my life?" Oscar stepped toward her, his face flushing with a rare, hot frustration. "Choosing you isn't ruining my life, it’s the only part of it that makes sense right now. I don't care about the narrative. I don’t care if the internet is confused. I'm not faking a life with a stranger when I have you."
As he moved to grab her waist, to pull her into the reality of his touch, she flinched. She scrambled back, putting the desk between them, her breathing becoming jagged.
"Don't," she hissed.
Oscar stopped dead, his hands hanging in mid-air. His eyes narrowed, the analytical part of his brain, the part that could read a track at 200mph, finally seeing the cracks. This wasn't a logical argument. This was a panic attack disguised as a breakup.
"What aren't you telling me?" he asked, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly quiet register. "Something happened at that cafe. What did he say to you?"
"Nothing! He said nothing!" she lied, her voice cracking. "I just realized that I don't want this anymore. I don't want this… this sugar dating, I don't want to be the 'best friend' who's actually a secret. This was a mistake, Oscar. We crossed a line and we ruined the only good thing we had, our friendship. It’s messy, it’s wrong, and I’m done."
The words hit him like a physical blow. Oscar shook his head, his jaw tight. "Don't do that. Don't you dare rewrite the last few months like they didn't mean anything. You didn't feel like it was a mistake last night. You didn't feel like it was 'wrong' when you told me you were mine."
"I was caught up in the moment!" she yelled, the lie tasting like poison. "It was convenient! You’re Oscar Piastri, of course I got swept up in it. But I don't want to be your secret anymore. I want a normal life, with a normal man who doesn't have a PR manager dictating who I am."
"A normal man? Like Marcus?" Oscar’s voice was lethal now.
Before he could demand the truth, his phone on the nightstand erupted. The caller ID screamed SARAH. The timing was surgical.
Oscar snatched it up, his eyes never leaving her face. He swiped 'accept' and held it to his ear. "What?"
"Oscar, the model is at the restaurant. The 'leak' is ready to go. The team principal is on board. We need you downstairs in five minutes to finalize the narrative. This is the fix, Oscar. Do you understand?"
She watched him, her heart breaking, waiting for him to say yes, waiting for him to take the path that kept his world safe.
Oscar didn't hesitate. He didn't even blink. "No," he said into the phone, his voice echoing in the small room. "The answer is no, Sarah. Not tonight, not tomorrow. Tell the model I’m sorry for her time, but I’m occupied. And if you call me about this again, I’m not talking to you for the rest of the weekend. Deal with it."
He ended the call and tossed the phone onto the bed. "There. It's done. Now tell me the truth."
But she was already at the door, her hand on the handle. She couldn't stay. If she stayed, she’d break and tell him everything, and Marcus would destroy him.
"The truth is I'm leaving, Oscar," she whispered, her eyes brimming with tears she refused to let fall. "Enjoy your ramen."
She pulled the door open and vanished into the hallway, the sound of the latch clicking shut echoing like a final lap bell. She ran toward the elevator, convinced she was saving him, while behind her, Oscar stood in the center of the room, surrounded by the scent of the dinner he’d bought to make her smile, realizing for the first time that some races couldn't be won with speed alone.
—
Humming with a low, taunting electricity, the fluorescent lights of the near-empty 24-hour café vibrated straight through her skull. She sat in a corner booth, her hands tucked between her knees to stop the violent shaking, but the phantom weight of the handcuffs from nights ago still seemed to ghost around her wrists. Her phone buzzed against the tabletop, a harsh, jagged sound.
Marcus: I’m waiting.
She tapped it with a leaden finger. A video file attached, but the screen remained black, only the audio was crisp, high-definition, and devastating. It was Oscar’s voice, raw and unfiltered, the way he only spoke when the world was locked out. "I want that silk on the floor. I'm so turned on right now just looking at how much skin you're showing for me...." The sound of a sharp intake of her own breath followed.
Her stomach dropped, a cold, oily nausea rising in her throat. Before she could even lock the screen, a shadow fell over the table. Marcus slid into the booth across from her, his movements fluid and unnervingly casual. He wasn't breathing hard, he wasn't angry. He looked like a man who had just finished a pleasant stroll through the Suzuka circuit.
"You took your time," Marcus said, his voice a calm, conversational tether that felt like a noose. "I figured the breakup would be shorter, considering how 'logical' you are."
He reached out, his fingers idly tracing the rim of her untouched water glass. "But don't think for a second that walking out of that room makes us even. Ending it with him isn't a victory, it's just the removal of an obstacle."
She flinched as her phone lit up again, a news notification about the GP. She stared at it, her thumb twitching toward the glass.
"You’re still looking at that thing like you expect him to call," Marcus noted, his smile never reaching his eyes. It was a predator’s observation. "You're waiting for him to come charging down the hallway to save you. But we both know if he does that, I hit 'upload.' One mistake and that audio becomes the soundtrack to his downfall. I'll make sure every sponsor sees the transcript of how their 'clean' athlete treats his 'best friend'."
"I did what you wanted," she whispered, her voice sounding like broken glass. "I told him it was a mistake. I told him I didn't want him. Isn't that enough?"
"Ending it isn't the same as choosing me, love" Marcus countered, leaning forward until the scent of his cologne, too sharp, too artificial, filled her lungs. "I don't want you wandering the pits like a ghost, pining for a man who thinks you've abandoned him. I want you present. I want the world to see you with me."
Back in the suffocating silence of the hotel suite, Oscar hadn't moved from the desk. The two bowls of ramen sat abandoned, the fat congealing on the surface of the broth. He was replaying every syllable of the last twenty minutes, his driver’s brain searching for the 'glitch' in her telemetry.
It was a mistake... we blurred lines... I want a normal man.
The words were wrong. They didn't match the way she had melted into him in the garage, or the way she had looked at him when he was kissing her. His phone chimed, a final, polished draft from the PR team: “Oscar Piastri and Model Naomi Carter spotted enjoying the sights of Suzuka...” With a low growl, Oscar didn't just reject it, he deleted the entire thread. His gut was screaming at him that she wasn't being selfish, she was terrified. He thought back to the cafe, to the look on Marcus’s face. The academic "friend" who had been just a little too comfortable, just a little too testing.
What aren't you telling me? He picked up his phone, his thumb hovering over her contact. He needed to hear her voice. He needed to hear the lie again so he could tear it apart. He hit 'call.'
In the café, the table began to vibrate. Oscar’s face flashed on the screen, a candid photo she’d taken of him laughing in the simulator.
Marcus glanced down at the phone, then back up at her. A thin, cruel smile spread across his lips. He didn't snatch the phone away. Instead, he stood up, smoothing his jacket, and offered his hand to her across the table, a mocking, chivalrous gesture.
"Go ahead," Marcus urged, his voice a soft, deadly purr. "Answer it. Tell him where you are. Tell him to come get you. I’d love to see the look on his face when he realizes his career is over before the first turn tomorrow."
She stared at the vibrating device. Each ring felt like a heartbeat she was losing. If she answered, she might hear him say he loved her, and she would crumble. If she didn't, the silence would be the final nail in the coffin of their history. She looked at Marcus’s outstretched hand, the hand of the man who was holding her heart in a vice.
She felt the heat of tears behind her eyes, but she forced them back. With a trembling hand, she reached out and swiped the red icon on the screen. Call Declined.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Slowly, she placed her hand in Marcus’s cold, firm grip. He squeezed her fingers, his smile widening as he pulled her toward him.
"That's my girl," he whispered. "Now, let’s go. We have a long weekend ahead of us."
She walked out of the café with him, her legs feeling like lead, leaving the ghost of Oscar Piastri ringing into the empty air of a darkened hotel room.
—
The flight back from Japan was a blur of high-altitude silence and the cold, professional hum of the private jet. Oscar sat in the back, his gaze fixed on the shifting clouds, refusing to look at the empty seat beside him, the one he’d booked months ago. Sarah sat across from him, her stylus tapping a rhythmic, irritating beat against her tablet.
"The Suzuka data is strong, Oscar. P2 was a solid recovery given the... internal distractions," Sarah said, her voice carefully neutral. "But the Noami narrative is ready. We need a sighting in Monaco or London. Just a lunch. A walk. It’s a clean slate. You can leave the 'best friend' drama in the paddock."
Oscar didn’t even turn his head. "I'm not going to lunch, Sarah. I’m going home."
"Oscar—"
"I said I’m going home," he repeated, his voice dropping into that terrifyingly calm register that usually preceded a fastest lap. "If you mention her name or a PR stunt again before we land, I’m locking myself in the simulator for a month and ignoring every media request on the calendar. Do you understand?"
Sarah went quiet, sensing the frayed edges of his composure.
She had missed the flight back home Oscar had booked. Marcus had "insisted" they take a later, commercial flight, a move designed to show her that her schedule was no longer dictated by a McLaren itinerary.
Every time Marcus reached for her hand in the airport lounge, she felt a bolt of revulsion so strong she had to look at the floor. She was trying to convince herself this was the sacrifice required. I am saving his life, she repeated like a mantra. If I can just make Marcus feel like he won, he won't click that button. But opening her heart to him was like trying to breathe underwater. Every "date," every forced conversation about their "future," felt like she was drowning in slow motion.
Oscar unlocked the door to their shared apartment, the click of the latch echoing in the hallway. It was late, the city lights bleeding through the windows. He dropped his gear bag by the door and walked into the living room, but he didn't turn on the lights.
The silence was a deafening. Everywhere he looked, he saw the ghost of her. Her favorite book was still face-down on the coffee table. A stray hair tie sat on the kitchen counter next to the espresso machine. The scent of her perfume, vanilla and something bright, still lingered in the air, mocking him.
A soft meow broke the quiet. Noodle, her cat, trotted out from the hallway, his tail twitching in a question. The cat circled Oscar’s ankles, looking toward the door, waiting for the person who usually followed him inside.
"She’s not here, buddy," Oscar rasped, his voice cracking in the dark.
He sat heavily on the sofa, burying his face in his hands. Noodle hopped up beside him, nudging Oscar’s elbow with a persistent head-butt until Oscar finally reached out to scratch behind the cat’s ears. It was the only comfort he had left.
He knew she would come back. Her clothes were in the closet, her degree was on the shelf, her life was woven into the very fabric of these walls. But as he sat there in the dark, he felt utterly defeated. He replayed every moment of the last few months, searching for the error, the mechanical failure in their relationship.
Was I too possessive? Did the money make her feel trapped? Did I turn her into a secret she couldn't carry anymore?
The thought that he had somehow broken her, that his love had become a burden she had to run from, was a pain more acute than any racing shunt. He looked at the empty hallway, praying for the sound of her key in the lock, wondering if he was waiting for a woman who had already decided he wasn't worth the wreckage.
—
The shadows in the apartment hadn't shifted for hours, mirroring the stagnant, heavy silence that had settled over Oscar. He was still in the same spot on the sofa where he’d collapsed 48 hours ago, the grey fabric of his hoodie bunched around his jaw. The collected driver was a ghost, in his place was a man who looked like he’d been through a multi-car pileup and walked away with only the internal bleeding.
His phone sat on the coffee table, the screen a cruel, dark mirror. Every few minutes, he’d reach for it, his thumb hovering over her name, his heart hammering against his ribs in a painful, uneven rhythm.
Where are you? he’d type, only to delete it.
Please just tell me you’re safe, he’d try again. Delete.
He was terrified. If he pressed her now, would she vanish completely? If he demanded the truth, would she tell him another lie that felt like a serrated blade? He hadn't slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the flickering lights of the Suzuka paddock and the cold, rehearsed distance in her eyes. He hadn't eaten, the very thought of food made his stomach churn with a bitter, oily nausea.
Even Noodle had given up on him, the cat sitting by the front door, staring at the wood with a quiet, heartbreaking expectancy that Oscar couldn't bear to look at.
Across the city, the air in Marcus’s guest room felt like it was laced with poison. For two days, she had been a prisoner of her own fear, flinching every time Marcus entered the room, forcing herself to endure the "trial run" of a relationship she loathed. Marcus had been relentless, playing the role of the devoted boyfriend while keeping his phone, the detonator to Oscar’s life, always within arm's reach.
"I need to go home, Marcus," she finally whispered, her voice sounding thin and foreign to her own ears. "I have... I have a job interview tomorrow. My parents set that up. If I don't show up, they'll worry. They'll start asking questions you don't want them to ask."
It was a gamble, a desperate reach for a logical excuse, and for a moment, she saw Marcus’s eyes darken. But the mention of her parents, and the potential for unwanted attention, seemed to flip a switch in his head.
"Fine," Marcus said, his voice a smooth, terrifying purr. "Go. But remember what I told you. One word to Piastri, and the whole world gets to hear how much of a 'distraction' you really are."
—
The sound of the key in the lock was so soft Oscar almost thought he’d hallucinated it.
He stood up so fast his vision blurred, his heart leaping into his throat. The door swung open, and there she was, looking pale, exhausted, and wearing clothes he didn't recognize.
For a second, the relief was so overwhelming he almost moved to gather her in his arms. But then, the reality of the last forty-eight hours hit him. The worry, the lack of sleep, and the agonizing silence curdled into a sudden, sharp burst of anger.
"Two days," Oscar rasped, his voice raw and jagged. He didn't move toward her. He stayed by the sofa, his hands curled into white-knuckled fists. "You didn't go home for two days. No text. No call. I’ve been sitting here wondering if you were even alive, and you just... you just walk in like nothing happened?"
She flinched at the volume of his voice, her eyes darting to the floor. "Oscar, I—I told you. I needed space. I needed to think."
"Space?" Oscar let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh that sounded more like a bark. He stepped into the light, the dark circles under his eyes and the stubble on his jaw making him look feral. "You didn't need space. You needed to run. Who were you with? Were you with him? Was Marcus there the whole time?"
"Oscar, please, don't do this," she pleaded, her voice breaking. She wanted to run to him, to tell him that she’d spent every second of those two days wanting to die of shame, but the ghost of the recording held her tongue.
"Don't do what? Care?" Oscar’s voice rose, completely shattered by the raw, bleeding hurt of a man who felt replaced. "I’ve spent my whole life being the one people can rely on, and the one person I would give everything for just treats me like... like an option. Like a mistake. If you wanted him so badly, why did you come back here at all? Just go back to him! Go have your 'normal' life and leave me alone!"
He turned away from her, slamming his hand against the back of the sofa, his chest heaving. He didn't see the way she crumbled against the doorframe, her hand over her mouth to stifle a sob. He didn't know that every cruel word he spoke was a price she was willing to pay, as long as it meant he was still the golden boy the world loved.
At that moment, the apartment wasn't a sanctuary anymore. It was a battlefield where only one of them knew they were fighting on the same side.
The silence that followed Oscar's outburst was filled with the metallic tang of unspoken grief. He turned back to her, his chest heaving, his eyes clouded with a dark, turbulent storm. He looked at her, searching for the girl who used to read his telemetry for fun, the woman who had whispered "I’m yours" in the quiet of a hotel room.
"Is this it?" Oscar asked, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous vibrato that vibrated in the small space between them. "Is this what you really want? You want to throw away twenty years of us for a guy who probably couldn't even handle how spoiled you are? You want a life that doesn't have me in it?"
He stepped closer, his shadow falling over her, his presence a suffocating, familiar heat. "Look me in the eye and tell me you don't love me. Tell me you want him more than you want this. Tell me, and I’ll walk out that door right now, and I won’t look back."
She looked up at him, her vision blurring. The "no" was screaming in her throat, clawing at her teeth. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and tell him about the recording, about the blackmail, about how Marcus was a monster holding a detonator to his career. But as she looked at Oscar, at the exhaustion etched into his handsome face, at the way the world was waiting for him to fail just so they could tear him down, she knew she couldn't.
She had to be the villain. She had to be the one to break him so he wouldn't be destroyed by the world.
"Oscar," she whispered, her voice sounding like dry leaves skittering over pavement. She forced her gaze to turn cold, a mirror of the pragmatic mask she’d worn in Suzuka. "You need to leave."
Oscar froze. "What?"
"You need to move out. Permanently," she said, the words cutting her throat like shards of glass. "This is my apartment. My name is on the lease. I can't have Marcus coming over and seeing your things here. I can't have him wondering why my bestfriend is still sleeping in the next room."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Oscar’s jaw went slack for a fraction of a second before it set into a line of iron. He looked around the room, at the shared memories, the half-finished espresso, the life they had built in the margins of his racing schedule, and then back at her.
"You're kicking me out?" he rasped, the hurt in his voice so sharp it felt physical. "Because of him?"
"He’s my future, Oscar," she lied, her hand gripping the door handle so hard her knuckles turned white. "And you’re just... you’re the past. It’s messy, and it’s distracting, and I’m done with the arrangements. I want a new start. I want him to feel at home here, and he can't do that with your racing trophies on the shelf."
Oscar let out a short, jagged laugh that sounded more like a sob. He didn't argue. He didn't plead. His expression becoming a mask of absolute, chilling indifference.
"Fine," Oscar said, his voice deathly quiet. "If that’s the life you want, I won't stand in your way. I'll have a crew come for my things. I wouldn't want to distract you from your new life."
He walked toward the door, his shoulder brushing hers as he passed. He didn't look at her. He didn't even slow down. He stepped out into the hallway, the heavy thud of his boots echoing against the tiles like a final lap bell.
"Oscar—" she started, the impulse to stop him nearly breaking her.
He didn't turn around. He reached the elevator, hit the button, and vanished behind the sliding steel doors.
The apartment was suddenly, violently empty. She slumped against the wall, sliding down to the floor as the first sob finally broke through her chest. She had saved his career. She had protected his image. But as she sat in the dark, surrounded by the ghost of the man she loved, she realized she had just burned her entire world to the ground to do it.
—
The elevator doors hadn't even fully settled into their track before Oscar was storming out of the lobby, his vision tunneling into a blur of grey concrete and humid evening air. His heart was a frantic, jagged rhythm in his chest, the weight of her rejection pressing into his lungs like he was taking a high-speed corner without a headrest. He was halfway across the sidewalk when he collided with a solid frame.
The impact jolted him back, his racing instincts flaring into a defensive posture. He looked up, his eyes narrowing into slits of pure, lethal as he recognized the man standing there, casually already in the process of leaning against a sleek black sedan.
Marcus.
The other man didn't look surprised. In fact, he looked entirely too satisfied, his arms crossed over a designer jacket, a thin, smirk playing on his lips. He’d clearly just dropped her off, and based on the predatory stillness of his posture, he’d stayed long enough to hear the echoes of their shouting through the thin hallway door.
"Watch where you’re going, Piastri," Marcus drawled, his voice a smooth, taunting tether. "Though I suppose I’d be distracted too if I’d just been evicted from my own life."
Oscar’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek. He took a step forward, invading Marcus’s personal space until they were chest-to-chest. "You’ve been hovering around her like a vulture since Japan, Marcus. I don't know what kind of pathetic game you're playing, but if you think you’re actually what she wants, you’re more delusional than I thought."
Marcus let out a short, dry laugh, shaking his head with a mock-sympathy that made Oscar’s blood boil. "Is that what you think this is? A choice?" He stepped closer, his voice dropping into a low, cryptic hum. "You’re standing here shaking with rage, ready to burn the world down because she told you to leave. You’re so blinded by your own ego that you actually believe she’d throw you away for fun."
"She told me what she wants," Oscar spat, though the words felt like ash in his mouth. "She wants a life that isn't 'messy.' She wants someone who isn't a distraction. She wants you."
Marcus’s smirk widened, but there was a flicker of something sharper in his eyes, a calculated hint of the truth designed to twist the knife. "You really are cold, aren't you? All logic, no intuition. You heard her words, but you didn't look at her face. If you actually trusted her, if you actually knew the woman you’ve been 'protecting' for years, you’d realize that she’d never betray you like this. Not unless her hand was being forced."
Oscar froze, the anger in his chest suddenly eclipsed by a cold, prickling confusion. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm saying you're a fool, Oscar," Marcus purred, stepping around him to open his car door. "You’re out here being hurt and angry, playing the victim while she’s upstairs breaking her own heart to keep yours beating. If you were half the man you think you are, you’d ask yourself why a girl who was in your bed days ago is suddenly terrified of being in the same room as you."
He paused, his hand on the door handle, looking over his shoulder with a chillingly triumphant look. "But go ahead. Believe the lie. It makes my job much easier."
Marcus slid into the car and pulled away, leaving Oscar standing alone on the darkened sidewalk. The roar of the engine faded, but Marcus’s words remained, ringing in Oscar’s ears like a mechanical alarm.
She’d never betray you... unless her hand was being forced.
The anger that had been fueling Oscar’s exit vanished, replaced by a sickening, hollow realization. He looked back up at the glow of their apartment window. He had assumed she was being selfish, that she was choosing a normal life over their complicated one. But Marcus hadn't just hinted at a secret. He had confirmed the one thing Oscar’s gut had been trying to tell him all along.
Marcus didn't have her heart. He had a leash. And Oscar had just walked away right when she needed him to fight the most.
—
The click of the front door echoing through the hallway had felt like a gavel slamming down on the rest of her life. She didn't move from her spot against the wall, her legs finally giving out as she slid down to the cold floor. The silence now was louder than their shouting had been, a deafening, hollow vacuum that made the apartment feel like a tomb.
A soft, weightless pressure brushed against her knee. Noodle had padded over from the kitchen, his fur glowing in the dim light of the entryway. He let out a low, questioning meow, his head tilting as he watched the tears track down her face.
When she didn't move, the cat stood on his hind legs, resting his front paws on her arm. He began to lick her cheek, his tongue sandpaper-rough against her skin, a small, instinctive attempt to groom away her distress.
"Oh, Noodle," she choked out, a broken, watery laugh bubbling up through a sob. She reached out, burying her face in the thick fur of his neck, her shoulders shaking violently. "You saw that, didn't you? I was... I was so mean to him."
Noodle let out a soft purr, the vibration buzzing against her ear, steady and grounding. He pulled back just enough to boop his nose against hers, staring at her with those unblinking, emerald eyes that had seen Oscar carry him around like a trophy only days before.
"He's gone, Noodle," she whispered, her voice hitching as she tried to swipe the tears away with the back of her hand. She looked around the living room, seeing the empty space where Oscar’s gear bag usually sat, the physical evidence of his absence already starting to settle in.
She let out a sharp, hysterical giggle that quickly melted back into a cry. "I guess... I guess it’s just the two of us again. No more Daddy to give you the expensive tuna when I’m not looking."
The word Daddy felt like a brand on her tongue, a reminder of the private world they had built, the world Marcus was currently holding for ransom. She stroked Noodle’s head, her fingers trembling.
"He probably hates me now," she said to the cat, her breath hitching. "He thinks I’m a monster. He thinks I’d rather have that... that jerk Marcus in his place." She looked at the door, half-expecting Oscar to burst back in, but the hallway remained dark.
"I did it for him, Noodle," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the air conditioning. "I had to. If he loses his seat... if the world hears that tape... he’ll never forgive himself. And I’d rather he be a world champion who hates me than a nobody who’s stuck with me."
Noodle let out another chirp, settling into her lap and curling into a tight, warm ball of fur. She leaned her head back against the wall, closing her eyes as the tears continued to fall, the ghost of Oscar’s scent still clinging to the air around her.
—
The sound of the front door opening again was like a crack of thunder in the quiet apartment. She bolted upright, wiping her face with the back of her hand, her heart nearly stopping as she saw Oscar’s tall frame silhouetted in the doorway. He didn't look like he had just left. He looked like he had come back to finish a race he refused to lose.
He didn't look at the tears on her face or the way Noodle scurried under the sofa. Instead, he walked straight to the hall closet, threw his jacket inside, and turned to face her with a jaw set in iron.
"I'm not leaving," Oscar said, his voice clipped and resonant, cutting through the heavy air.
"Oscar, I told you—"
"I don't care what you told me," he interrupted, stepping into the living room. He didn't mention Marcus. He didn't mention the cryptic warnings he'd just received on the sidewalk. He kept his expression guarded, a wall of composure that felt colder than the air conditioning. "I helped pay for this place. The lease, the furniture, the security, it’s as much mine as it is yours. If you want a new start with Marcus, you can find one somewhere else. But I am staying in the home I built."
He didn't mean for it to sound like he was throwing his money in her face, but he saw her flinch as if he’d slapped her. He looked away quickly, his throat tightening. He had to stay. He had to be in this room to figure out what was breaking her, even if it meant being the villain in her narrative for a while.
"I'll stay in the guest room," he added, his voice dropping to a flat, professional tone. "We don't have to talk. But I am not being erased because of a guy who just showed up."
Without waiting for her to respond, Oscar walked into the kitchen. The silence was agonizing, punctuated only by the mechanical sounds of him moving around. He didn't look at her, but his actions betrayed the persona he was trying so hard to project.
She watched from the sofa, her chest aching, as he pulled a fresh bottle of mineral water from the fridge and set it on the counter directly in her line of sight. He then moved to the pantry, pulling out the ingredients for a simple pasta, the one she always craved when she was stressed.
He moved with an efficient grace, the sound of the knife against the cutting board, the only dialogue between them. Ten minutes later, he placed a steaming bowl on the dining table, along with a clean fork and a napkin.
He didn't say "eat." He didn't ask if she was okay. He simply walked past her toward the guest wing, his shoulder stiff.
"The water is on the counter," he said quietly, his back to her. "Eat before it gets cold."
The door to the guest room clicked shut, leaving her alone with a bowl of pasta that smelled like home and a bottle of water that felt like a lifeline. He was acting cold, his words were sharp, and he was asserting his right to the space, but even in his anger, he was still the only person in the world who knew exactly how to take care of her.
She looked at the table, a fresh sob catching in her throat. He was staying, which meant he was safe from the world, but he was also closer to the blast zone if Marcus decided to pull the trigger.
—
The two-week break in the Formula 1 calendar usually felt like a luxury, a rare pocket of oxygen in a suffocating season. But inside the walls of their apartment, the air was static, filled with the ionizing tension of two people inhabiting the same space while pretending the bridge between them hadn't been incinerated.
Oscar operated like a ghost in his own home. He adhered strictly to the borders she had drawn, never lingering in the common areas when she was there, never attempting to catch her eye. Yet, his presence was everywhere. Every morning, she would wake up to find a fresh bottle of water and her vitamins sitting on the kitchen island. When she returned from a walk in the afternoon, a quiet container of nutritious takeout or a home-cooked meal would be waiting on the table, still warm, with a small note detailing the ingredients in his neat, cramped handwriting.
He was taking care of her with a detached devotion that hurt far worse than his shouting ever had. It was the Oscar at his most efficient, providing for her survival while denying her his soul.
One night, the silence in the guest room became too loud. Oscar sat at the small desk, his laptop glowing against his tired face. Marcus’s words from the sidewalk were a loop in his brain, a telemetry error he couldn't ignore. If you actually trusted her... you’d realize she’d never betray you like this.
He knew the paddock was a web of connections, and McLaren’s reach went far beyond the track. He picked up his phone and dialed a private number, one belonging to a senior logistics coordinator on the team who handled sensitive security arrangements for the drivers.
"Hey, it's Oscar," he murmured, his voice low enough not to carry through the vents. "Sorry for the hour. I need a favor. I need the contact of a private investigator. Someone discreet. Top-tier."
There was a beat of hesitation on the other end. Oscar cleared his throat, leaning into a practiced lie. "It’s a branding issue. Some third-party vendor is claiming they have exclusive rights to some of my likeness from the junior categories. I need a full background check on the individual behind it, financials, digital footprint, the works. I want to know exactly what leverage they think they have before I involve the legal team."
It was a plausible excuse. Drivers dealt with copyright trolls and fringe stalkers constantly. By the time he hung up, a name and an encrypted email address were sitting in his inbox. He didn't know about the recording yet, but he knew Marcus was a parasite, and Oscar was about to start digging into the host.
In the living room, she sat in the dark, staring at a bowl of cut fruit Oscar had left for her before retreating to his room. Her heart felt like a bruised muscle, aching with every beat. She could hear the faint, rhythmic tap of his keyboard from behind the guest room door.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to throw the fruit at the wall and demand he stop being so kind. If he were mean, if he were selfish or cold or truly angry, it would be so much easier to leave him. But he was standing there in the wreckage of their relationship, quietly holding up the ceiling so it wouldn't crush her, even though she had told him he was nothing more than a "distraction."
She picked up a piece of mango, the sweetness tasting like ash. She was treating him like a stranger, forcing him into a guest room in his own home, and he was still making sure she didn't skip a meal. She was unaware that he was currently hunting the very man she was trying to protect him from, and the irony was a slow-acting poison. She was breaking his heart to save his life, while he was risking his reputation to save hers.
The blue light of the laptop screen was the only thing cutting through the oppressive darkness of the guest room. Oscar sat at the small desk, his frame hunched, the mechanical hum of the air conditioning unit sounding like a countdown in the silence. He wasn't a digital forensic expert, but he knew how to read patterns. He knew that in racing, if a sensor was spiking, there was a heat source.
He opened the encrypted portal provided by the contact. His fingers hovered over the keys, his jaw tight. He didn't have a name for the weapon Marcus was holding, he didn't know about the audio, or the whispers from Japan. All he had was the memory of Marcus’s smug face and the way she looked like she was walking on a minefield every time she checked her phone.
To: [Encrypted Contact - V. Ross]
Subject: Asset Audit - Priority Alpha
I need a full digital sweep on a person of interest. Financials, cloud storage, and local device directories. I don't know exactly what he’s holding, but I need you to flag anything suspicious, specifically any large media files or encrypted folders that have an unusual number of backups.
Oscar paused, his eyes narrowing as he thought about the logic of a blackmailer.
Look for redundancies. If he’s holding leverage, he won't just have one copy. I’m looking for a file, audio, video, or data, that’s mirrored across multiple cloud drives and physical hardware. If he’s got a dead man’s switch set to a timer or a specific login failure, I need it mapped out before we touch it.
Target: Marcus Silvia.
He’s arrogant, but he’s cautious. He’ll have a primary source and at least three failsafes. Find the master file and tell me the moment you have a lock on it. I want to know exactly what he thinks he can use to burn a career down.
He hit Send, the soft click of the enter key feeling like a predatory snap.
Oscar leaned back, rubbing his face with his hands. He didn't know what was on those files. He didn't know if it was a fabricated scandal, a private moment, or something he couldn't even imagine. But he knew Marcus, and he knew that men like him didn't keep secrets in just one place. They kept them where they could be reached at a moment's notice.
Through the wall, he heard the faint, rhythmic sound of her shifting in bed, followed by the soft meow of Noodle. She was right there, only a few feet away, and yet she felt like she was on the other side of a glass wall.
"Just hold on, baby" Oscar whispered to the shadows, his voice a low, lethal vow. "I don't care what he's hiding. I'm going to find it out and I'm going to erase him from your life."
He closed the laptop, but he didn't go to sleep. He sat in the dark, a driver waiting for the green light, already visualizing the moment he could finally stop being patient and start being dangerous.
—
The morning was already stifling, the dawn air clinging to Oscar’s lungs like a weight. He kept his pace steady, finding a meditative solace in the sound of his feet hitting the asphalt; it was the only thing loud enough to quiet his thoughts. He was exactly five kilometers in when the spell broke, his smartwatch erupted in a series of frantic, demanding pulses.
He slowed to a jog, pulling his phone from his arm sleeve. SARAH.
"It's 6am, Sarah," Oscar rasped, his breathing heavy as he kept moving.
"The metrics came in overnight, Oscar," Sarah’s voice was crisp, already in mid-season form despite the time difference. "The speculation on the graduation photos and the 'best friend' narrative has dropped by nearly thirty percent. The fans are moving on to the next drama, which is good. But it’s a vacuum, and if we don't fill it with the Naomi narrative now, the internet will start digging again. If you want to protect her, if you want to keep her name out of the toxic side of the F1 fans space, you need to give them a different story to tell."
Oscar stopped under the shade of a large tree, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He looked at the traffic starting to build on the street, his jaw tightening.
"I’m not doing the dinner, and I’m not doing the 'sighting' in Monaco," Oscar said, his voice flat and unyielding.
"Oscar, be logical. This is how we shield her. You go to one lunch, the cameras catch you smiling at a model, and the heat on your personal life vanishes. It’s the safest way to protect your friendship."
"I have a plan, Sarah," Oscar interrupted, his voice dropping into a low, lethal register. "I’m handling it. I don't need a PR shield, and I don't need a fake girlfriend. I just need you to trust me on this for a few more days. Keep the press at bay, tell the team I’m focused on training, and just give me the time."
"Time for what?" Sarah pressed, her tone skeptical.
"To finish this," Oscar said, and before she could ask another question, he ended the call.
He walked the rest of the way back to the apartment, the adrenaline from the run mixing with focus. When he entered the unit, the silence was still there, heavy and suffocating. He didn't look toward her closed bedroom door, though he felt the pull of it.
He went straight to the guest bathroom, stripping off his damp running gear. He stepped into the shower, leaning his forehead against the cool tiles as the water sprayed over his shoulders. He closed his eyes, the steam rising around him, as he visualized the finish line. The investigator was moving, Marcus was overconfident, and Sarah was at bay. He just had to hold the line for a few more laps.
—
The morning in the apartment was eerily quiet, the only sound the distant, muffled hum of the city waking up far below. She stepped out of her bedroom, her hair a tangled halo from another restless night. Her throat felt like parched earth, and her only goal was the kitchen and a glass of ice-cold water.
She didn't realize Oscar was even awake until she heard the sharp, rhythmic trill of his phone. It was sitting on the marble kitchen island, vibrating against the stone with a persistent rattle.
A second later, the guest room door swung open.
Oscar stepped out, the steam from the shower still clinging to his skin in glistening beads. He was wearing nothing but a low-slung white towel wrapped around his hips, the terrycloth gripping his pelvic bones with a precarious tension. His hair was dark and dripping, a single stray drop tracing the line of his throat, traveling over the hard, defined muscle of his chest, and disappearing into the knot at his waist.
She stopped dead in the center of the kitchen, her breath hitching in her chest. Her eyes, betrayed by her own hunger, began a slow, agonizing trek over his body. She saw the familiar curve of his shoulders, the lean power in his arms, and the faint, jagged scar on his ribs from a karting accident years ago.
Images flashed through her mind like lightning, Oscar’s weight pressing her into the mattress, the rough calluses of his hands against her inner thighs, the way his eyes turned a dark, stormy navy when he looked at her in the heat of the night. She wanted to look away, to maintain the cold wall she had built, but the sight of him wet, raw, and standing just feet away, made a low, thrumming heat coil deep in her belly.
Oscar didn't rush. He walked toward the ringing phone, his movements fluid and predatory. He knew she was watching. He could feel her gaze like a physical touch on his skin, marking every inch of him.
His phone continued to scream for attention, but Oscar’s focus was entirely on the woman standing by the refrigerator. He wanted to cross the distance in a single stride, to pin her against the cold steel and devour the lie right out of her mouth. He wanted to kiss her until her lungs burned and she forgot the name "Marcus" ever existed.
He stopped just short of the island, his hand hovering near the vibrating phone, when he noticed her moving.
She wasn't retreating. She was walking toward him, her footsteps silent on the hardwood, her eyes locked on his lips with a desperate, starving intensity. The “new start” was gone. The logic was gone. There was only the visceral, agonizing need for the man who owned her.
Without a word, she reached out, her fingers tangling in the damp hair at the nape of his neck, and pulled his face down to hers.
The collision was violent and desperate. It wasn't a slow reconciliation, it was a crash.
She kissed him with a frantic hunger, her tongue darting out to meet his as a broken, needy moan escaped her throat. Oscar didn't hesitate. He let the phone ring out into the silence, his hands slamming onto the marble on either side of her hips before sliding up to grip her waist.
He pulled her flush against him, the dampness of his skin soaking into her thin silk camisole. She backed up until her spine hit the edge of the kitchen island, the cold stone a stark contrast to the inferno of Oscar’s body.
"Oscar," she whimpered into his mouth, the name a jagged plea.
"I know," he rasped, his voice a low, guttural vibration against her lips. "I'm here, baby."
His tongue swept into her mouth, claiming her with a possessive ferocity that made her knees buckle. He tasted of mint and the faint, metallic tang of the adrenaline he’d been living on for days. His hands moved with a frantic, searching energy, one sliding up to cup the back of her head, his fingers threading deep into her hair to tilt her face up, while the other moved to the small of her back, crushing her against his chest.
The sounds in the kitchen were raw, the wet, rhythmic slide of their mouths, the frantic hitching of her breath, and the low, needy growls Oscar made deep in his throat every time she pulled him closer.
He moved his hand from her back to her throat, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw before his fingers circled the column of her neck. He didn't squeeze, but the weight of his palm there was a familiar, grounding anchor. He tilted her head back, trailing his lips down the sensitive cord of her neck, biting gently at the skin he had missed so much.
"Say it," Oscar breathed against her pulse point, his voice thick with a desperate, beautiful pain. "Tell me you don't want me to stop."
"Don't stop," she sobbed, her hands gripping his wet shoulders, her nails digging into his skin as she arched into him. "Please, Daddy... don't ever stop."
The phone began to ring again, a shrill reminder of the world outside, but neither of them heard it.
The kitchen was a mess of friction and frantic, shallow breaths. The sterile, cold marble of the island bit into her lower back, but she couldn't feel the chill, only the radiating, tectonic heat of Oscar’s body crushed against hers. As his tongue swept against hers, a broken, high-pitched whimper escaped her throat, her voice vibrating with a raw, long-suppressed submission that shattered the last of his restraint.
"Daddy... please," she gasped into his mouth, the word a jagged, desperate plea that made Oscar’s pupils blow wide, turning his eyes into dark, bottomless pits of blue.
A low, guttural growl vibrated in Oscar’s chest. He didn't wait. He gripped her thighs, his fingers digging into her soft skin as he hoisted her up, seating her firmly on the edge of the kitchen counter. Her legs instinctively fell open, and he stepped into the space between them, his wet, heavy towel-clad hips grinding with a slow, agonizing pressure against her center. The hardening heat of him was a physical brand through the thin silk of her camisole, and she arched her back so violently her hands had to fly back, palms slamming onto the cold stone behind her to keep from falling.
Oscar’s mouth left hers, his head dropping to the sensitive crook of her neck. He bit down, not enough to bruise, but enough to make her toes curl. His hand slid upward, his palm flattening over the curve of her breast, his fingers kneading the soft weight of her. He paused for a fraction of a second, his thumb flicking over her hardening nipple through the fabric.
"You’re not wearing anything," he rasped against her skin, his voice a lethal, dark velvet. "You knew I was in the next room, and you walked out here like this. Do you have any idea what that does to me?"
"I missed you," she sobbed, her head falling back as he continued to fondle her, his touch both a torture and a cure. She wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, locking her ankles behind his back to pull him even deeper into her heat, needing to feel the friction of him against her every nerve ending.
Just as he was about to rip the silk away, his phone on the counter erupted for the third time. The vibration was violent, rattling against the marble inches from her hand.
"Wait," Oscar groaned, his forehead resting against hers, his breathing coming in jagged hitches. "I have to—it might be the team."
"No," she whined, her hips still rolling against him in a mindless, desperate rhythm. "Don't stop. Please, Oscar."
He pulled back just an inch, his eyes glazed with lust, but the persistence of the call forced his hand. He reached out and snatched the device, swiping it open without looking at the ID, pinning her against the counter with his chest to keep her from sliding off.
"Speak," Oscar barked into the phone, his voice thick and rough.
She didn't care. She was too far gone. While he held the phone to his ear, she leaned forward, her mouth finding the damp skin of his shoulder, her tongue tracing the line of his collarbone. She kept moving her hips, grinding her core against the hard ridge of him behind the towel, determined to make it impossible for him to focus on anything but her.
"Mr. Piastri," the voice on the other end was clinical and sharp—the investigator. "I’ve bypassed the primary encryption on the Silvia server. I’ve flagged a specific media file. It’s mirrored across four different cloud providers and hidden in a spoofed system folder. It’s a high-definition audio-visual capture. I’m pushing the raw file to your encrypted link now. I need you to confirm if this is the leverage before I initiate the shredding protocol."
Oscar’s hand tightened on the phone. His gaze shifted from her face to the screen as a notification pinged. He didn't drop her, he couldn't. He held her waist with one hand to steady her as she continued to trail wet, open-mouthed kisses across his chest, her hips still searching for that friction.
He tapped the link. A video player opened.
The audio hit the air before the image even stabilized, crisp, high-fidelity, and devastatingly intimate.
"I want that silk on the floor... I'm so turned on right now just looking at how much skin you're showing for me..."
The sound of Oscar’s own voice, raw with desire and stripped of all his public composure, filled the kitchen.
She froze. The desperate movement of her hips stopped instantly, her breath hitching in her throat. The heat in the room didn't just dissipate, it turned to ice. She pulled back, her eyes wide with a sudden, paralyzing horror as she looked at the screen in Oscar’s hand.
The silence that followed the recording was heavier than the scream of a Formula 1 engine. She stared at Oscar, her hands trembling on the counter, realizing that the secret she had destroyed her life to keep was now playing out loud in the one room she thought was safe.
The audio continued to bleed into the clinical stillness of the kitchen, a haunting, digital echo of a moment that had felt like their most private sanctuary. On the small screen, the interface of a recorded Zoom call was unmistakable.
Oscar’s grip on her waist didn't loosen, but it changed. It went from the desperate, white-knuckled grasp of a lover to the steady, grounding hold of a man who had finally found the missing piece of a devastating puzzle. He looked down at the phone, the flickering light of the video reflecting in his pupils, then slowly, painstakingly, he raised his gaze to hers.
The heat was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity that made his blue eyes look like splintered ice.
“The Zoom recording,” Oscar whispered, his voice cracking on the final syllable, sounding more like a realization than a question. “It was the Zoom recording?”
He didn't wait for her to answer. The data points were already aligning in his mind with the speed of a telemetry overlay.
“He kept the recording,” Oscar said, his chest heaving as the sheer, invasive violation of it settled into his bones. “He sat there and listened to a private moment between us, and he’s been using it to pull you away from me.”
She couldn't speak. Her lungs felt like they had been filled with lead, her heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against her ribs. The sight of the video, the proof of her greatest fear finally out in the open, made the room tilt. She looked at Oscar, at the damp hair clinging to his forehead and the raw, bleeding hurt in his expression, and the wall she had built finally, violently crumbled.
“He said he’d send it to the team,” she sobbed, the words finally breaking through the dam. Her hands, still resting on the marble, curled into claws. “He said he’d send it to the sponsors. He told me he’d make sure every tabloid had the transcript. I couldn't—Oscar, I couldn't let him ruin everything you’ve worked for.”
Oscar let out a sharp, jagged breath, his forehead dropping to rest against hers. He wasn't looking at the phone anymore. He was looking at the woman who had spent the last month in a living hell just to keep his world from burning.
“You'd think I’d care?” he rasped, his voice a low, vibrating growl of protectiveness. “You thought I’d care about a seat or a sponsor more than I care about you being blackmailed by a coward? You thought I’d let you walk away and call it a ‘distraction’ while he was holding this over your head?”
He pulled back, his thumb catching a stray tear on her cheek, his touch suddenly fierce. The investigator’s voice was still murmuring something through the speaker about “initiating the shredding protocol,” but Oscar ignored it.
“He’s done,” Oscar promised, the words sounding like a death warrant. “I don't care about the press. I don't care about the image. He’s never going to touch you again.”
He looked back at the screen, and then he looked at the door, his eyes darkening with a lethal, focused intent. He finally understood why she had pushed him away, why she had asked him to leave, and why she had looked so haunted. It wasn't a choice, it was a sacrifice. And he was done being patient.
He didn't let her go, he kept her pinned to the counter with his body, his damp chest rising and falling in jagged, heavy thuds against her silk camisole.
He swiped the call back to the active line, his voice dropping into a register that was colder and more precise than any post-race briefing. It was the voice of a man who had just identified the debris on the track and was moving to clear it with absolute prejudice.
"Ross," Oscar barked, his eyes never leaving hers. "The file you sent. That’s the one. It’s the leverage."
"Confirmed, Mr. Piastri," the investigator’s voice crackled back, devoid of emotion. "I have a lock on the primary server and the mirrored backups. I’ve also identified a hidden partition on a physical external drive currently connected to his home network. Do I have the go signal?"
Oscar’s grip on her waist tightened, his thumb digging into her hip. He could feel her trembling, the sheer terror of the last month finally bleeding out of her in a low, broken whimper.
"Do it," Oscar commanded, his jaw set in a line of iron. "I want every single byte of that data shredded. I want the cloud drives wiped, the physical drive corrupted, and I want the recovery keys overwritten. If there’s so much as a thumbnail left of her or me on his hardware, I want to know why."
"Understood. Initiating the wipe protocol now. It’ll look like a catastrophic system failure from his end. He won't be able to recover a single frame."
"And is there dead man's switch?" Oscar pressed, his voice a low, lethal hum.
"Located and neutralized. He can click 'send' all he wants, Mr. Piastri. He’ll be sending empty packets to a dead server. He has nothing."
"Good," Oscar said, and the word sounded like a gunshot. "Finish it."
He dropped the phone onto the marble counter, the device clattering as it slid toward the edge. The digital threat that had been a noose around her neck for weeks had just been severed in a matter of seconds.
Oscar looked at her, the mask finally fracturing. He saw the sheer, soul-deep relief flooding her eyes, the way her shoulders finally slumped as the weight of the world was lifted off them. He didn't say a word. He just leaned in, burying his face in the crook of her neck, his breath warm and ragged against her skin.
"It's gone," he whispered, the words vibrating through her entire body. "He's got nothing left, baby. You're safe. I got you."
The kitchen was silent again, but the air had changed. The suffocating, toxic tension was replaced by a raw, aching honesty. She reached out, her hands shaking as she cupped his face, pulling him back so she could look at him, really look at him, without the shadow of Marcus between them.
"Oscar," she sobbed, her forehead resting against his. "I was so scared... I thought I’d lost you forever."
"You could never lose me," he rasped, his eyes dark with a fierce, possessive devotion. "I don't care about my career, I don't care about the press. If the whole world heard that tape, I’d still be standing right here. But now? Now he’s the one who’s going to lose everything."
The tension that had gripped her chest for weeks finally splintered, and a small, shaky laugh bubbled up through her tears. It was a breathless, hysterical little sound that made her shoulders shake against the cold marble of the kitchen island. She looked at him, still damp from the shower, a towel precariously tied at his waist, his eyes burning with a protective fury, and she couldn't help it.
"You're such a liar, Oscar Piastri," she whispered, her voice hitching as she reached up to brush a damp stray hair from his forehead. "You don't care about the career? You live for that seat. You’d probably try to find a way to race a lawnmower if they took the car away from you."
Oscar didn't smile, but the lethal edge in his gaze softened, replaced by a raw, quiet vulnerability. He leaned into her touch, his cheek pressing against her palm as he took a deep, jagged breath of the air that finally felt clean again.
"Okay," he admitted, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated through her chest. "Maybe that was a bit of a stretch."
He let out a short, self-deprecating huff of air, his forehead dropping back against hers. There it was, the boy who had grown up with grease under his fingernails and the man who had just risked his reputation to dismantle a blackmailer.
"I love racing," he murmured, his hands sliding from her waist to her upper back, pulling her so close there wasn't a whisper of space left between them. "I love the speed, I love the car, and I love winning. It’s what I’m built for. I’ve spent twenty years sacrificing everything to get to that grid."
He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, his expression turning intensely solemn.
"But if the price of that seat was watching you suffer in silence while that coward held a leash on you? If I had to choose between a trophy and knowing you were safe in this house with me?" He shook his head, his grip tightening. "The car is just carbon fiber and an engine, baby. It’s not my home. You are. I can live without the podium, but I’ve spent the last few days realizing I can't breathe without you."
She swallowed hard, the weight of his admission hitting her harder than any of Marcus’s threats. She knew how much he had sacrificed, the move to Europe as a kid, the lonely hotel rooms, the relentless pressure of the academy. For him to say she was more important than the one thing he had dedicated his life to was the ultimate victory.
"You're going to get both," she promised, her fingers curling into the nape of his neck. "You're going to keep the seat, and you're going to keep me. And Marcus? He’s going to wake up to a very empty hard drive."
Oscar’s lips finally quirked into a ghost of a smirk, the sharp, competitive one that usually appeared right before a qualifying lap. "He’s going to wake up to a lot more than that once my legal team is done with him. But right now?"
He leaned in, his mouth hovering just inches from hers, the heat of his body radiating against her silk camisole. "Right now, I think I’ve earned the rest of that kiss you started."
She didn’t wait for him to finish the thought. She surged forward, her mouth crashing against his with a newfound ferocity, one stripped of the desperation and flavored instead with a sharp, intoxicating triumph. The fear that had acted as a physical barrier between them for weeks had finally dissolved, leaving nothing but the raw, electric current of two people who had nearly lost everything and fought their way back.
Oscar let out a low, rough sound, halfway between a groan and a growl, as he hoisted her further onto the counter, his large hands sliding up her thighs to pull her flush against his heat. The marble was cold beneath her, but Oscar was a furnace, his damp skin slick against the silk of her camisole.
"God, I missed this," he rasped against her lips, his teeth grazing her lower lip before he sucked it into his mouth. "I missed you."
His hands weren't clinical anymore, they were possessive, mapping out the curves of her body as if he were re-memorizing a track he’d been banned from for an eternity. He moved with a frantic rhythm, his hips grinding into her, the heavy towel between them the only thing keeping the encounter from becoming absolute.
She arched her back, her fingers digging into the hard, defined muscles of his shoulders. "Oscar... the bedroom," she breathed, her voice fracturing as he trailed a line of wet, biting kisses down the column of her throat.
"In a minute," he murmured, his voice a dark, vibrating command. He pulled back just enough to look at her, his blue eyes dark and heavy with a lethal mix of love and lust. "I want to look at you right here. No Marcus. No lies. Just us."
He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw, his touch suddenly incredibly tender despite the storm raging in his chest. "You really thought you could just walk away from me?”
"I thought I was saving you," she whispered, her eyes brimming with a different kind of tear now.
Oscar shook his head, a small, fierce smirk finally tugging at the corner of his mouth, the look of a man who had just taken the checkered flag against impossible odds.
"Next time," he said, his voice dropping into that low, authoritative register that made her heart skip, "remember that I'm a racing driver. I’m used to high-speed crashes. I can handle a little wreckage, as long as you're in the passenger seat with me."
He didn't give her a chance to argue. He swept her up into his arms, her legs instantly locking around his waist as he carried her toward the bedroom. The kitchen was left behind, the cold marble, the phone, and the ghost of the man who had tried to break them, all forgotten in the wake of the only thing that had ever truly mattered.
—
The mid-morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains of the bedroom, casting a soft, golden haze over the rumpled sheets. It was 11:00 AM, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, the room was silent, no frantic typing, no stifled sobs, no vibrating phones. Beside her, Oscar was dead to the world. His face, usually a mask of concentrated focus or guarded composure, was smoothed out in a rare, deep sleep. The dark circles beneath his eyes seemed a little less bruised in the morning light, his chest rising and falling in a steady, heavy rhythm that spoke of absolute exhaustion finally giving way to peace.
She propped herself up on one elbow, her gaze tracing the familiar lines of his profile. She watched the way his eyelashes brushed his cheekbones and the slight part of his lips. He looked younger when he was sleeping, less like a global sporting icon and more like the boy she had grown up with.
But as the silence stretched on, a cold, nagging insecurity began to seep back into her chest, replacing the warmth of their reunion.
She thought about the frantic way they had come together just hours ago. She thought about the word Daddy she had gasped against his skin and the way he had claimed her with such possessive intensity. For months, their arrangement had been a thrilling, secret game, a way to blur the lines of a twenty-year friendship with the spice of power dynamics and luxury. It had been exciting, a mutual agreement that added a layer of heat to their bond.
But now, staring at him, her heart felt heavy with a different kind of ache. Did he save me because I'm his best friend? she wondered, her throat tightening. Or did he save me because I’m an investment he wasn't ready to lose? The idea that Oscar might only see her as his "sugar baby,” a beautiful distraction he paid for and protected, used to be a fantasy. Now, it felt like a cage. She knew she loved him, truly, deeply, beyond any arrangement or contract. She loved the man who worried about her vitamins and the man who would burn his career down for her. But she couldn't be sure if he felt the same, or if he was simply maintaining the status quo of a high-end arrangement.
Unable to sit with the thoughts any longer, she slipped out of bed, careful not to wake him. She pulled on one of his oversized McLaren hoodies, the scent of him clinging to the fabric, and padded into the kitchen.
The apartment felt different now. The air was clearer, but she walked with her shoulders hunched, her movements sluggish as she began to pull eggs and bread from the fridge. She stood over the stove, staring blankly at the butter melting in the pan, the weight of her own doubt making her feel small. She felt like she was waiting for a second shoe to drop, terrified that the intimacy they had shared was just a temporary reprieve from a fundamental misunderstanding of what they actually were to each other.
An hour passed in a daze of sizzling bacon and quiet reflection.
In the bedroom, Oscar bolted upright. The sudden silence of the room hit him. He reached out, his hand sweeping across the empty, cold space where she had been lying.
"No," he rasped, his voice thick with sleep and a sudden, sharp spike of adrenaline.
His mind, still foggy, immediately went to the worst-case scenario. He thought of the breakup. He thought of her asking him to leave permanently. He thought Marcus had somehow gotten to her in the hour he’d let his guard down. He didn't even grab a shirt, he just threw on a pair of joggers and practically sprinted out of the room, his heart hammering against his ribs in a panicked, uneven cadence.
He rounded the corner into the kitchen, his eyes wide and frantic, his breath coming in short, jagged bursts.
He stopped dead when he saw her.
She was standing at the counter, her back to him, plating the toast. She looked so small in his hoodie, her hair still messy from his hands. The sheer, visceral relief that flooded Oscar’s system was so intense it almost made his knees buckle. He didn't say a word, he just rushed across the floor.
He crashed into her from behind, his arms wrapping around her waist with a crushing, desperate strength. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his forehead pressed against her skin as he let out a long, shaky exhale that sounded like a sob.
"Don't do that," he choked out, his voice trembling with a vulnerability she had never heard before. "Don't ever just... disappear like that. I woke up and the bed was cold, and I thought—I thought you’d changed your mind. I thought you were gone."
She dropped the tongs, her heart aching at the sheer terror in his voice. She turned in his arms, her hands coming up to cup his face, her thumbs brushing away the moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes.
Seeing him like this, this raw, terrified version of Oscar Piastri, shattered her. She had spent weeks trying to push him away to save him, never realizing that the mere thought of her absence was the one thing he couldn't survive.
"I'm here, Oscar," she whispered, her own tears starting to fall. "I'm not going anywhere. I was just making food. I promise, I'm right here."
She pulled his head down, kissing his forehead, his eyelids, his cheeks, trying to soothe the man who was so used to being the protector that he didn't know how to handle the fear of being left behind.
He held her tighter, his fingers curling into the fabric of his own hoodie on her back. He looked down at her with a desperate, searching intensity, as if he were trying to memorize her soul. Seeing him this undone, this terrified of a world without her, made her doubts feel small, yet the question still lingered in the back of her mind, waiting for the courage to be asked.
—
The fragile peace in the kitchen shattered with a violent, rhythmic thud. It wasn't the polite knock of a neighbor, it was a demanding, entitled pounding that vibrated through the wooden frame of the front door.
Oscar’s entire body went rigid. The vulnerability that had just been pooling in his eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, predatory focus. He didn't let go of her immediately, he tucked her behind his shoulder, his arm a protective barrier as he steered her toward the far side of the island.
"Stay here," Oscar commanded, his voice dropping into that low, flat "race mode" register.
He didn't grab a shirt. He didn't need one. He walked to the door with a measured, lethal calm, his bare chest heaving slightly with the remnants of his earlier panic. He gripped the handle and swung the door open with a force that nearly pulled it off its hinges.
Marcus was standing there, his hand raised for another strike. He looked disheveled, his hair uncharacteristically messy, his eyes bloodshot and frantic. He didn't even look at Oscar at first, his gaze was darting into the apartment, searching for a target.
"Where is she?" Marcus demanded, his voice high and strained. "She’s not answering her phone. She hasn't replied to a single text since last night. I told her what would happen if she went dark on me, I told her—"
Marcus stopped mid-sentence. His eyes finally focused on the man standing in front of him.
He looked at Oscar’s shirtless torso, the faint red marks on his shoulders, and the unmistakable, possessive set of his jaw. Then, his gaze shifted past Oscar to the kitchen.
She was standing there, her fingers white-knuckled as she gripped the edge of the marble counter. She was swathed in Oscar’s oversized McLaren hoodie, the sleeves hanging past her fingertips, the scent of him practically radiating off her. Her hair was a bird’s nest of tangles, her lips swollen and bitten red.
Marcus’s face went from frantic to a sickly, pale white, then flushed a dark, ugly purple. The dots didn't just connect, they slammed together with the force of a high-speed impact.
"You," Marcus hissed, his eyes darting back to Oscar. He let out a sharp, hysterical laugh that sounded like a choke. "You really are a glutton for punishment, aren't you, Piastri? I thought I made it clear. I thought she made it clear. You're supposed to be gone."
Marcus reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone with a trembling hand. He didn't realize he was holding a gun with no bullets. He didn't know the digital execution had already happened.
"I warned you," Marcus snarled, his thumb hovering over the screen as he looked at her with a look of pure, spiteful betrayal. "I told you what I’d do if you let him touch you again. You think this is a game? You think he can buy his way out of this? Watch your career go up in smoke, Oscar. Watch how fast McLaren drops you when they hear what you really do behind closed doors."
He stabbed at the screen, his face twisted in a mask of triumphant malice, waiting for the upload confirmation that would never come. He had no idea that Oscar was currently watching him drown in a dry pool.
Oscar’s expression didn't shift into a panic. Instead, he smoothed his features into a mask of confusion, the same face he wore when a steward called him in for a post-race investigation he knew he’d already won. He leaned against the doorframe, his bare shoulder blocking Marcus’s path, his voice dropping into a dangerously calm drawl.
"What are you talking about, Marcus?" Oscar asked, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You’re standing in my hallway at eleven in the morning, screaming about my career. You sound like you’ve had a mental break. What exactly do you think you have?"
Marcus let out a sharp, jagged laugh, his thumb hovering over the 'Send' button on a BCC email draft addressed to every major sports outlet in the UK. "Don't play dumb with me, Piastri! The Zoom call. I’ve got the whole thing. Every word, every look, every filthy little thing you said to her while you thought the world wasn't watching."
Behind Oscar, she gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. The sheer, naked malice in Marcus’s voice made the air in the kitchen feel oily.
"A recording?" Oscar repeated, his voice deceptively soft. He stepped an inch closer, his presence looming over the smaller man. "You’re telling me you’ve been spying on her? That you’ve been sitting in your room, watching us? That sounds like a criminal offense, Marcus. That sounds like something a judge would find very interesting."
"It doesn't matter what a judge thinks when the sponsors see it!" Marcus hissed, his face contorted. "I’m hitting send. Right now. You want to see the footage? Here.”
Marcus shoved the phone toward Oscar’s face, his finger trembling as he tried to refresh the preview. This was the opening Oscar needed.
With the lightning-fast reflexes that allowed him to react to a 300km/h snap of oversteer, Oscar’s hand shot out. He didn't punch him, he simply clamped his fingers around Marcus’s wrist and twisted just enough to force his grip to loosen. Before Marcus could even yell, Oscar had the phone in his hand.
"Hey! Give that back!" Marcus lunged, but Oscar used his free arm to shove him back against the hallway wall with a dull thud.
Oscar ignored him, his eyes scanning the screen. He saw the email draft. He saw the attachment icons, four of them, all showing the spinning wheel of a failed upload. 'Error: File Not Found.' 'Source Data Corrupted.'
Oscar scrolled through the gallery, his thumb moving with clinical speed. Every folder labeled with her name was empty. Every cloud backup he tried to open returned a 404 error. The investigator hadn't just deleted the files, he had salted the earth.
A slow, terrifyingly calm smirk spread across Oscar’s face. He looked up from the dead screen, his gaze locking onto Marcus’s panicked eyes.
"There's nothing here, Marcus," Oscar said, his voice a low, lethal hum. He held the phone up so Marcus could see the 'Upload Failed' notifications blinking in red. "The files are gone. The backups are gone. Even the source code on your hard drive at home is currently being overwritten with zeros."
Marcus’s jaw dropped. He snatched at the phone, his thumbs flying over the screen in a desperate, frantic dance. "No... no, that’s impossible. I had multiple copies! I had them on the encrypted drive!"
"You had a lot of things," Oscar said, stepping fully out into the hallway, forcing Marcus to take a stumbling step back. "But what you don't have is leverage. And what you do have is a very long list of felony charges for extortion, non-consensual recording, and harassment."
Oscar turned the phone off and tossed it onto the carpet at Marcus’s feet like it was a piece of trash.
"Get out," Oscar commanded, the cold-blooded man fully unleashed. "Before I stop being a distraction and start being the person who ensures you never work in this city, or any other, ever again."
The digital collapse had stripped Marcus of his power, but it had replaced his smugness with a frantic, unhinged desperation. He didn’t look like a blackmailer anymore, he looked like a man watching his entire life dissolve into a 404 error.
Instead of running, Marcus lunged past Oscar, stumbling into the kitchen.
"Wait—no! It’s okay!" Marcus shouted, his voice cracking with a high-pitched, terrifying mania. He didn't look at Oscar. He looked at her, his eyes wide and bloodshot. "It’s gone! You heard him! The files are gone, I can't hurt you anymore! We can go back to how it was. I’ll do anything! I’ll delete everything else, I'll never mention it again, just don't let him do this to me!"
Oscar was on him in a second. He didn't throw a punch, not yet, but he stepped directly into the space between them, his bare, scarred chest a solid wall. He raised a stiff hand, palm flat against Marcus’s sternum, shoving him back with the calibrated strength of an athlete.
"That’s enough," Oscar growled, his voice vibrating with a low, dangerous frequency. "You’re done. Get out of this apartment before I lose my patience."
"This isn't about you, Piastri!" Marcus screamed, his face twisting. "This is between us! You don't love her like I do! You're just the bestfriend!"
In a sudden, frantic burst of adrenaline, Marcus shoved Oscar’s arm aside. It was a clumsy, desperate move, but it caught Oscar off balance on the slick kitchen tile. Oscar stumbled a half-step to the side, his shoulder hitting the fridge with a dull thud.
"Mind your own business!" Marcus shrieked, seizing the opening.
He scrambled toward her. She backed up, her heels hitting the base of the kitchen island, her hands coming up to shield herself. But Marcus was faster. He reached out and snatched her upper arms, his fingers digging into the soft fabric of Oscar's hoodie, his grip bruising and frantic.
"Listen to me!" Marcus pleaded, shaking her slightly, his face inches from hers. "I can fix this! I love you! I only did it because I was losing you to him! Please, just tell him to stop, tell him to give me my life back—"
"Let go of me!" she sobbed, her voice breaking as the sheer terror of the last month culminated in this physical violation. The smell of his sweat and the frantic, wide-eyed look in his eyes made her feel like she was suffocating. "Marcus, stop! You’re hurting me!"
Tears streamed down her face, her breath coming in shallow, terrified hitches. She looked past Marcus’s shoulder, her eyes searching for the only person who had ever truly kept her safe.
She saw Oscar find his footing. His face went completely blank, his eyes turning a shade of blue so cold it looked like winter in the pits. He didn't shout. He didn't warn him again.
He simply moved.
Seeing Marcus’s hands on her, seeing those fingers bruising the fabric of the hoodie, snapped the last thread of professional restraint he possessed.
Oscar didn’t shout. He didn't roar. He moved with the terrifying, silent economy of a machine designed for high-speed impact.
One moment Marcus was leaning into her space, his frantic breath hot on her face, the next, a hand like a vice clamped onto Marcus’s shoulder. Oscar didn't just pull him, he pivoted his entire weight, using the torque of his core to rip Marcus away from her with such violent force that Marcus’s grip failed instantly.
Marcus spun, stumbling back, but Oscar wasn’t done. He closed the gap before Marcus could even find his footing, his forearm slamming against Marcus’s throat and pinning him against the far wall of the kitchen. The sound of the impact, the dull thud of skull meeting drywall, echoed through the apartment.
"I told you," Oscar hissed, his voice a low, guttural vibration that sounded more like an engine idling in the red than a human speaking. "To keep. Your hands. Off her."
Oscar’s face was inches from Marcus’s, his pupils dilated so wide his eyes were almost entirely black. The veins in his neck were corded, his shirtless chest heaving against Marcus’s designer shirt.
"Oscar, stop!" she cried out, her voice trembling. She was still pressed against the island, her hands clutching her elbows, her eyes wide as she watched the most composed man she knew turn into something lethal.
But Oscar didn't hear her. He was locked in. He watched the light of arrogance finally die in Marcus’s eyes, replaced by a raw, suffocating terror as Marcus gasped for air under the pressure of Oscar’s arm.
"You think this is about money?" Oscar’s voice dropped even lower, a terrifyingly calm whisper that cut through her sobs. "You think you can record us, threaten her, lay your hands on her, and then beg for a 'reset'? You’re not a man, Marcus. You’re a glitch. And I’m about to delete you myself."
Oscar’s hand curled into a white-knuckled fist, pulling back as his weight shifted, ready to deliver a blow that carried twenty years of friendship and a month of agonizing hurt behind it. His knuckles were white, his arm trembling with the sheer effort of not ending the man right there on his kitchen floor.
"Oscar, please!" she screamed, her voice finally breaking the trance. "Don't! Not for him! Don't ruin everything for him!"
The mention of "everything,” the career, the seat, the life they were supposed to have, finally reached the back of Oscar’s mind. He froze, his fist inches from Marcus’s jaw. He could feel the heat radiating off Marcus’s panicked skin, could hear the pathetic, wheezing sounds of a man who realized he had pushed a predator too far.
Oscar took a slow, shuddering breath, his chest expanding as he forced himself to calm down. He didn't lower his arm. Instead, he leaned in closer, his lips nearly brushing Marcus’s ear.
"If I ever see you within a mile of her again," Oscar promised, his voice deathly quiet and cold as a grave, "the investigator will be the least of your problems. I will spend every cent I have and every connection I’ve made to ensure you spend the rest of your life wishing you’d never learned her name. Do you understand me?"
Marcus could only manage a frantic, terrified nod, his eyes bulging.
Oscar abruptly let go, and Marcus slumped to the floor, clutching his throat and coughing violently. Oscar didn't even look at him. He turned his back on the wreckage of the man, his eyes instantly searching for her. The rage vanished, replaced by an agonizing, soul-deep concern as he stepped toward her, his hands out, trembling slightly from the adrenaline.
"Are you okay?" Oscar rasped, his voice breaking as he reached for her. "Baby, did he hurt you?"
—
The following week felt like a fever dream of domestic bliss, a stark, colorful contrast to the grayscale misery of the month before. The apartment was no longer a battlefield, it was a sanctuary.
Oscar was everywhere no longer a ghost, but a constant, grounding presence. He was back to his quiet, observant brand of spoiling her. He’d "accidentally" buy two of her favorite expensive lattes on his way back from a morning run, or she’d find a new, high-end skincare set sitting on her vanity with a post-it note that simply said: You looked like you were running low. Even Noodle was reaping the benefits. Oscar had started a covert operation of "accidentally" dropping pieces of premium dried fish near the cat’s bowl, whispering to the feline to keep it a secret while she watched from the doorway, her heart swelling at the domesticity of it all.
The banter was back, too, the sharp, dry wit that had always been their love language. But beneath the laughter and the shared meals, a quiet, persistent ache remained lodged in her chest.
Every time she called him "Daddy" in the heat of the night, or every time he swiped his black card to pay for a dinner that cost more than her monthly rent, the insecurity flared. Is this the only reason he’s here? she’d wonder, her smile faltering for a split second. She loved him with a depth that terrified her, a love that transcended the "arrangement" and the luxury. She wanted to ask him, to demand to know if he saw her as his partner or just a very high-maintenance, very loved "sugar baby."
But the memory of the silence, of the guest room door being closed, was too fresh. She couldn't risk it. If this, the role-play, the secret, the sugar dating, was the price of admission to his life, she would pay it. She would be whatever he needed her to be, as long as she never had to see that look of indifference again.
The hardest part, however, wasn't the internal doubt, it was the world outside their door.
A few days later, they were at a quiet, upscale mall. Oscar was wearing a baseball cap pulled low and a face mask, his head down as they walked toward a bookstore. She caught her reflection in a shop window, standing two paces behind him, looking like a stranger or a casual acquaintance.
Her hand twitched, her fingers longing to slide between his, to feel the familiar calluses of his palm. She wanted to lean her head on his shoulder while they looked at books. She wanted the world to know that the man everyone idolized on the TV screen belonged to her, and she to him.
She thought about the upcoming race in Miami. She thought about the cameras, the Paddock, and the "Naomi" narrative Sarah had mentioned. The realization that she would have to watch him from a distance, that she couldn't kiss him at the finish line or hold his hand during a post-race interview, felt like a slow-acting poison.
"You okay?" Oscar asked, stopping by a display and looking back at her. His eyes, the only part of him visible, were soft and full of that silent, intense focus he only saved for her.
"Yeah," she lied, forcing a smile that didn't reach her eyes as she tucked a stray hair behind her ear. "Just thinking about what Noodle is probably destroying while we're gone."
Oscar chuckled, the sound muffled by his mask, and reached out as if to touch her arm, but he caught himself, his hand dropping back to his side as a group of teenagers walked past.
The rejection of the touch, even though it was for her protection, felt like a physical blow. She followed him into the store, the weight of their "secret" feeling heavier than ever. She was back in his life, but as long as they were hiding, she felt like she was still living in the shadows of the man she loved.
—
After the suffocating tension of the weeks prior, being back in the paddock felt like stepping into a different dimension. But as she moved through the McLaren garage, the ghosts of her secrets still flickered in the corners.
"Hey, we missed you in the last rounds," one of the telemetry engineers said, looking up from his monitors with a friendly grin. "That guy who was coming around, Marcus, right? Everything sorted?"
She didn't flinch. She didn't let the name trigger the phantom sensation of his fingers on her arm. She simply adjusted her headset, her expression cool and professional. "Yeah, all sorted. He was just an acquaintance from the university."
The lie felt effortless now, a necessary shield. But the peace was short-lived.
"Oscar! We need you in the hospitality suite, now," Sarah’s voice cut through the air, sharp and urgent. She was holding her phone like a weapon, her thumb scrolling through a rapid-fire feed of social media notifications. "You and your 'best friend' are trending again. Someone caught a high-res shot of you two walking through the turnstiles this morning. The 'best friend’ narrative is peaking, Oscar. We have to pivot."
Oscar’s jaw tightened. He didn't look back as he followed Sarah toward the private offices in the back of the hospitality unit. She trailed behind them at a distance, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She knew she shouldn't listen, but the curiosity was a physical ache, she needed to know how much of their life was being negotiated behind closed doors.
She stayed in the shadow of the corridor as Oscar and Sarah entered the glass-walled lounge. She saw Oscar freeze, his entire posture turning rigid.
Standing in the center of the room was a woman who looked like she had been sculpted from moonlight and high-fashion editorials. It was Naomi. She was taller than she looked in photos, her hair a perfect silk curtain, wearing a McLaren team shirt that somehow looked like couture on her.
"Oscar, this is Naomi," Sarah said, her voice dropping into a smooth, PR-friendly lilt. "Naomi, this is Oscar. I think you two have a lot to discuss regarding the dinner tonight."
Oscar didn't move. He was a man who prided himself on manners, on the quiet Australian stoicism that demanded he be polite even in the face of a catastrophe. "Nice to meet you," he murmured, his voice flat, his hands shoved deep into his pockets to hide the fact that they were curling into fists.
Outside the glass, the world seemed to tilt. She watched through the window as Sarah began to gesture between them, the architect of a beautiful, public lie.
She felt a cold, hollow sensation wash over her, a weight in her chest that made it hard to breathe. This is it, she thought, her eyes stinging. This is the karma. She had spent weeks hurting Oscar, pushing him away, and treating him like a stranger to "protect" him. Now, the universe was giving her exactly what she’d asked for. A world where Oscar belonged to someone else in the eyes of everyone who mattered.
She couldn't watch Noami smile at him. She couldn't watch the way the light caught the model's perfect skin as she stepped closer to the man who, just hours ago, had been whispering baby into her ear in a darkened hotel room.
She turned on her heel and walked away, her vision blurring. She didn't leave the garage, she couldn't, but she retreated to the furthest corner of the engineering station, tucking herself behind a stack of tire blankets. She felt small, invisible, and utterly replaceable.
In the world of Formula 1, she was the secret, the "sugar baby," the distraction. Naomi was the story. And as the roar of the engines started up for Practice 1, she realized that keeping Oscar might mean watching him pretend he didn't even know her name.
⊹ ✿・・───・・✦・・───・・✿ ⊹
a/n: i ended up not rewriting this part 🤪 hopefully its still good, tho? 😭 cuz idk if this was boring, or i've just reread it so many times that it got boring??? 😭
right. so i finished writing part 5 of cross the line and was feeling all proud of myself… and then my brain decided to drop a “wait but what if it was BETTER like this instead”
and now i’m sitting here staring at the doc like do i:
a) rewrite everything and risk never finishing anything ever again
b) leave it as it is and pretend i didn’t just think of something that hits harder
The lens was an extension of his soul, a glass barrier that both connected him to the world and kept it at a safe, focused distance. In the heart of London, Lando stood on a rain-slicked balcony, the city lights bleeding into the Thames like spilt ink. He didn’t feel the bite of the wind or the dampness seeping through his jacket. He only felt the mechanical click of the shutter, a rhythmic heartbeat that synchronized with his own.
He moved with a frantic, quiet grace. One moment, he was crouched low to capture the reflection of a neon sign in a puddle. The next, he was leaning precariously over a railing to track the light trails of a passing bus. He didn't just take photos. He hunted moments. To Lando, a crowd wasn't a group of people, but a composition of textures, the rough wool of a coat, the sharp highlight on a cheekbone, the way shadows pooled in the corners of an alleyway.
Even when he was surrounded by the roar of the city, he was in a vacuum of silence. His thumb danced over the dial, adjusting the aperture with muscle memory so deep it was instinctual. He saw life in frames of 35mm, forever looking for the perfect alignment of chaos and order. The world was messy, but through the viewfinder, he could finally make it make sense.
When he finally lowered the camera, his eyes took a second to adjust to the three-dimensional world, looking slightly dazed, as if he’d just returned from another dimension entirely. He didn't check his phone. He didn't look at the time. He simply swapped the memory card, tucked the camera back against his chest, and began scouting for the next pocket of light.
. . . . . ◟੭
The hallway felt hollow, air stretched thin and untouched, but behind the darkroom door, it was thick with the sharp, medicinal sting of acetic acid and developer. A low, crimson glow bled from under the door, the only sign that Lando was even home. He had been back for three days, but to you, he was still a ghost, a shadow that moved between the bed and this windowless sanctuary.
You leaned your forehead against the wood and knocked. It wasn't a loud sound, but in the heavy silence of the apartment, it felt like a percussion.
"Lando?" you called softly. "Dinner’s getting cold. I actually managed to find that place you liked, the one with the decent espresso."
Silence. Then, the rhythmic slosh-slosh of plastic trays being rocked.
You turned the handle and pushed the door open just a crack. The red light washed over your face, bathing everything in a hazy, apocalyptic hue. Lando was hunched over the sink, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his eyes fixed on a white sheet submerged in liquid. He didn't look up. He looked like a scientist mid-miracle, watching as grey shapes slowly coalesced into a bridge, a face, a moment.
"Lando, please," you tried again, stepping further into the cramped space. The heat was stifling. "You’ve been in here since six this morning. Talk to me for five minutes."
"Wait," he whispered, his voice raspy from disuse. He held up a pair of stainless steel tongs, gesturing for you to stay back. "The timing has to be exact. If I pull it now, the shadows are muddy. Just... just give me a second."
He was right there, barely three feet away, yet he felt miles beneath the surface of the chemicals. You watched the back of his head, the way his shoulders were locked in a permanent hunch of concentration. He wasn't just developing film. He was disappearing into it. You realized then that the espresso was sitting on the counter, the steam already gone, and you were standing in a red room, waiting for a man who was already gone.
. . . . . ◟੭
Daylight felt like an intrusion in the cafe, far too sharp compared to the crimson-tinted isolation of the flat. Opposite you, your friends leaned into a tight circle around a phone, their whispers falling into that specific, heavy register that always precedes a disaster.
"I’m just saying, they’re always together," Jane whispered, sliding the phone toward the center of the table. "Look at the tags from the gallery opening last night."
On the screen was a candid shot of Lando and his assistant, Aya. They were leaning over a contact sheet, their heads nearly touching. Lando was laughing, a genuine, open expression you hadn't seen directed at you in months. Aya had her hand on his forearm, pointing at a frame, her face glowing with the same obsessive spark that lived in Lando’s eyes.
"He's a photographer, guys," you said, your voice sounding thin even to your own ears. "She’s his assistant. They’re looking at work."
"We know, we know," your other friend added, stirring her drink slowly. "But he spends more time in that darkroom with her than he does in the living room with you. And the way she looks at him? It’s not just about 'lighting and composition,' babe."
"He was away for three weeks in Paris, and she was in every single one of his behind-the-scenes stories," Jane pressed, her eyes sympathetic but sharp. "Even when he’s 'home,' is he actually with you? Because from where we’re sitting, it looks like he’s shared a whole life with her while you’re just... waiting for the lease to end."
The tension, which had been a dull ache in your chest for weeks, suddenly sharpened into a jagged edge. You thought of the espresso growing cold on the counter and the way he’d warned you not to ruin the "timing" of his prints. Maybe the timing was already ruined. Maybe you weren't the one he was waiting to see develop.
"He’s just busy," you muttered, but as you looked at the photo of them laughing in that secret, creative language they shared, the doubt began to settle in like a permanent stain.
. . . . . ◟੭
Your apartment had become a gallery of unrequited efforts. You moved through the rooms like a curator of a dying flame, trying to fill the silence he left behind with the sounds of a home that was actually lived in.
In the kitchen, the air was fragrant with garlic and rosemary, the heavy, comforting scent of a roast you’d spent three hours perfecting. You plated it with precision, making it look like something out of the high-end journals he kept on the coffee table. You carried it to his office, where the only light came from the dual monitors glowing with a clinical, blue hum.
"Hey," you whispered, setting the plate down on the only clear inch of his desk, careful not to touch the hard drives or lenses. "You need to eat something real, Lando. No more protein bars."
"Thanks," he murmured, his fingers flying across the keyboard as he toggled between exposure settings. He didn't look at the food. He didn't look at you.
You lingered, your hand hovering over his shoulder before finally coming to rest there. You squeezed gently, leaning down to press a kiss to the crown of his head. You could feel the tension in his muscles. He was a live wire, humming with a frequency you couldn't tune into. You slid your arms around his neck, trying to pull him back into the physical world, wanting to feel the rise and fall of his chest against yours.
"I missed you today," you breathed against his ear.
He stiffened slightly, his hand pausing on the mouse. "I’m right in the middle of a color grade, baby. The light in these shots is really finicky." He reached up, patting your arm distractedly before gently disentangling himself to reach for a reference book.
As you walked away, you passed the mirror in the hallway. Tucked into the frame was a yellow post-it note you’d left that morning: 'Good luck with the London series! You’re the best there is. Love you.' It was still there, crisp and un-creased, exactly where you'd put it. He hadn't even taken it down to look at the back. You realized that while you were writing love letters, he was busy cropping you out of the frame.
. . . . . ◟੭
Everything about the restaurant was beautiful, from the jazz to the glow of the candles, yet the empty seat across from you felt like a public failure. You’d already finished your first wine and most of the bread when Lando finally arrived, dishevelled and frantic, his camera bag echoing against the floor as he sat.
"Sorry," he muttered, not leaning in for a kiss, but instead reaching immediately for his water. "The transit at Oxford Circus was a nightmare, and I caught this incredible sequence of an old man with a cello. I had to follow him for a few blocks."
"You're here now," you said, forcing a smile that felt tight. "That’s what matters."
Throughout dinner, his eyes kept darting to the window, watching the way the streetlamps hit the rain-slicked pavement. He was physically present, but his mind was clearly back at the darkroom, or perhaps still on that subway platform with the cello player.
"I saw you posted a teaser for the new series," you said, trying to bridge the gap. You reached across the table, your fingers brushing his hand. "The textures look incredible. Can I see some of the raw shots? I’d love to see what you’re working on before the gallery gets them."
Lando pulled his hand back slightly to adjust his silverware. "They aren't ready."
"I don't mind 'not ready,'" you laughed softly, trying to keep the mood light. "I’ve seen the 'not ready' version of you at 4:00 AM. Come on, let me see. We can look through them together."
He shifted his camera bag further under the table, out of reach. "No, it’s... it’s different this time. It’s a specific narrative. Showing them now, out of sequence, would ruin the intent. You wouldn't get it yet."
"I wouldn't get it?" The words stung more than the cold air outside. "Lando, I’m the one who watches you obsess over these for weeks. I think I’d 'get' it."
"It’s just for me right now," he said firmly, his voice dropping an octave. He picked up his menu, effectively ending the conversation. "Let's just eat, okay? I’m exhausted."
The rest of the meal was a symphony of clinking silverware and polite, hollow small talk. Every time you tried to catch his eye, he was looking past you, framing a shot of the waiter or the shadows on the wall, leaving you to realize that in a room full of people, you were the only one who was truly invisible to him.
. . . . . ◟੭
The sound of laughter was the first thing that hit you when you turned the key in the lock, a sharp, genuine sound that felt like a foreign language in this apartment.
In the living room, the coffee table was buried under stacks of glossies and contact sheets. Lando was leaning over the back of the sofa, his shoulder pressed firmly against Aya's as they stared at his camera’s digital display. He was pointing at the screen, his thumb scrolling rapidly through the gallery, a vibrant energy radiating from him that he usually reserved only for his darkroom.
"No, look at the grain there," Lando said, his voice animated. "The way the light hit the glass, it’s exactly what we talked about in the studio."
Aya giggled, nudging him with her elbow. "I told you that lens would catch the flare perfectly. It’s stunning, Lando. Truly."
You stood in the foyer, your grocery bags suddenly feeling like lead weights in your hands. The memory of the restaurant, the way he had pulled his camera bag out of your reach, the way he told you that you "wouldn't get it," rushed back with a sickening force.
"Oh, hey!" Aya noticed you first, offering a bright, professional smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "We’re just finishing up some edits for the exhibition. Lando’s a genius, as usual."
Lando didn't look up immediately. He clicked the camera off with a decisive snap and set it on the table. "Hey. Didn't hear you come in."
"I can see that," you said, your voice flat. You walked toward the kitchen, but your gaze lingered on the table. There they were, the photographs he had guarded like state secrets from you, spread out for her to see, to touch, to critique.
Your phone vibrated in your pocket. A text from Jane: Saw his car and Aya's at the flat. Just checking in on you. You shouldn't have to compete for a front-row seat in your own life, babe.
The silence that followed was louder than the laughter had been. You watched from the kitchen island as Lando handed Aya another print, his fingers brushing hers as they discussed "narrative" and "soul." You realized then that it wasn't that the photos weren't ready for eyes to see. They just weren't ready for yours. To Lando, you were the person who kept the fridge full and the bed warm, but she was the one who shared his vision.
You were the background noise in a room where they were the only two people in focus.
. . . . . ◟੭
Glass walls turned the restaurant into a shimmering box suspended over the city, a sanctuary where the elite preened and the lonely dissolved into the glow. Lando had actually arrived first. He sat silhouetted at a corner table, his profile etched sharply against the sprawling, neon tapestry of London’s skyline. For one fragile, traitorous moment, your heart soared, a desperate hope that this was the pivot point, and the man you loved had finally resurfaced.
"I’ve started a new series," he said before you’d even tucked your coat behind you. His eyes were wide, bloodshot from lack of sleep, vibrating with a manic, creative frequency. "It’s visceral. It’s the most honest thing I’ve ever captured. I can’t tell you the theme yet. I can’t even put words to the sequence, but it’s going to be the centerpiece of the October show. It’s everything, baby. Everything I’ve been working toward."
You looked at him, really looked at him, and realized he wasn't seeing you. He was seeing the idea of a muse. He was seeing a person to witness his greatness, not a partner to share his life. The expensive wine tasted like vinegar in your throat.
"Lando," you interrupted, your voice a fragile thread. "I can't do this anymore."
He blinked, the light in his eyes dimming into a confused flicker. "I know, I know," he said, reaching out to pat your hand with a practiced, distracted affection. "I’ve been a hermit. I’ve been ghosting the real world. But I promise, once the gallery opening is over, we’ll go to the coast. Just us. I’ll leave the Leica in the bag. We’ll just… be."
"It’s not about a trip, Lando," you said, and the first tear escaped, hot and stinging. "I am drowning in the silence of that apartment. I am lonely when I’m standing right next to you. I cook for a ghost, I sleep next to a stranger, and I watch you give the best parts of your soul, your focus, your passion, your curiosity to everyone, and everything but me."
He pulled his hand back, his brow furrowing in genuine irritation. "You’re being dramatic. It’s a high-pressure phase. Every artist goes through this. I thought you understood the stakes."
"The stakes?" You let out a broken, hollow laugh. "The stakes are my life, Lando. I’ve spent two years waiting for you to come home, only to realize that when you’re home, you’re just waiting for the film to dry. I’m a footnote in your biography. I’m the girl who makes sure there’s milk in the fridge while you’re out chasing ‘the perfect light.’"
"I’m doing this for us," he insisted, his voice rising, drawing the eyes of the tables around you. "Everything I build, I build for our future."
"There is no 'us' in your future, Lando. There’s only your viewfinder. There's only the next frame." You wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, your chest aching with a physical, crushing weight. "I’m breaking up with you. I’m leaving tonight."
The color drained from his face, replaced by a cold, stubborn pride. "You’re going to walk away over a busy month? After everything? You’re acting like I’ve been unfaithful, but I’ve been working."
"You have been unfaithful," you whispered, leaning closer so the rest of the room couldn't hear your heart shatter. "You’ve been having an affair with a camera for two years. You look at your assistant with more wonder than you’ve looked at me in months because she speaks your language. I’m just the background noise you haven't figured out how to crop out yet."
"You're being unfair," he hissed, his hands clenching into fists on the white linen. "You knew who I was when we met."
"I knew you were a photographer, Lando. What I didn't know was I’d be the only thing you never bothered to develop."
The silence that followed was absolute. The city lights behind him seemed to blur into a bokeh of cold, indifferent diamonds. Lando stared at you, and for the first time in a long time, he wasn't looking for a shot. He was looking at the wreckage of a woman who had tried to love him through the dark.
"Fine," he said, his voice dropping into a flat, icy monotone that hurt worse than shouting. "If you’re that fragile, if you can’t handle the reality of my life… then go. I won't beg you to stay in a room you've already checked out of."
He didn't stand up. He didn't reach for you. He just turned his head back to the window, his profile silhouetted against the dark sky, already framing the next moment of his solitude. You walked out of the restaurant, the cold London wind hitting your face, knowing that to him, you weren't a loss, you were just a memory he’d eventually turn into art.
. . . . . ◟੭
The first month of being "just yourself" again felt like learning to breathe in a room with a different atmospheric pressure. The apartment you had moved into was smaller, quieter, and blissfully free of the scent of fixer and stop-bath, yet the silence was its own kind of weight. You spent your mornings retraining your brain to look at the world without his eyes.
You would stand in line for your morning coffee, watching the way a single shaft of amber light cut through the steam of the espresso machine, and your heart would instinctively stutter. Lando would love the way the dust motes dance in that ray, you’d think, before catching yourself and forcefully pulling your gaze away. You’d see an elderly couple holding hands on a park bench, their wrinkled skin a map of a life shared, and you’d imagine the exact aperture Lando would use to soften the background.
It was a haunting. He had turned your entire reality into a gallery of potential shots, and now that he was gone, the world felt like a sketchbook with the pages ripped out.
You tried to fill the void with the mundane. You went to the gym, feeling the burn in your arms with those 6lb weights, focusing on the physical reality of your own body instead of being a subject in his. You took yourself out to dinner at places he would have hated, places with flat, fluorescent lighting, and no "character," just to prove you could exist in a space that wasn't aesthetically pleasing.
But the questions were always there, humming in the back of your mind like a low-frequency radio station. Was he eating? Was the darkroom still his only home? Was Aya the one bringing him coffee now, or was he finally forced to notice the world on his own? You'd reach for your phone to check his Instagram, your thumb hovering over his profile picture, the one where he looked so young and focused, before locking the screen and shoving it deep into your pocket.
You were regaining your normalcy, brick by painful brick. You were learning that the sunset was beautiful even if no one was there to capture it on high-speed film. You were learning that your life didn't need to be "visceral" or "narrative" to be valid. You were just a woman walking down a street in London, buying flowers that would eventually wilt, and for the first time in two years, you weren't waiting for the click of a shutter to tell you that you were alive.
Yet, as you turned the corner toward your usual cafe, the wind caught a flyer taped to a lamp post. A bold, minimalist font. A name that made your stomach drop. An exhibition opening today.
LANDO NORRIS: NEVER OUT OF FRAME
You told yourself to keep walking. You told yourself you didn't need to see what he’d been doing in the dark. But the pull of a ghost is a powerful thing.
The gallery was a cathedral of white space, but the air inside felt heavy, charged with the electric hum of a hundred whispered conversations. You stood at the threshold, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. This was the "visceral" project, the one he had guarded like a holy relic, the one that had finally driven the wedge between you. You expected to see the cold, clinical cityscapes that had always come first. You expected to see the world through the detached eyes of a man who lived behind glass.
But as you took your first step into the room, the world didn't look cold. It looked like you.
The first photograph was a massive, grainy black-and-white print. It was a shot of you from behind, standing at the kitchen window of your old apartment, the morning sun catching the stray, messy curls of your hair. You were holding a mug, looking out at a city that hadn't woken up yet. You remembered that morning, you had thought he was asleep.
Underneath, the brass plaque didn't list a shutter speed or a location. It read:
4:12 AM. The world is silent, but she is the melody. I watched her wait for the light to hit the buildings, never realizing the sun was already standing in my kitchen.
Your breath hitched. You moved to the next frame. It was a candid shot of you at the grocery store, leaning over a bin of apples, your brow furrowed in that specific way you did when you were overthinking a recipe. It was mundane, ordinary, and yet, in the frame, it looked like a masterpiece of devotion.
The plaque beneath it was a soft confession:
She remembers the things I forget. She buys the fruit I like and the coffee that keeps me awake, moving through the aisles of her life to make mine easier. I saw every trip. I felt every kindness. I just didn't know how to say 'thank you' without a lens.
As you walked deeper into the gallery, the crowd seemed to melt away into a blur of grey. There you were, laughing at a joke your friend Jane had made, your head thrown back, a moment of pure, uninhibited joy. Next to it was a photo of you sleeping, the duvet bunched up under your chin, your face softened by the vulnerability of rest.
Her laughter is the only frequency I ever wanted to capture. In the darkroom, I play this sound in my head to keep the shadows away.
And then, you saw it, the shot of the dinner you had made the night he stayed in the darkroom. The table was set perfectly, the candles burning low. In the background, you were visible in the hallway, your shadow long and lonely as you walked away. You had thought he hadn't even looked at the table. But the photograph was taken from the doorway of the darkroom, the focus sharp on the steam rising from the plate you’d left for him.
She cooks with a heart that never tires, even when I am too consumed by my own shadows to sit at her table. Every meal was a peace offering. Every plate was a poem I was finally learning how to read.
The descriptions weren't an apology for the breakup. They were a roadmap of a man who had been paying attention all along, recording your love in a language he was too afraid to speak aloud. He hadn't been ignoring you. He had been studying you, obsessed with the way you existed in the world.
You reached the final wall, where a single, small photograph hung in a heavy gold frame. It was a close-up of your hand, the one that had left all those yellow post-it notes. In the photo, your fingers were resting on the edge of his desk, a small sliver of light catching the curve of your ring finger.
The final plaque was the longest, the metal gleaming under the spotlight:
I spent my life trying to freeze time because I was afraid of losing the moment. But moments aren't meant to be captured; they are meant to be lived with the person who makes them worth having. I saw every note. I felt every touch. I have developed every memory of us in the dark, and now, I’m ready to walk into the light with you.
Will you marry me?
The silence of the gallery was broken only by the sound of your own jagged breathing. You turned, your eyes blurred with tears, and found him. Lando was standing near the back exit, dressed in a sharp black suit that made him look older, humbler. His camera bag was nowhere to be seen. His hands were tucked into his pockets, his shoulders tight with an agonizing wait.
He didn't move. He didn't offer a charming smile or a witty remark. He just looked at you, truly looked at you, with the raw, unfiltered gaze of a man who had finally put down the camera to see the woman standing right in front of him.
The crowd seemed to part like a retreating tide as Aya stepped out from the shadow of a large-format print. She wasn’t wearing her usual look of professional detachment. Instead, her expression was soft, almost relieved. She looked between you and Lando, and for a fleeting second, the sharp, jagged jealousy that had lived in your chest for months simply evaporated.
"He’s been a ghost for three months," Aya began, her voice low and intimate, cutting through the ambient hum of the gallery. She gestured to the walls, to the hundreds of frames that captured every tilt of your head and every tired smile you’d ever given a cold dinner. "Not because he was avoiding you, but because he was terrified you’d walk into the darkroom and see your own face staring back at him before the timing was right."
She took a step closer, her eyes searching yours. "Every single day in that studio, he would pull a new print from the developer, and he wouldn’t talk about the lighting or the grain. He’d tell me stories. He told me about the way you take your coffee when you’re stressed and how you leave those yellow notes on the mirror like breadcrumbs for him to find his way back to the real world. He wasn't showing me his 'work,' he was showing me his heart. I wasn't his assistant on this project, I was his confidante."
A stray tear escaped your eye, and Aya reached out, her hand hovering near your arm. "When he told me you’d left... I thought he’d cancel the show and his proposal. I thought he’d burn the prints. He went into a dark place, worse than before. But then he showed up the next morning, red-eyed and shaking, and said he had to finish it. He said if he couldn't have the girl, he at least had to show the world the masterpiece he’d been too blind to cherish while he had it."
She looked back at Lando, who was still standing paralyzed by the far wall, his hands trembling as he watched you. "He told me he didn't want to show you the 'raw shots' at that restaurant because he was mid-sequence on the proposal. He was so stuck in the 'art' of loving you that he forgot to actually love you in the moment. He’s a fool," she whispered with a sad, knowing smile, "but he’s a fool who’s spent every waking hour of the last month making sure this room told you exactly who you are to him." she says before giving your shoulder a pat and walk away.
The weight of her words settled over you, reframing every cold night and every lonely morning. The "other woman" hadn't been a rival. She had been the curator of a love letter that was too big for a single envelope.
Lando finally moved. It wasn't the confident stride of a famous photographer. It was the hesitant, stumbling walk of a man who had put his entire soul on display and was waiting for the verdict. He stopped a few feet away, the harsh gallery lights catching the dampness in his eyes. He didn't reach for a camera. He didn't look at the composition. He just looked at you, his voice cracking as it broke the silence.
"I didn't want to capture the moment anymore," he whispered, his gaze locked onto yours. "I just wanted to be in it. With you. If you’ll let me."
. . . . . ◟੭
a/n: likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡♡
a/n 2: tried a different kind of art, hope its ok??
I know you were concerned about balancing the two sides in Cross the Line, but I’ve caught up and you’re doing a perfect job. Finding a way to make the balance and threat feel as heavy with distance involved is hard, but you smashed it.
I’m in love with how you show the two sides even out of a sexual context. Him adjusting his way of dealing with the cat 🥺
You’re also good at writing smut— I promise. You mix things up and describe them well, but there’s also just a clear hunger and dynamics that make me feel like a shaken soda.
Oscar, I’m gonna need you to go fucking bananas when you find out what’s happening to your girl.
sTOP this made me smile so much 😭 please never apologise cuz thank you for coming back and for the birthday greeting 🥹🫶🏻
I was so worried about balancing everything in Cross the Line so this genuinely means a lot to hear. And the way you noticed the little details (like the cat 😭)?? I’m obsessed with you.
Also the ‘shaken soda’ line??? I’m framing that.
And don’t worry… Oscar will absolutely lose his mind when everything comes out 👀
can i request oscar and fem oc at the beach and hes taking photos for her in a bikini and she notices his bulge getting bigger 🫣 and yeah that leads to you know what
warnings: smut, p in v, unprotected sex, dry humping, fingering
wc: 2.7k+
"Chin up just a fraction, baby. Perfect. Now, arch your back slightly and look back over your shoulder at me," Oscar directed, his voice steady despite the way his heart was thumping against his ribs.
He adjusted the lens of the Leica, the shutter clicking rhythmically as he captured the sun-drenched scene. They were on a secluded stretch of sand, the turquoise water of the Mediterranean lapping at the shore behind her. She looked breathtaking in the tiny, emerald-green bikini, the vibrant color making her skin glow and highlighting every curve he knew by heart.
She shifted her weight, transitioning into a new pose, but her eyes caught on something below his waist. Her playful expression morphed into a cheeky, knowing smirk. She stopped mid-movement, dropping her arms and walking toward him with a rhythmic sway of her hips that only made his problem worse.
"Oscar," she giggled, her voice a soft lilt over the sound of the waves. She reached him, leaning in close enough that he could smell the coconut of her tanning oil. "You might want to put the camera down and hide that. I think the people on those boats can see exactly how much you're enjoying this 'photoshoot.'"
Oscar didn't look down. He didn't need to. He felt the heavy, insistent throb of his arousal straining against his swim trunks. He set the camera on the beach towel and stepped into her space, his large hands sliding firmly around her waist. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as his breath hitched.
"I don't care who sees," he rasped, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a sudden, raw hunger. "But I’m so turned on by you right now I can barely think. We're going back to the room. Now."
She let out a soft, playful protest, leaning back against his hands. "But Oscar, the sun is finally out! I wanted to go for a swim, enjoy the beach..."
"You can enjoy the beach later," he countered, not letting go. He began gathering their belongings with one hand, towels, bags, and the camera while keeping his other arm hooked firmly around her waist. He nudged her forward, his intent clear. "Right now, I have much better plans for you."
As they began the walk back to the hotel, Oscar stayed glued to her back. With every step she took, his hard length bumped and pressed against the soft swell of her bottom. The friction was maddening, a constant reminder of the friction he actually wanted. She glanced back at him, her eyes bright with a mix of mischief and rising desire, her pace quickening to match his urgency.
The moment the door to their suite clicked shut, the world outside ceased to exist. Oscar let their bags thud onto the floor, the sound heavy in the quiet room. Before she could even turn around, he spun her and pressed her back firmly against the cool surface of the wall.
He didn't waste a second, burying his face in the crook of her neck. His lips were hot and demanding, leaving a trail of searing kisses against her salt-dusted skin.
"I've been wanting to do this since you put this bikini on," he whispered hoarsely against her ear, his hands gripping her hips to pull her flush against him. He began to grind his hardness against her center, the thin fabric of her bikini offering no protection from the pressure. "I want to fuck you right here, with this still on you."
She let out a sharp, jagged breath, her fingers tangling in his damp hair. Oscar reached down, hooking his hand under her thigh and hoisting her leg up, wrapping it securely around his hip. The new angle gave him direct access, allowing him to drive his hips forward with more force. He fastened his pace, the friction of his weight grinding rhythmically against her heat, and a low, broken moan escaped her lips as she arched her back, giving herself over to the friction.
"God, you have no idea what you’re doing to me," Oscar groaned, his voice a jagged rasp that vibrated against the sensitive skin of her throat. He didn't pull away for even a second, his mouth ghosting over her jawline until he reached her ear again. "You looked so fucking perfect out there. Every time you moved, every time you looked at the camera... all I could think about was getting you behind this door and taking what’s mine."
His hands, broad and calloused, moved with a possessive rhythm. One stayed anchored to the small of her back, keeping her pinned firmly against the wall, while the other began a slow, agonizing descent. His fingers traced the high-cut line of her bikini, the emerald fabric stark against her sun-kissed skin. He watched her face, his eyes dark and dilated with a hunger that was almost primal.
"I want to feel how wet you are for me," he whispered, his breath hot and ragged. "I want to hear you scream my name while I fuck you in this tiny bit of string."
As he spoke, his hand finally slid beneath the elastic edge of her bikini bottom. The contrast of his cool palm against her rising heat made her gasp, her head snapping back against the wall. He found her immediately, his fingers slicking through her moisture with a deliberate, punishing slowness. He began to rub her, his thumb circling her clit with a precision that drew a sharp, high-pitched moan from her lungs.
"That’s it," he murmured, his words dripping with a dark satisfaction. "Take it. You’re so tight, so perfect."
Instinct took over. Her hips began to roll in a desperate, searching circle, her body seeking the friction of his hand. She bucked against him, her center grinding upward into his palm, wordlessly begging for more. Every time she moved, she felt the heavy, unyielding weight of his length pressing against her thigh, a constant promise of what was coming.
Oscar leaned more of his weight into her, his chest heaving against her breasts. He increased the pressure of his hand, his fingers working her with a faster, more demanding pace. "You like that, don't you? Knowing I've been watching you all morning, thinking about exactly how I was going to ruin you once we were alone? I'm going to make you come right here against the wall, and then I'm going to fuck you until you can't stand up."
She was lost in the sensation, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her breath coming in short, panicked hitches as he continued to whisper a litany of dark promises into her ear, his hand never ceasing its relentless, expert rhythm.
Oscar’s composure was entirely gone, replaced by a raw hunger that centered on the way she was coming apart in his arms. He felt the tremors starting in her thighs, the way her muscles tensed as she chased the peak he was expertly providing.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice thick and demanding. When she opened her eyes, hooded and glazed with blown-out pupils, he leaned in until their noses brushed. "I’m not stopping. I want to feel every single twitch of your climax against my hand before I even think about taking these off you."
He hooked his fingers deeper into the silk of her bikini, pulling the fabric aside just enough to give his thumb full, unobstructed contact. He accelerated the friction, his movements becoming more aggressive, more rhythmic. He wasn’t just touching her, he was claiming her.
"You're so fucking wet," he hissed into her ear, his teeth grazing her lobe. "Dripping for me. Is this what you wanted while you were posing? Did you want me to walk over and do this in front of everyone? Because I would have. I would have bent you over right there on the sand if it meant feeling you wrap around me like this."
She couldn't find words, only broken, melodic sounds that fueled his ego and his arousal. Her hips were moving in a frantic, erratic blur now, her center slamming into his hand with every surge of pleasure. The friction of his own length against her hip was a torturous tease, the pressure building behind his zipper until it was a physical ache.
"That's it, sweetheart, give it to me," he whispered, his hand a blur of motion. "Come for me. Show me how much you want it."
With a final, desperate cry, she arched her back, her fingers clenching into the fabric of his shirt as her body shattered. Oscar watched her with a dark, triumphant grin, feeling the rhythmic pulses of her release against his fingers. He didn't let her rest, immediately leaning down to capture her mouth in a deep, bruising kiss, tasting her moan as he ground his heavy, aching length one last time against her still-quivering heat.
"Good girl," he rasped against her lips, his hand finally withdrawing from her bikini to reach for his own belt. "Now it's my turn."
He didn't give her a second to recover, his hands moving with a frantic efficiency as he worked his fly open. His gaze never left hers, watching the way her chest heaved and her lips remained parted, swollen from his kisses. The air in the room felt heavy, charged with the scent of salt air and the undeniable musk of their shared arousal.
"I can't wait anymore," he growled, the sound vibrating deep in his chest.
He didn't bother taking the bikini off. Instead, he hooked his fingers into the side strings of the emerald bottoms, tugging the fabric sharply to the side to expose her completely. The sight of her, flushed, wet, and trembling against the wall, sent a fresh wave of heat through him. He positioned himself between her legs, the broad head of his length probing at her entrance, already slick with her release.
"You feel so good," he whispered, leaning his forehead against hers. "So warm. Wrap your other leg around me. Now."
She obeyed instantly, her legs locking around his waist and pulling him flush against her. Oscar let out a sharp, choked-off breath as he braced his weight against the wall and surged forward, burying himself inside her in one deep, unyielding thrust. The sensation was overwhelming, she was incredibly tight, her internal muscles still twitching from her climax, clamping down on him with every shallow breath she took.
"Fuck," he choked out, his eyes rolling back for a brief moment as he bottomed out against her. "You fit me so perfectly… so tight."
He didn't wait for the sensation to settle. He began to move, his hands gripping her ass to anchor her as he pulled back nearly all the way before driving back in, pinning her to the wall with the force of his hips. The rhythm was primal and fast, the wet slap of their skin echoing in the quiet suite.
He leaned back into her ear, his voice a low, dirty hum that made her toes curl. "Is this what you wanted, sweetheart? Me deep inside you while you’re still wearing this? Knowing I’m stretching you out, marking you... making sure you remember exactly who you belong to?"
Every word was punctuated by a heavy thrust. She was moaning into his shoulder now, her head tossed back as he found the perfect angle, his pace increasing until it was a blur of friction and heat. He was relentless, his muscles corded and straining as he chased his own peak, determined to leave her breathless and completely undone.
Oscar’s breath was coming in short, jagged bursts now, the sound mingling with the frantic, wet slap of their bodies colliding. He was losing his grip on his restraint, his movements becoming more primal and less controlled as he drove into her. Every thrust was deep and uncompromising, his hips snapping forward to bottom out against her with a force that made the wall behind her groan.
"Look at me, baby" he gritted out, his voice dropping into a low, commandingly dark register. He pulled back just enough to see her eyes, blown wide, glazed with a mixture of shock and pure, unadulterated pleasure. "I want you to see exactly what you’re doing to me."
He didn't slow down. If anything, the visual of her pinned there, her skin flushed a deep rose and the green bikini strings digging into her hips, pushed him over the edge. He reached down, his large hand sliding between their sweating bodies to find her clit again, his thumb applying a heavy, rhythmic pressure that synced perfectly with his internal stroking.
"You’re so fucking beautiful like this," he hissed into her ear, his teeth grazing her lobe as he felt her internal muscles begin to clench around him in a desperate, fluttering rhythm. "Sobbing my name... shaking for me... yeah, just like that."
The tension in the room was suffocating, a localized storm of heat and friction. Oscar could feel his own climax building, a heavy, molten weight at the base of his spine. He shifted his grip, his hands sliding up from her ass to her waist, his fingers digging into her soft skin as he anchored her for the final stretch.
"I'm going to... I’m going to come," he rasped, the words breaking as he increased the pace to a frantic blur. "Give it to me, sweetheart. Clench for me. Tighten up."
She let out a high, keening wail as her second climax hit, her body bowing off the wall and her legs locking even tighter around his waist. The sensation of her pulsing around him was the final trigger. Oscar let out a low, guttural roar, his eyes rolling shut as he delivered three final, devastatingly deep thrusts, his entire body shuddering as he emptied himself deep inside her.
He stayed there for a long moment, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed against her shoulder as they both fought to find oxygen. The only sound in the room was their synchronized, ragged breathing and the distant, mocking serenity of the waves outside.
"God," he whispered, his voice trembling with exhaustion and lingering heat. He pulled back just an inch, his gaze softening as he tucked a sweaty strand of hair away from her face. "Best photoshoot of my life."
Oscar didn't pull away. He stayed anchored inside her, his chest heaving against hers as the aftershocks of their climax slowly ebbed into a heavy, languid warmth. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of her skin, a heavy mix of salt, sun, and the raw musk of their intimacy.
"Stay right there," he murmured, his voice vibrating against her damp skin. "Don't move a muscle."
His hands, still trembling slightly from the exertion, slid down from her waist to cup the backs of her thighs, hitching her legs even higher around his hips. He took a step forward, forcing her back into the wall to take more of her weight, his hardness still pulsing weakly inside her. He felt her internal muscles flutter in a final, involuntary squeeze, and he let out a low, satisfied hiss.
"You're so sensitive," he whispered, his lips brushing against her earlobe. "Every little twitch you make... I can feel it all. You’re wrapped so tightly around me, I don't think I ever want to let go."
He began to shift his hips again, not with the frantic urgency from before, but with a slow, agonizingly deliberate grind. He watched her expression carefully, his gaze dark and possessive as he saw her eyes flutter shut and her head fall back against the wall once more.
"Oscar..." she breathed, her voice a fragile thread of sound.
"I know," he rasped, his hand moving up to trace the line of the emerald bikini top, his fingers brushing against the swell of her breast. "I know how it feels. I want to keep you like this. I want to spend the rest of the day reminding you exactly how much I want you. We aren't going back to that beach for a long, long time."
He leaned in, capturing her lips in a slow, deep kiss. As he kissed her, he rotated his hips again, a slow-motion mimicry of the act, feeling the way she melted against him. He pulled back just enough to look into her blown-out pupils, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Think you can handle another round, or did I finally break you?"
a/n: 1st ever fic request! hope you enjoyed this anon 🫶🏻 and everyone who read this 🫶🏻
me zooming into this specific oscar piastri pic trying to decode if he looks like he’d say “good girl” or not. sometimes i still go back to this pic to get the vibe right 😭 this is my research for cross the line btw
part 5 of cross the line is gonna be LONGER 😭 we’re getting close to the end and i really don’t want this to go over 10 parts so it might (again…) take me a while to post IM SORRY 🙏🏻
(my mind could still change tho idk LOL 😭)
but wait, would you guys actually prefer shorter parts or longer ones??? HELP???
warnings: this story contains 18+ content (mdni), dom!oscar, sub!oc, explicit sexual content, power imbalance, consensual bdsm elements, spanking, choking, orgasm control, fingering (f receiving), cunnilingus, blow job, p in v, unprotected sex (pls be safe!), masturbation, public fingering
wc: 18k+ (one, two, three)
It had been exactly seven days since Oscar left, and her desk at the library was a chaotic monument to her misery. Three empty coffee cups, a half-eaten protein bar, and a mountain of highlighted tax code printouts.
She rested her forehead against the cool surface of her laptop. Her thesis, The Socio-Economic Impact of Corporate Tax Avoidance in Emerging Markets felt like it was written in a dead language. Without Oscar’s steady, grounding presence in the apartment, her energy had turned into a restless, anxious fog. She missed the way he’d pull her away from the screen when her eyes got glassy, she missed the way he’d reward her for finishing a chapter.
Her phone buzzed, vibrating against the table. It was a message from her group's chat.
Marcus: Hey, I just saw the Zoom recording from last week. Who was that guy? And does he know he's a legend in the group now?
She felt the heat rush to her face, remembering the mortification of Oscar’s morning "interruption." Before she could type a frantic, embarrassed reply, a notification from a delivery app popped up.
Notification: Your courier is 1 minute away.
Frowning, she gathered her things and walked toward the heavy oak doors. Standing there was a courier holding a sleek, weighted box wrapped in silver paper, topped with a small, professional-looking card.
She retreated to a quiet corner and opened the card. The handwriting was unmistakable. Oscar’s precise, neat print.
"I saw your progress declining. You're getting distracted, sweetheart. Open the box. It’s a reminder of who’s waiting for you to finish. — OP."
With trembling fingers, she opened the silver box. Inside, nestled in black velvet, was a high-end, noise-canceling headset with the McLaren logo subtly etched on the side. But beneath the headset lay the real motivation: a small, luxurious leather-bound planner.
She flipped it open to today’s date. Oscar had written in it.
10:00 PM (Bahrain Time): Check-in call. If you’ve finished 2,000 words, you get to tell me exactly what you're wearing under that dress. If you haven't... I'll be choosing your 'punishment' over the video call. Focus, baby. Daddy’s watching the clock.
Attached to the page was a polaroid. It was Oscar in his race suit, leaning against his car in the Bahrain paddock. He wasn't smiling, he was looking directly into the camera with that dark, possessive intensity that made her core throb. He was holding a small piece of paper that simply said: "WORK."
A week of brain fog vanished in an instant. The exhaustion was replaced by a sharp, pulsing need to please him, and a terrifying thrill at the thought of what he might do if she failed.
She sat back down at her desk, put on the new headset, and opened her document. The brat was gone, the obedient student was back. She had 2,000 words to write, and she wasn't going to let him down.
—
The clock on her laptop screen flickered to 8:00PM, 10:00 PM in Bahrain. Her eyes were bloodshot, her hair was a bird's nest of stress, and the word count sat mockingly at 1,450. She was 550 words short, fueled by three espressos and a growing sense of frantic desperation.
When the FaceTime ringtone echoed through her quiet bedroom, she jumped, nearly knocking over a cold mug of coffee on the bedside table. She hit 'Accept,' and Oscar’s face filled the screen. He was sitting on the edge of a hotel bed, still in a team polo, looking sharp and infuriatingly composed.
"Hey, baby," he murmured, his voice deep and smooth, cutting through her caffeine-induced haze. He didn't waste time. "Turn the screen. Let me see the document."
She bit her lip, her hands shaking as she flipped the camera to show the word count. The silence from his end was deafening. She watched his eyes scan the number, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.
"One thousand, four hundred and fifty," Oscar read out loud, his voice dropping into that low, flat tone that signaled he was shifting from best friend to Daddy. "That’s not two thousand, is it?"
"Oscar, I tried!" she suddenly burst out, her voice cracking. The coffee-fueled adrenaline finally hit the wall of her exhaustion, and she felt a tantrum bubbling up. "The corporate tax legislation is a nightmare! I had to rewrite the entire section on incentives, and Marcus kept messaging me about the group slides, and Noodle wouldn't stop meowing at the door, and I miss you, and—"
"Stop," Oscar commanded. It was a soft word, but it had the weight of a physical hand over her mouth. "No excuses. We had a deal."
"It's not fair!" she cried, throwing her pen across the desk. She slumped back in her chair, crossing her arms over her chest, her bottom lip trembling. "You're over there in Bahrain driving cars and being a legend, and I'm here dying over spreadsheets! I stayed up all night! I don't care about the word count anymore! I'm going to sleep!"
Oscar watched her through the screen, his expression unreadable. He didn't get angry, he just watched her spiral. "You’re throwing a tantrum, baby," he noted calmly. "And we both know what happens when you act like a brat."
"You're not even here!" she snapped, sticking her tongue out at the camera in a moment of pure, sleep-deprived defiance. "What are you going to do? Send me a mean email?"
Oscar’s expression shifted, his eyes darkening with a predatory edge as a slow, wicked smirk pulled at his lips. "I don’t need to be in the room to make you feel me, baby. Put the phone on the stand. Stand up."
"No," she pouted, her voice small but defiant.
"I said stand up. Now," he countered, his tone dropping into a low, lethal calm. "Or the call ends, and I won’t answer for the next forty-eight hours. No check-ins, no messages. Total radio silence. Do you really want to find out if I’m bluffing?"
The threat of his absence was the only thing capable of snapping her rebellion. Sniffling and grumbling under her breath, she propped the phone up on the nightstand and stepped into the center of the room, feeling small and exposed in nothing but one of his old, oversized race-team t-shirts.
"Turn around," Oscar commanded, his gaze tracking her every move through the screen. "Bend over the edge of the bed. I want to see exactly where I’d be marking you if I were there right now."
"Oscar..." she whimpered, a hot, prickling flush creeping up her neck.
"Do it. Since you couldn’t hit your word count today, you’re going to give me twenty minutes of absolute silence. You’re going to stay in that position while I talk to you, and every time you fidget or try to complain, I’m adding five minutes to the clock. And because you’re being a brat... you’re going to hold your own cheeks open. I want to see exactly how much you’re blushing for me."
Her jaw dropped, her breath hitching. "That’s... that’s so mean!"
"The clock is ticking," he reminded her, his focus locked onto her through the lens.
With a soft, frustrated whimper, she turned her back to the camera and bent over the mattress. The hem of the shirt rode up to her waist, leaving her completely vulnerable. With shaking hands, she followed his command, exposing her flushed skin to his digital gaze. The weight of the humiliation, and the sharp spike of arousal that came with it, made her heart hammer against her ribs.
"Good girl," Oscar rasped, his voice sounding dangerously intimate despite the thousands of miles between Bahrain and home. "Now, stay perfectly still."
She couldn't see him anymore, but she could feel his eyes on her like a physical touch. For her, it was a grueling test of endurance, for him, it was a championship win. The rustle of fabric reached her through the speaker as Oscar, fueled by the sight of her submission, began to rub his hardening length through his shorts.
"Jesus fuck," he groaned, his voice thick with a raw, desperate need. "You have no idea how much I want to fuck you like that right now, baby."
She felt her face burn, her inner walls clenching at the gravelly heat in his voice. The sound of shifting fabric intensified as he adjusted his position, the friction audible over the line. He freed himself from his shorts, his breath hitching as he began to pump his shaft slowly, his thumb grazing over the tip.
"What... what are you doing, Oscar?" she whispered, the curiosity getting the better of her. She began to turn her head, her eyes searching for the phone screen.
"Don't fucking look," Oscar barked, his voice ragged.
She caught only a fleeting glimpse before his command stopped her, the blur of his hand moving, the intense, focused look of pleasure on his face. The realization hit her fully. He was touching himself to the sight of her, his pleasure entirely dependent on her stillness and her shame.
"Eyes back on the bed, Princess. I didn't give you permission to look," Oscar growled, the command cutting through the static of the call with a sharpness that made her spine straighten instantly.
She pressed her forehead against the cool duvet, her fingers trembling as she maintained her hold, feeling more exposed than she ever had in his physical presence. The sound of his rhythmic, heavy breathing filled the quiet of her room, a low, steady friction that told her exactly how much her submission was affecting him.
"That's it. Stay just like that for," he rasped, his voice dropping into a dark, descriptive hum. "If I were there right now, I wouldn't even take that shirt off you. I’d just bunch it up in my fists until I could feel your skin heat up under my palms. I’d lean over you and I’d whisper in your ear exactly how much trouble you’re in for being a fucking brat."
She let out a shallow, shaky breath, her eyes fluttering shut as his words painted a picture more vivid than the screen could ever provide.
"I’d wrap one hand around your throat, just enough to feel your pulse jumping against my thumb, and I’d use the other to trace every inch of what you’re showing me right now," Oscar continued, his pace audible over the line, growing faster, more desperate. "I’d bite that little sweet spot on your neck until you cried out my name, and then I’d fuck you so deep you’d forget how to breathe. I wouldn't be gentle. Not after you spent all day being a brat."
A soft, broken sob escaped her lips, her knees feeling weak as her body reacted to the mental image of his weight pinning her down. The distance between Bahrain and her bedroom felt like a physical ache, a void that only his voice was currently filling.
"You’d be shaking just like you are now, but it would be because I’m hitting every spot that makes you come apart," he groaned, the sound of his own pleasure reaching a fever pitch. "I’d make you stay in this exact position, holding yourself open for me, while I took everything I wanted. I’d mark you so clearly that everyone at the track would know exactly who you belong to."
The sound of his hand intensified, a wet, frantic sliding that signaled he was nearing the edge. Oscar’s breath hitched, a guttural sound tearing from his throat as he spoke his final, jagged thought.
"I’m going to cum just looking at you, baby... and when I get home, I’m going to make sure you can’t walk for a week. Do you hear me? You’re going to be so marked up you won't even think about breaking my rules again."
"Oscar... please," she whimpered, her voice cracking as the friction of the shirt against her sensitized skin became an unbearable tease. Her hips rocked instinctively, a desperate search for friction. "Can I... please, can I touch myself? Please, daddy."
The only response was the sound of a sharp, dismissive huff of air, not a 'no,' but a total disregard for her comfort. He didn't even grant her the dignity of a verbal denial. He simply ignored her, his focus entirely consumed by the visual feast of her vulnerability.
Oscar’s breathing was no longer controlled, it was a series of jagged, predatory hitches. Through the speaker, the sound of his hand became frantic, a wet, slapping rhythm as he gripped himself tighter, his knuckles likely white as he pumped his fist with a punishing speed. He was picturing it now. The way her body would be jolting under him, the way he’d let go of the shirt to wrap his fingers into her hair, pulling her head back so he could see the exact moment her eyes rolled back.
"Nearly there," he gritted out through clenched teeth, his voice vibrating with a raw, carnal intensity.
He shifted, the sound of his weight hitting the hotel mattress audible as he arched his back, thrusting his hips upward into his own palm. He was imagining the friction of her skin, the heat of her walls clenching around him just like they were clenching now in the air. His thumb dug into his glans, mimicking the pressure he’d apply if he were buried deep inside her, driving home a rhythm that was fast, hard, and utterly relentless.
"Daddy, please," she sobbed, her fingers trembling where she held herself open, her own need a physical ache that he was intentionally leaving unaddressed.
He didn't care. He was selfish in his pleasure, a king claiming his prize from across the ocean. His movements reached a fever pitch, his breath coming in short, explosive bursts.
"Don't move," he hissed, a final, desperate command as his body finally succumbed.
“Fuck, I’m cumming…” With a low, guttural roar that sounded more like a growl than a moan, Oscar came undone. She heard the sharp catch in his throat, the sound of his hand slowing as he spent himself, his breath hitching in a series of long, shuddering exhales. The silence that followed was heavy, filled only with the fading echoes of his climax and the static of the long-distance connection.
She stayed frozen, her heart hammering against her ribs, the weight of the punishment, the forced stillness and the denial of her own release, settling over her like a heavy shroud while he basked in the afterglow of his victory.
Through the speaker, she heard the rustle of a bedside tissue, the click of a water bottle, and then the heavy thud of him falling back against his headboard in Bahrain.
"Still haven't told you to move, Princess," he reminded her, his voice returning to that calm, terrifyingly composed baseline. The gravelly heat was gone, replaced by the cool authority of a man who had already gotten exactly what he wanted.
"Oscar, please," she sobbed, her voice small and trembling. "I’m... I’m hurting. Can I just... finish?"
"No." The word was flat, final, and lacked even a hint of sympathy. "You missed your word count. You were a brat about standing up. And then you had the audacity to interrupt me to ask for a favor? You’re lucky I’m letting you go to sleep at all."
She let out a frustrated whimper, her forehead pressing harder into the mattress. The denial felt like a physical slap. He was miles away, likely cooling down in a luxury hotel suite, while she was left wound up and vibrating with a tension he had no intention of breaking.
"This is your last lesson for the night," Oscar said, his tone almost conversational now, which somehow made it worse. "Just because I’m satisfied doesn't mean you get to be. You’re going to stay exactly like that for five more minutes. I’m going to watch the timer. If you touch yourself, if you rub against the bed, or if you even move your hands... I’m deleting the flight I have booked for your graduation."
Her heart plummeted. He wouldn't. But the cold precision in his voice told her he absolutely would.
"Do you understand me?" he prompted.
"Yes, Daddy," she whispered, a tear finally escaping and soaking into the duvet.
"Good. Five minutes of stillness. Then you can get under the covers, alone, and go to sleep. You aren't touching yourself tonight. You’re going to go to sleep feeling exactly how much you need me. Every time you roll over and feel that ache, I want you to remember that I’m the only one allowed to fix it."
He went quiet then, the video feed still active, his dark eyes locked onto her exposed, trembling form. He watched her struggle, watched the way her thighs shook and her breath hitched in desperate, shallow gasps. He was perfectly content, settled, and in total control.
He didn't need to be in the room to break her, he just needed her to know that his word was law, no matter the coordinates.
The silence of the room felt deafening the moment the call disconnected. Oscar hadn't even given her a "sweet dreams", just a final, chilling look through the lens before the screen went black, leaving her trembling and utterly wrecked in the center of her bed.
She collapsed onto her side, pulling the duvet up to her chin, but the friction of the fabric against her sensitized skin was a cruel reminder of the ache he’d left behind. Her body was humming, a frantic, rhythmic pulsing that demanded a release he had explicitly forbidden.
"God, he’s such a prick," she hissed into her pillow, her voice muffled and thick with frustration.
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force her mind to go blank, but all she could hear was the gravelly authority in his voice. Her hand instinctively drifted toward her hip, but she snapped it back to her chest as if the mattress were rigged with a sensor. The fear that he’d somehow know, that he’d check the flight and cancel his trip home, was the only thing keeping her fingers still.
"He’s so mean," she grumbled, rolling onto her back and staring at the ceiling. "Twenty minutes of silence? Holding myself open like a... like a trophy? And then he just leaves me like this?"
She shifted again, her thighs rubbing together, sending a sharp spark of need through her that made her back arch. She let out a jagged breath, a whimper escaping her throat.
"I’d rather he just punish me physically," she whispered to the empty room, her face heating up at the honesty of it. "I’d take a dozen slaps to the face and a red ass over this. At least then I’d feel him. At least then there’d be an end to it."
The psychological weight of his "no-touch" rule was a far more effective cage than any physical restraint. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the smirk he’d worn while he watched her struggle. He wanted her to be miserable. He wanted her to spend the next eight hours tossing and turning, her mind consumed by the thought of his hands, his voice, and the sheer power he held over her from a different time zone.
She curled into a ball, clutching his oversized shirt to her nose, inhaling the fading scent of his skin. It was a poor substitute for the man himself.
"Graduation," she reminded herself, her voice a broken thread. "Just be good until graduation."
—
The next five weeks became a blurred montage of flickering cursor icons, empty caffeine cans, and the unrelenting glow of a laptop screen. Her thesis was a mountain that refused to be climbed, and the higher she got, the thinner the air felt. Her room, once a sanctuary, had transformed into a war room of scattered research papers and half-finished outlines.
Every few hours, her phone would buzz with a lifeline, a text from Oscar, usually brief and grounding, though never quite enough to bridge the distance.
The stress bled into their message threads, a chaotic stream of consciousness that Oscar navigated.
Her: I hate this. I hate academia. I hate word counts. I am deleting the entire third chapter and moving into a cave. Don't look for me.
Oscar: The third chapter was good, baby. Drink some water. Eat something that isn't toast. I’m heading to the paddock. Focus.
Her: My advisor just gave me three pages of corrections. I’m going to cry. I am crying. Tell me you’re coming home soon, or I’m dropping out to become a professional hermit.
Oscar: Your graduation's booked. I wouldn’t miss seeing you in that cap for anything. Keep going. You’re almost there.
Despite the crushing weight of her deadlines, there were three hours every weekend that were non-negotiable. No matter how many citations were left to format, the laptop screen was hijacked by the roar of F1 engines.
She watched his Qualifying sessions with her heart in her throat, her fingers flying across the keys in the breaks. When he took a podium in Saudi Arabia, she was screaming at the screen, her thesis stress momentarily eclipsed by the sight of him spraying champagne.
Her: PODIUM!!! You looked so fast in Sector 2. Proud of you, Daddy!! Now come home so I can celebrate properly. (And by celebrate, I mean sleep for forty hours).
But it wasn't always celebration. During the Australian GP, when a mistimed pit stop and a subsequent clip to his front wing sent him spinning into the gravel, the silence in her room was deafening. She didn't care about her word count then, she only cared that he climbed out of the car unhurt.
Her: I saw the replay. It wasn't your fault, Oscar. Don't let the engineers get in your head. You were brilliant until that moment. Take a breath. I love you.
Oscar: Hard day. Really needed to see that message. Back to the sim tomorrow to figure out what went wrong. How is the conclusion coming?
By week five, she was a ghost of herself, surviving on spite and the countdown app on her home screen. The "No-Touch" rule had technically expired after that first weekend, but the sheer exhaustion of the final edit had turned her into a monk by default. Oscar remained her anchor, and his voice over the phone during his late night drives back to the hotels being the only thing that kept her tethered to reality.
The final email to her professor, the 'Final_Thesis_V3_DEFINITELY_FINAL.pdf' was sent with a shaking hand.
Her: It’s submitted. It’s done. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.
Oscar: Good girl.
—
The morning of the thesis defense arrived like a cold, gray weight. The months of isolation, the thousands of miles between her and Oscar, and the sheer intellectual exhaustion of the final edit had finally converged into a perfect storm of anxiety. She sat at her desk, dressed in her formal blazer but still wearing pajama bottoms, her hands shaking so violently she could barely click the link to join the virtual lobby.
She dialed Oscar’s FaceTime, her vision blurring with tears the second his face appeared on the screen. He was in the McLaren motorhome, the bright lights of his surroundings a stark contrast to the dim, panicked atmosphere of her bedroom.
"I can't do it, Oscar," she sobbed, a stray tear landing on her keyboard. "I’m going to forget everything. My data is flawed, I know it is. They’re going to realize I’m a fraud and I’m going to fail, and all of this, the late nights, the stress, the distance, it’ll be for nothing."
Oscar leaned in closer to his camera, his expression instantly shifting from pre-session focus to total, unwavering presence. He didn’t offer a platitude or a "don’t worry." Instead, his voice dropped into that low, grounding register he used when he was talking her down from a ledge.
"Baby," he commanded, his eyes boring into hers through the lens. "Breathe. Deep breath, right now."
She hitched a breath, trying to match his steady rhythm.
"You’ve lived and breathed this research for months. You know more about this topic than anyone in that room," he said, his voice firm and certain. "You’ve survived my punishments, you’ve survived the pressure of the races, and you’ve survived six weeks of hell on your own. This? This is just a conversation. You’re going to walk them through your work, and you’re going to be brilliant. I’m not asking you to be perfect, I’m telling you that you already are. Now, wipe your face. Put on that professional mask I know you have, and go show them why you’re mine."
"What if I stumble?" she whispered, sniffing and reaching for a tissue.
"Then you recover," Oscar countered with a small, confident smirk. "Like a champion. I’ll be right here. I’m leaving the phone on mute in my pocket during your slot. I’ll be listening to every word. You won’t be alone."
Three hours later, the world felt lighter than air. The adrenaline was still humming in her veins, but the crushing weight on her chest had evaporated. She burst back into her room, fumbling for her phone to redial the one person who had been her silent witness.
When the call connected, she didn't even wait for him to speak.
"I did it!" she shrieked, a manic, happy laugh bubbling out of her. "Oscar, I actually did it! They didn't even tear my methodology apart. One of the professors said my conclusion was 'insightful and robust.' I think I actually impressed them!"
Oscar appeared on the screen, his racing suit unzipped to the waist, a celebratory grin lighting up his face. He looked relieved, the tension in his jaw finally easing.
"I heard the whole thing," he rasped, his eyes warm with pride. "You sounded so confident. I told you they wouldn't stand a chance against you. How does it feel, Graduate?"
"It doesn't feel real yet," she said, flopping back onto her bed, the sheer relief making her limbs feel like jelly. "I’m just waiting on the final marks now, but they basically told me I passed. All that’s left is the ceremony... and you."
"And me," Oscar echoed, his voice dropping into a more intimate, suggestive tone. "Six weeks of being a good girl. Six weeks of working hard while I watched from the sidelines. I hope you haven't forgotten our little deal, baby."
She felt a familiar heat rise to her cheeks, the academic victory quickly being overtaken by a much more carnal anticipation. "I haven't forgotten. I’m counting down the days and hours until your flight lands, daddy."
"Good," Oscar said, his gaze darkening as he took in her flushed face. "Get some rest. Celebrate tonight with your friends. And after graduation? You’re all mine. No more thesis, no more word counts. Just you, me”
—
The auditorium was a sea of black robes and mortarboards, the air thick with the scent of floor wax and nervous excitement. As she processed toward her seat, her eyes scanned the rows of faces, her heart skipping a beat every time she saw a flash of brown hair or a McLaren-branded watch. Then, she saw him.
Oscar was tucked between her mother and father in the fourth row, looking effortlessly sharp in a tailored navy suit that made him stand out amongst the sea of casual attire. He looked like he’d been part of the family for years, leaning in to whisper something to her father that made the older man chuckle and pat Oscar’s shoulder. When Oscar finally caught her eye, he didn't wave or cheer, he simply offered a slow, knowing nod and a wink that sent a jolt of electricity straight to her core. He had made it.
The dinner was held at a quiet, upscale bistro, the kind of place with white linen tablecloths and soft jazz that Oscar knew she loved. Her parents were beaming, the pride in their eyes rivaled only by the smug, possessive warmth in Oscar's gaze.
"I have to say, Oscar," her mother said, lifting a glass of champagne. "We weren't sure you'd be able to make the flight with the turnaround from the last race. We know how grueling your schedule is."
Oscar smiled, his hand resting casually on the table near hers, though he didn't touch her yet. "I wouldn't have missed this for anything, auntie. She’s worked harder than anyone I know. After the nights I spent listening to her stress over those citations, seeing her walk across that stage was the highlight of my month."
"He was my rock," she added, her voice softening as she looked at him. "I don't think I would have hit that final submission button without his... encouragement."
Her father laughed, oblivious to the double meaning. "Well, you’ve always been driven, but it’s good to have someone in your corner who understands high-pressure environments. Now that the thesis is behind you, what’s the first order of business?"
"Sleep," she lied, her eyes flickering to Oscar. "And maybe a very long vacation."
"You’ve earned it," Oscar said, his voice dropping into a lower, more private register. "In fact, I have a very specific itinerary planned for her 'rest' period."
As the main course arrived and the conversation shifted toward her father's golf game, the weeks of deprivation finally boiled over. The sound of his voice, the scent of his cologne, and the memory of that long-distance "no-touch" rule made her blood feel like liquid fire. She couldn't wait until they were back at the apartment. She needed to know he was real, and she needed him to know she was ready.
Reaching down, she took Oscar’s hand. His fingers were cool, but his pulse was steady. She guided his hand off his lap and moved it toward her own, sliding his palm onto the bare skin of her thigh beneath the tablecloth.
Oscar took a quick glance at her but didn't miss a beat in the conversation. He continued to nod at her father’s story about a difficult par-four, but his fingers flexed against her skin, his grip tightening. She moved his hand higher, her heart hammering against her ribs, guiding him until his hand was deep under the silk of her dress.
She felt him stiffen slightly when her heat met his touch. He adjusted his position, spreading his fingers wide across her inner thigh. His pinky hooked just under the edge of her lace underwear, the tip of it grazing the damp, hot center of her through the fabric.
"The wind was catching the ball at the turn," her father continued, gesturing with his fork.
Oscar leaned forward, his eyes locked on her father, but his thumb began to stroke a slow, torturous circle against her clit. "Wind can be a real bitch," Oscar remarked calmly, his voice as steady as if he weren't currently exploring the most sensitive part of her in front of her parents. "It’s all about maintaining control when things get... turbulent."
She let out a sharp, hitching breath, masquerading it as a cough and taking a sudden, desperate gulp of water. Beneath the table, Oscar’s pinky pressed more firmly against her, rhythmically teasing the fabric into her.
He glanced at her, a wicked, triumphant glint in his eyes that said, I told you I’d make up for lost time.
As her father detailed the intricacies of a recent business merger, Oscar’s hand became a silent, ruthless predator. With the surgical precision he usually reserved for a high-speed apex, he hooked two fingers under the elastic of her lace underwear, sliding the fabric aside until there was nothing but hot, damp skin meeting his calloused palm.
She nearly choked on a piece of roasted asparagus, her fork clattering against the fine china. The sensation of his bare skin against hers after weeks of digital static was like a physical shock to her nervous system.
"Everything alright, dear?" her mother asked, tilting her head with a look of mild concern. "You look a bit flushed. Is it too warm in here?"
"I... I think the champagne went to my head a little fast," she managed to stammer, her voice an octave higher than usual. Her fingers gripped the edge of the mahogany table so hard her knuckles turned white.
Beneath the table, Oscar’s expression remained a mask of polite, attentive interest. He was the picture of the perfect best friend, the professional athlete, the disciplined gentleman. But under the shroud of the tablecloth, he was being anything but. He found her center with agonizing accuracy, his thumb circling her clit while his middle finger pressed against her entrance, testing her wetness.
"It’s the adrenaline coming down," Oscar offered smoothly, his voice a calm, rich baritone that betrayed absolutely nothing. He didn't even look at her, he kept his gaze fixed on her mother. "A thesis defense is a massive physical toll. She’s probably just finally letting go of all that tension."
As he spoke the word tension, he drove his finger inside her.
The breath was punched out of her lungs. She let out a sharp, muffled "Oh!" and squeezed her eyes shut, her body jolting in the chair. The friction was perfect, slick, hot, and devastatingly deep. He wasn't being gentle, he was reclaiming his territory with a blunt force that made her head swim.
"Is the food not sitting well?" her father asked, leaning forward, his brow furrowed. "You’ve barely touched your sea bass."
"She’s fine, uncle," Oscar said, his tone authoritative yet kind. He began to move his finger in a slow, relentless curl, hooking upward to find the spot he knew would break her. "I think she just needs some fresh air and a proper night's sleep. Right?"
He punctuated the question with a sharp, heavy thrust.
She let out a low, shaky whine that she tried to disguise as a cleared throat, her hips twitching uncontrollably against his hand. She felt a drop of sweat roll down her spine. The sheer audacity of it, him penetrating her while her father discussed the wine list, made her walls pulse around him in a desperate, rhythmic squeeze.
"Oscar’s right," she gasped out, her eyes flickering open to see him watching her now. His gaze was dark, heavy with a silent promise of the carnage he was going to wreak once they were alone. "I think... I think I need to head back. The excitement was just... a lot."
"Of course, we'll just see you tomorrow," her mother said, reaching for her purse. "We don't want to keep you if you're exhausted. Oscar, thank you for taking such good care of her while we were at the hotel."
"It’s my pleasure," Oscar replied, finally withdrawing his hand. He didn't wipe it, he simply tucked it back into his lap, his smirk widening just a fraction as he felt her shudder beside him. "Believe me, I’ve been looking forward to taking care of her all month."
As they stood up to leave, the cool air of the restaurant hit her damp skin, a stark reminder of what he had just done. She could barely walk straight, her legs feeling like leaden weights. Oscar stepped behind her, placing a firm, possessive hand on the small of her back, his fingers dipping just slightly below her waistline.
"Say goodnight to your parents, baby," he whispered into her ear, his breath hot and smelling of expensive wine. "Because once we get through that door, you won't be making another sound that isn't my name."
—
The heavy oak door hadn't even clicked shut before Oscar’s composure shattered. One hand slammed against the wood beside her head, the other snaking around her waist to hoist her up and pin her against the doorframe. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs, but the sound she made was a ragged moan of pure relief.
"Oscar—"
"Quiet," he growled, his face buried in the crook of her neck.
He didn't go for her zipper or her lace. Instead, he stayed fully clothed, the rough fabric of his suit trousers pressing directly into the center of her heat. He braced his feet and began to grind against her, a slow, heavy, and punishingly deliberate dry hump. He was hard, a solid bar of tension beneath his slacks, and he used his entire body weight to crush himself into her.
"Two months," he rasped, his voice a jagged edge against her skin. "Two months of watching you through a screen. Two months of hearing you whimper and not being able to do a goddamn thing about it."
He didn't stop. He established a rhythm that was relentless, his hips driving upward into her with the same precision he used to take a corner at 200mph. Every time he thrust, the friction of the dress and his suit fabric created a searing, white-hot heat that made her vision blur. She wrapped her legs around his waist, trying to get closer, trying to bridge the gap that clothes still provided, but Oscar gripped her thighs, holding her exactly where he wanted her.
"You were so obvious at dinner," he murmured, his breath hitching as he felt her walls clenching through the layers of cloth. “You think because your parents were there, I wouldn't take what’s mine?"
He bucked his hips harder, a guttural groan escaping him as he felt her slickness beginning to soak through the silk of her dress. He was dry humping her with a raw, desperate hunger, his hands moving to her hair to pull her head back so he could see her face, flushed, desperate, and completely undone.
"I’m going to ruin you tonight," he promised, his eyes dark with a terrifyingly beautiful intensity. "I’m going to make you forget every word of that thesis. The only thing you’re going to remember is how it feels when I’m actually inside you."
He let out a low, frustrated growl, his own need reaching a breaking point as he continued to grind against her, the friction driving them both toward the edge of a cliff they had been standing on for two months.
Oscar didn't give her the mercy of a slow undressing. His hands, usually so calculated and steady on a steering wheel, were frantic as they hooked into the hem of her graduation dress, bunching the expensive fabric up past her waist until it was a silken rope around her ribs.
He didn't waste time with her lace, either. He reached down, his fingers hooked into the side of her underwear and yanked it to the side, baring her completely to the rough, dark fabric of his suit trousers. The contrast was electric, her slick, sensitive skin meeting the coarse wool of his slacks. When he pressed back into her, the direct friction against her clit made her back arch off the door, a high-pitched keening sound escaping her throat.
"That's it," he hissed into her ear, his teeth grazing her lobe. "Feel that? That’s months of me thinking about exactly this. No screen between us. No time zones. Just me taking you like I said I would."
He began to grind again, but now that she was bare beneath him, the sensation was a thousand times more intense. Every upward thrust of his hips smeared her own moisture against his zipper and the heat of his thigh. He was humping her with a rhythmic, brutal force, his hardening length a solid, unyielding pressure that seemed to hit every nerve ending at once.
"You've been such a good girl for me, haven't you?" he whispered, his voice dropping to a filthy, gravelly rasp that vibrated in her skull. "Sitting there so still at dinner while I had you on my finger. Did you like it? Did you like knowing I could make you come right in front of your parents?"
He shifted his weight, pinning her legs wider with his knees and driving his pelvis home with a sharp, heavy buck.
"I can feel how much you want it," he groaned, his eyes shut tight as he buried his face in her hair. "You’re so tight, so wet... you’re not touching yourself tonight. I’m doing all the work. You’re just going to stay pinned against this door and take every bit of me until you break."
The way Oscar was talking was the final straw. Combined with the relentless, heavy friction of his suit against her most sensitive spot, she felt the familiar, terrifying tension of a climax beginning to coil in her gut. Her toes curled, her fingers digging into his shoulders, tearing at the fabric of his blazer.
"Oscar... Daddy, please, I'm—"
"I know you are," he grunted, his pace becoming frantic, his hips moving in a blurred, punishing circle that caught her perfectly. "Give it to me, baby. Cum for me right now. Let me feel exactly what I've been missing."
The world narrowed down to the heat of his breath and the friction of his trousers. With one final, devastatingly hard press of his hips, she came. Her vision went white as her walls pulsed in a violent, uncontrollable sequence, her body shuddering against his as she sobbed his name into the quiet of the apartment.
Oscar didn't pull away. He held her there, groaning into her neck as he felt her climax ripple through her, his own body shaking with the effort of holding back as he continued to grind slowly into her afterglow, making sure she felt every last vibration of her own release.
He didn’t give her a second to recover. While she was still limp and trembling from her release against the door, he unlatched her legs from his waist and scooped her up into his arms, his stride long and predatory as he stalked toward the bedroom. The graduation dress, still bunched around her waist, flapped against her thighs.
He dropped her onto the center of the mattress, but before she could reach out for him, he was already reaching into the bedside drawer. The metallic clink-clink of steel sent a fresh jolt of adrenaline through her. He pulled out a pair of heavy, fur-lined handcuffs and a silk blindfold, tossing them onto the duvet beside her.
"I told you I was going to make you pay for every minute I spent watching you through a lens," he rasped, his voice dark and promising.
He caught her wrists, snapping the cuffs onto the headboard with a finality that made her breath hitch. Then, he leaned over her, his shadow eclipsing the room’s dim light as he tied the blindfold. Darkness surged in, sharpening every other sense, the scent of his cologne, the heat radiating off his body, and the sound of his suit jacket hitting the floor.
"Sit up," Oscar commanded, the mattress dipping as he shifted his position. He guided her bound hands until she was kneeling, then maneuvered himself beneath her. "Sit on my face. I want to taste you."
She froze, her heart hammering against her ribs. Even through the blindfold, she felt the sheer intensity of him beneath her. "I’m scared… daddy," she whispered, her voice trembling. “You... you won't be able to breathe."
A low, dark chuckle vibrated through the bedframe. Oscar’s hands came up, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips, anchoring her. "I’m an F1 driver, sweetheart. I handle five Gs of pressure for a living. You think your weight is going to kill me?" He pulled her down firmly, his thumbs stroking the creases of her thighs. "I want to be smothered by you. I want to struggle for air while eating you out. Now, sit. That’s an order."
Reluctantly, she shifted, her knees shaking as she hovered over him. She lowered herself inch by inch, the heat of his breath hitting her sensitive skin before she finally made contact. The moment she settled her weight, she let out a long, broken moan. Sitting on him, feeling the solid structure of his jaw and the heat of his skin directly against her core, felt infinitely better than lying down. The elevation and the angle allowed her to feel the full breadth of him.
"Fuck," she cursed, her head falling back. The bridge of Oscar’s nose was pressing perfectly against her clit, creating a steady, blunt pressure that sent sparks through her nerves.
Oscar didn’t hesitate. He began to lick her with a primal hunger, his tongue making out with her wet, swollen lips as if he were trying to devour her. He used the flat of his tongue to lick her folds, then flicked her clit with a precision that made her hips jerk.
Because she was sitting upright, she found she could grind down against him. She leaned forward, using her hands on the headboard to brace herself as she ground her weight into his face. Every time she pushed down, Oscar let out a muffled, guttural groan, the sound vibrating through her own body. He loved the pressure, he thrived under the weight. He wrapped his powerful hands around her thighs, his fingers bruising her skin as he pulled her down even harder, forcing her to engulf him.
He grew bolder, his tongue pushing past her lips to enter her, mimicking the act of the sex they both craved. The sensation of him deep inside her while his nose continued to provide that steady, hard friction on her clit was too much. Her walls began to spasm, the tension coiling so tight she could barely breathe.
"Oscar! Daddy, please!" she screamed his name, the sound echoing in the quiet room. She was on the precipice, her entire body vibrating as she felt the first waves of a massive climax beginning to crash over her, fueled by his relentless tongue and the desperate, wet sound of him pumping himself beneath her.
The scream of his name was still echoing when the first wave of her climax hit, more violent and all-consuming than anything she had experienced over the phone. Blinded and bound, she had no choice but to surrender entirely to the sensation of him.
As her internal walls began to pulse in sharp, rhythmic spasms, she ground her weight down with a desperate force, her hips locking as she tried to merge with him. Oscar didn't flinch under the crushing pressure. Instead, he met her intensity, his tongue driving deep inside her again and again, drinking in the sudden, frantic rush of her release. He was relentless, refusing to give her a second of peace, his face becoming a blurred mask of heat and wet friction against her.
"That's it, baby," he groaned against her skin, the sound muffled but vibrating through her very bones. "Give it all to me."
He used his grip on her thighs to anchor her, pulling her down so hard that she was practically suffocating him, just like he’d asked. She was sobbing now, her head thrashing against the headboard, the fur-lined cuffs clinking rhythmically with every shudder of her body. Every time she thought the peak was over, Oscar’s tongue would flick across her clit with a sharp, expert precision that sent a fresh jolt of electricity through her, prolonging the climax until her legs felt like they were made of water.
Beneath her, the sound of his own pleasure reached a fever pitch. She could hear the frantic, wet sliding of his hand on his shaft, his breathing coming in jagged, desperate hitches. He was feeding off her, his own climax triggered by the sheer, unadulterated power of her coming on his face.
With one final, guttural roar, Oscar spent himself. She felt his body arch beneath her, his chest heaving as he finally slowed his tongue, leaving her sensitive and throbbing. He didn't move her immediately, he stayed there, his breath hot and ragged against her damp skin as they both spiraled down from the height of the mountain they’d been climbing for weeks.
Oscar didn't stay down for long. He shifted beneath her, his powerful hands sliding from her thighs to her waist to gently but firmly lift her off him. She collapsed back onto the mattress, her breath coming in shallow, uneven hitches as the cool air hit her damp skin.
The mattress creaked as Oscar stood up, the sounds of his movements sharp and deliberate in the darkness of her blindfold. He reached for the hem of her dress, his fingers brushing against her ribs as he hiked the silk up and over her head, discarding the expensive fabric onto the floor without a second thought. He didn't unbolt the cuffs, he left her stretched out, arms pinned to the headboard, a vulnerable, pale silk landscape in the dim light of the room.
"I’m not done with you yet," he rasped, his voice regaining that low, predatory edge.
He started planting slow, lingering kisses that tasted of salt and heat on her collarbone, moving with a torturous pace, his lips grazing the slope of her shoulder before migrating downward. He captured one breast in his hand, kneading the soft tissue with a firm, possessive grip before taking the peak into his mouth. He swirled his tongue around the hardened nub, tugging and sucking until she was whimpering, her back arching off the bed in a desperate search for more.
His other hand didn't stay idle, he found her other nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, syncing the pressure with the rhythm of his mouth.
"Daddy, stop teasing," she whispered, her voice broken and breathless. She was vibrating with a need that felt like it was going to shatter her bones. "Just... do it already. Please."
A low, dark chuckle vibrated against her skin. "I told you, baby. You’re on my time now. I’ve spent months imagining every inch of you. I’m going to savor it."
He trailed his lips down the center of her stomach, his tongue darting into her navel before he reached the junction of her thighs. He didn't go for the kill immediately. Instead, he planted soft, agonizingly light kisses on the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, moving closer and closer to her core until she was begging. Finally, his lips met her clit, his breath hot against her wet folds as he kissed her there, soft, butterfly touches that made her hips buck uncontrollably.
He moved back up, his body hovering over hers. She could feel the weight of him, the heat radiating from his chest. He returned to her breast, his mouth hungrily claiming her again while his hand slid down. He didn't enter her yet. Instead, he took his hardening shaft and began to rub the tip against her wetness, the friction of skin-on-skin sending a fresh wave of electricity through her. He was teasing her, marking her with his scent, his thumb reaching out to squeeze her nipple in time with the rhythmic friction below.
"You like that?" he murmured against her skin, his voice thick with a raw, carnal satisfaction. "Knowing exactly how much I want you?"
“Yes, daddy… please.”
Oscar’s movements remained agonizingly slow, a sharp contrast to the frantic pace of the race car he piloted. He was in total control, and he clearly intended to enjoy every second of her desperation.
He continued to drag the head of his shaft along her length, over and over, coating himself in her slickness but never giving her the full weight of the penetration she was screaming for. Each time he reached the top, he’d circle her clit with a bruising pressure before sliding back down, a torturous, rhythmic slide that had her heels digging into the mattress.
"Oscar, please," she sobbed, her head thrashing against the pillow. The darkness of the blindfold made the sensation feel ten times larger, every twitch of his muscles magnified. "I can't... I need you inside. Right now. Please."
"You need what, baby?" he murmured, his voice a dark, velvety purr near her ear. He stopped the friction entirely, hovering just at her entrance, the heat of him teasing her but offering no relief. "I can’t hear you over the sound of you being a brat."
"I need you!" she cried out, her voice breaking. "I need you to fuck me. Please, Daddy, I'm begging you."
A low, guttural hum of approval vibrated through his chest. He reached up, his hands wrapping around her pinned wrists, his fingers interlacing with hers against the cold metal of the cuffs. He leaned down until his chest was crushing her breasts, his weight finally pinning her into the bed.
"That’s my girl," he rasped, his breath hot and smelling of the champagne from dinner. "Two months of waiting, and you still have such a beautiful voice when you're desperate."
Instead of giving her what she asked for, he shifted his hand down, sliding two fingers deep inside her with a sudden, sharp thrust that made her gasp. He began to hook them upward, mimicking the rhythm he knew she wanted, while his thumb maintained a relentless, heavy pressure on her exterior.
"Is this what you want?" he teased, his pace picking up until she was a sobbing, shivering mess beneath him. "Or do you want the real thing? Tell me exactly how much you want me to fill you up."
He was pushing her to the absolute limit, waiting for her to completely unravel before he finally surrendered his own control.
Oscar’s fingers continued their relentless, shallow rhythm, teasing the very edge of her entrance but refusing to give her the depth she was starving for. He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear, his voice dropping into a dark, graphic whisper that made her toes curl against the sheets.
"You’re shaking, baby," he murmured, his thumb grinding a slow, heavy circle against her. "And I haven't even started. I want you to tell me exactly what you want me to do to you. Use your words. If you want me to stop this torture, you have to earn it."
"Oscar... please, just... I want you inside," she whimpered, her hips lifting off the bed in a futile attempt to force him in. "I want to feel how big you are. I want you to hit everything."
"Not good enough," he gritted out, his own breathing becoming a series of jagged, shallow hitches. He was reaching his limit, his own restraint fraying to a thin, dangerous wire. "Tell me how I’m going to claim you. Tell me what I’m going to do to that pretty pussy of yours."
"You're going to... you're going to stretch me open," she sobbed, the words tumbling out in a rush of desperation. "You're going to fuck me so hard I won't be able to think about anything else.”
"Exactly," Oscar rasped, his hand finally leaving her core to grip his own length, rubbing it one last time against her damp skin to coat himself. "I’m going to fuck you so hard, you’ll feel it in your chest and I’m going to take every single bit of that 'good girl' act and break it. I’m going to make sure that the next time you look at a screen, all you see is this moment. All you feel is me."
He moved his hands back to her thighs, spreading them wide until she was completely vulnerable. He positioned himself at her entrance, the head of his shaft finally pressing firmly against her.
"One last time, baby," he commanded, his voice trembling with the effort of holding back. "Beg for it. Tell me you belong to me."
"I'm yours!" she screamed, the sound muffled by the blindfold and the sheer weight of her need. "I’m yours, Oscar. Please, just fuck me! Please!"
The words were still hanging in the air when Oscar finally snapped. With a low, primal growl, he buried himself inside her in one singular, devastatingly deep thrust.
The impact of his first thrust was so profound it felt like a physical shock to her system. Oscar didn’t just enter her, he invaded her, claiming every inch of the space he’d been denied for over a month. He stayed buried deep for a long, vibrating second, his chest heaving against hers as he felt her internal muscles clenching around him in a desperate, welcoming squeeze.
"God, you're so tight," he rasped, his voice sounding broken.
He began to withdraw, but only just enough to drive back in with a sharp, punishing snap of his hips. The headboard rattled, the metal cuffs clinking like a frantic metronome against the wood.
"Oscar, please... don't stop," she sobbed, her head thrashing against the pillow. The blindfold made every sensation feel ten times larger, she couldn't see him, but she could feel the heat of his skin, the sweat dripping from his chest onto her shoulder, and the sheer, unyielding power of his thighs pinning her down.
"I’m not stopping," he grunted, his pace quickening into a relentless, driving rhythm. "I’m going to make sure you feel every single mile I had to fly to get back to you."
He shifted his grip, reaching up to wrap his fingers through the links of the handcuffs, pulling her arms taut so her back arched even further off the mattress. Every thrust was a statement of ownership. He hit her deep, bottoming out with a blunt force that forced the air from her lungs in a series of high-pitched whimpers.
"Say it," Oscar commanded, his breathing becoming a series of jagged, predatory hitches. He leaned down, his lips grazing her ear as he enters again. "Tell me who owns this. Tell me who you were thinking about every night you were alone in this bed."
"You," she wailed, her fingers curling into fists within the restraints. "It was always you, daddy. Only you. Please, fuck me harder... break me."
"Careful what you wish for, Princess," he growled.
He adjusted his angle, hooking his legs over hers to pin her wider, exposing her completely to his assault. The sound of their bodies meeting was a wet, heavy rhythm that filled the quiet of the room. He was pushing her to the very edge of the bed, his movements becoming blurred and frantic. He wasn't just chasing his own release, he was trying to consume her, to leave a mark on her soul as clearly as he was leaving them on her skin.
"Look at what you do to me," he gasped, his voice thick with a raw, carnal desperation. "I spend all day in a car, focused, in control... and then I get to you, and I can't even think. You’re the only thing that breaks me, do you hear me? Just you."
He let go of the cuffs to cup her face, his thumbs brushing over her wet cheeks beneath the silk blindfold. He began to thrust with a final, desperate speed, his breath hitching in his throat. The tension in the room was a living thing, coiling tighter and tighter until the air felt electric.
"Fuck, you’re gonna make me cum baby... I’m right there," he groaned, his teeth gritting together as he felt the first tremors of his climax beginning to take hold. "Cum for me again. Right now. I want to feel you break while I’m deep inside you."
The command was all it took. With one final, devastatingly deep surge, she shattered, her walls pulsing in violent, rhythmic waves that triggered his own release. Oscar let out a low, primal roar, his body locking as he spent himself inside her, his forehead dropping to her chest as they both spiraled down into the quiet, exhausted reality of finally being together.
The room was thick with the scent of sex and the heavy, humid silence of their joined breathing. Oscar remained heavy on top of her for a long moment, his heartbeat thundering against her ribs, a mirror to her own frantic pulse. Finally, he shifted his weight, propping himself up on his elbows. His chest was slick with sweat, his breath still coming in ragged, shallow hitches.
He reached up, his fingers slightly trembling as they found the knot of the silk blindfold. With a gentle tug, the fabric fell away.
The sudden influx of dim light made her wince, her eyes fluttering open and struggling to focus. When they finally cleared, she found Oscar staring down at her with an intensity that made her breath hitch all over again. He wasn't the cocky, composed driver the world saw on the podium; his hair was a dark, damp mess, his lips were swollen from her, and his eyes, usually so cool and calculating, were dark with a raw, terrifyingly soft devotion.
"There you are," he whispered, his voice a scorched rasp.
He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of her cheek, brushing away a stray, salt-crusted tear. He looked at her as if he were memorizing her face after a lifetime apart, his gaze lingering on her flushed skin and the way her hair was splayed like a halo against the pillows.
"I missed you so much it felt like a physical ache," he confessed, his guard completely down. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead, then each of her eyelids. "Every lap, every briefing... I was just counting down the seconds until I could look at you like this."
She looked up at him, her wrists still held by the cuffs, her body feeling heavy and beautifully used. "You're back," she breathed, a small, tired smile tugging at her lips. "You really made it."
"I told you I would," he murmured. He reached for the nightstand, fumbling for the key. The click of the metal releasing felt like the final seal on the last five weeks. He moved her arms down, massaged her wrists with tender, slow circles to bring the circulation back. "I’m not going anywhere for a while. You’ve got me all to yourself."
He pulled her into his chest, tucking her head under his chin as he finally collapsed beside her, the two of them tangling their legs together under the covers. The "no-touch" rule felt like a lifetime ago.
She stayed tucked against his side, her skin still humming from the friction of his weight. The room was quiet, lit only by the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains. Now that the adrenaline had faded into a warm, heavy glow, a slight shyness crept over her. She traced the line of his jaw with her fingertip, her voice dropping to a vulnerable whisper.
"Oscar?"
"Yeah, baby?" he murmured, his eyes closed as he breathed in the scent of her hair.
"I... I liked it," she admitted, her face heating up as she thought back to the darkness. "The handcuffs and the blindfold. I mean, I hated that I couldn’t touch you, and not being able to see your face was torture, but..."
Oscar opened his eyes, shifting slightly to look down at her, his interest piqued. "But?"
"But it made everything else so much louder," she confessed, her voice gaining a bit more confidence. "Because I couldn't see, I felt the weight of you more. I could hear every time your breath hitched, and the way you were whispering to me... it felt like you were inside my head. Every touch felt like it was ten times more intense because I was just... waiting for it. I was completely at your mercy."
A slow, predatory smirk spread across Oscar’s face, one that told her she had just handed him a very dangerous piece of information. He took her hand, the one he had just freed from the metal, and kissed the faint red mark the cuff had left on her wrist.
"Is that so?" he rasped, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin there. "You liked being a prisoner?"
"I liked that it was you holding the key," she corrected softly. "Even when I was begging you to stop teasing, a part of me loved that I couldn't do anything but wait for you to give in."
Oscar leaned over, pinning her with his gaze, his hand sliding down to the small of her back to pull her flush against him again.
"Well," he whispered, his lips hovering just an inch from hers. "It’s good to know you have such... particular tastes. Because if you think I’m letting you go now that I know how much you enjoy being restricted, you’ve got another thing coming. We have a lot of lost time to make up for, and I have plenty of other ideas for how to keep those hands of yours busy, or still."
He kissed her then, a deep, slow, possessive claim that promised the night was nowhere near over.
—
When the morning light hit the room, it felt different. The "Good Girl" duties were fulfilled. The degree was earned. The silence was no longer a void between time zones, but a warm, heavy blanket.
She groaned as her eyes flickered open, her body feeling like it had been dismantled and put back together by someone who didn't quite follow the manual. Every muscle in her thighs ached with a deep, dull throb, and her lower back felt like it had fused with the mattress. She tried to roll onto her side, but a sharp, localized sting between her legs made her let out a soft, pathetic whimper.
"Don't try to move yet, baby."
Oscar’s voice came from the doorway. He was already dressed in a simple black t-shirt and shorts, looking annoyingly refreshed for a man who had stayed up until 4:00 AM making sure she remembered his name. He walked over, setting a tray with a steaming mug of tea and a bowl of fresh fruit on the nightstand.
"I have to... I have to get up," she croaked, her voice raspy from a night of vocal appreciation. "I need to... the bathroom..."
"I've got you," he murmured.
He didn't let her struggle. He swept the duvet back, exposing the map of faint bruises and marks he’d left on her skin, his signature written in red and purple. He slid one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, hoisting her up.
She let out a sharp hiss as her hips shifted. "Daddy... it hurts. I feel like a newborn giraffe."
"That's because you spent half the night with your legs over my shoulders," he reminded her, a wicked, satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You wanted the reward for graduating. This is the physical receipt."
He carried her into the bathroom, setting her down gently on the edge of the vanity while he prepped a warm bath. When he tried to help her stand so she could step into the tub, her knees immediately buckled. She let out a small squeal, clutching his forearms as her legs turned to jelly.
"Whoa, easy," Oscar chuckled, catching her easily and tucking her against his chest. He lowered her into the warm water, his hands lingering on her waist to steady her. "I think I might have overdone it. Just a little."
"You think?" she pouted, though she leaned her head back against the porcelain, a long, shaky sigh of relief escaping her as the heat began to soothe her aching muscles. "I can't even stand up, Daddy. My parents invited my grandparents for a celebratory dinner tonight. How am I supposed to go?"
Oscar knelt on the bathmat beside the tub, picking up a sponge and lathering it with her favorite vanilla wash. He began to slowly, methodically wash her arms and shoulders, his touch tender and domestic, a stark contrast to the man who had been pinning her wrists to the headboard hours earlier.
"You aren't going anywhere for a few hours," he decided, his tone brookering no argument. "I’ll call your dad. I’ll tell him you’re 'exhausted' from the stress of the ceremony. He’ll believe it because he thinks I’m the responsible one who’s making sure you rest."
"You are the reason I'm exhausted," she muttered, though she closed her eyes as he began to wash her hair, his fingers massaging her scalp with a firm, expert pressure that made her toes curl.
"I'm the reason for a lot of things," Oscar agreed, his voice dropping into that low, possessive register. He leaned forward, kissing her damp temple. "But today, you don't have to be anything. You just have to be mine. I'm going to carry you back to bed, I'm going to feed you, and I'm going to make sure you can walk by dinner. Understood?"
"Yes, Daddy," she whispered, the familiar title feeling sweeter now that the distance was gone.
He spent the next hour doting on her, drying her skin with a heated towel, rubbing soothing lotion into her sore muscles, and eventually carrying her back to the freshly made bed. He tucked her in, propping her up with pillows, and sat beside her with the breakfast tray.
As he fed her pieces of mango, Oscar looked at her with an expression that was softer than anything she’d seen in the paddock. The two months of discipline had paid off, she was radiant, successful, and entirely his.
"You did so well," he said quietly, his thumb brushing a stray crumb from her lip. "I'm proud of you, baby."
She reached out, her hand finding his, her fingers tangling with the man who had guided her through the hardest two months of her life. "I couldn't have done it without the 'motivation' packages."
Oscar grinned, a flash of the boy she’d known her whole life peeking through the dominant man he’d become. "Don't get too comfortable. Now that you're graduated, I don't have to worry about your study schedule anymore. That means I have a lot more free time to think of new ways to keep you in this bed."
She felt a thrill of familiar heat despite her soreness. "Is that a threat, Mr. Piastri?"
"It’s a promise," he promised, leaning in to seal it with a slow, lingering kiss.
—
"You realize the team is probably going to throw a parade the second I walk into the hospitality suite, right?" she joked, leaning against the kitchen island as she watched Oscar double-check his flight itinerary. She was in her "jolly" element, her eyes sparkling with a mischief that hadn't dimmed since her graduation. "They’ve definitely missed me more than they miss you. I’m the one who actually laughs at their jokes, Oscar. You just give them telemetry and one-word answers."
Oscar looked up from his phone, a slow, dangerous smirk tugging at his lips. "Is that so? I’ll have to remind Zak that my 'social coordinator' is getting a bit ahead of herself. Maybe I’ll have you sit in the garage during the debriefs since you’re so popular."
"I'd probably be better at it than you," she shot back, sticking her tongue out.
"Careful, baby," Oscar warned, his voice dropping into that low, authoritative register that made the hair on her arms stand up. "You’re graduated now, but the rules didn't retire with your degree. If you’re going to be a brat in the paddock, I’ll find a very quiet, very private corner of the motorhome to remind you who’s in charge."
She felt that familiar, delicious shiver. "Is that a promise?"
"It’s a guarantee. But first," he stood up, crossing the kitchen to catch her waist and pull her flush against his chest, "we have a reward to collect. You finished your thesis and survived my distance. I'll take you shopping."
The shopping trip was her graduation gift, but as they stepped into the sleek, high-end boutiques, her perspective shifted. While she was outwardly giddy, trying on silk trousers and tailored blazers that cost more than a semester of tuition, a quiet, terrifying realization was beginning to take root in her chest.
She watched Oscar from the dressing room mirror. He was sitting on a leather chair, looking at a dress the stylist had brought out. He wasn't just a boy she’d grown up with anymore. He was a man who moved with a terrifyingly calm power, a man who commanded a room without saying a word.
I'm in trouble, she thought, her fingers trembling as she zipped up a skirt. This isn't just about the rules or the fun or the 'Daddy' game. I’m actually, truly falling for him.
It was a cold, sharp fear. Loving Oscar meant giving him the power to utterly destroy her. If she gave him her heart along with her body, there would be no safety net.
"What do you think of this one?" she asked, stepping out in a minimalist, bone-colored silk gown that draped over her curves like liquid.
Oscar went silent. He stood up, walking toward her with a predatory slowness. He stood behind her, his large hands settling on her waist, his thumbs pressing into the silk.
"I think," he murmured, his eyes locking onto hers in the mirror, "that you look like you’re trying to hide from me inside your own head. Why are you so quiet all of a sudden?"
"I'm not," she lied, her voice a small thread of sound. "I'm just... it’s a lot of clothes, Oscar. You’re spoiling me."
"I'm not spoiling you. I'm equipping you," he corrected, his grip tightening just enough to be a command. "You’re going to be the most beautiful woman in that paddock. I want everyone to look at you and know that you’re the reason I’m fast. But you look scared. Tell me why."
She bit her lip, looking at their twin reflections. "I'm scared that once we get there, I won't know how to be just 'your girl' anymore. I’m scared of how much I need you."
I’m scared that if you ever leave, I’ll stop existing, she added in her head.
Oscar turned her around, his hands moving to cup her face. His gaze was so intense it felt like a physical weight. "I'm the one who needs you, baby. You’re my anchor. Do you understand? The paddock is loud, the racing is chaotic, and everyone wants a piece of me. But when I look at you, everything goes quiet. I’m not letting you go. Not now, not ever."
"You promise?" she whispered, her heart aching with the weight of her unspoken love.
"I don't make promises I can't keep. You’re stuck with me," he said, before leaning down to kiss her, a deep, grounding kiss that felt like a contract. "Now, try on the orange one. I want to see you in my colors."
As she laughed and headed back into the dressing room, the fear didn't leave her, but it was accompanied by a fierce, desperate joy. She was falling, yes, but she realized that Oscar was right there, waiting to catch her.
The afternoon sun began to dip. They had been at it for hours. Oscar was tireless, moving from one boutique to the next with a focused precision that mirrored his Sunday drives. Every time she thought they were done, he’d spot a specific pair of heels or a particular shade of lipstick that he deemed "essential for the European leg."
Her feet were beginning to throb, and the "jolly" energy she’d started the day with was starting to flag. She didn't have to say a word. She simply shifted her weight slightly and let out a tiny, barely audible sigh.
Oscar stopped immediately in the middle of a designer shoe department. He didn't even look at the rows of stilettos. He looked at her.
"We’re done for now," he announced, his voice a calm, final executive decision. "You’re fading."
"I’m okay, Oscar, really," she protested weakly, though her eyes were already scanning for a chair. "We still haven't looked at the travel bags you wanted—"
"I said we’re done," he repeated, his hand sliding down to interlace his fingers with hers, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles in a soothing, rhythmic motion. "I know that look. You’re about ten minutes away from a blood-sugar crash and a very grumpy attitude. We're going to Bellucci."
She blinked, a small smile breaking through her exhaustion. "How did you—?"
"I know you, baby," he murmured, pulling her toward the exit. "You’ve been craving those belgian waffles and thick hot chocolate since we passed the bakery three blocks ago. Don't even try to deny it."
As they sat in the cozy, sun-drenched corner of the cafe, she watched him. Oscar didn't look at the menu, he just ordered for both of them, remembering exactly how she liked her chocolate, extra thick, no whipped cream.
She leaned her chin on her hand, watching the way the light caught the sharp line of his jaw. A terrifying wave of affection washed over her, so strong it felt like it might bowl her over right there among the tita-crowd and the scent of baking bread.
He knows me better than I know myself, she realized. He doesn't just rule my world. He nurtures it.
"Why are you staring at me like I’m a particularly difficult set of data?" Oscar asked, his lips twitching into a smirk as he adjusted his watch.
"I’m just wondering how the McLaren engineers deal with you," she teased, trying to mask the vulnerability in her voice. "Do you tell them what they want for lunch, too? 'Lando, you’re fading, go eat a sandwich'?"
Oscar laughed, a genuine, warm sound that made her heart ache. "Lando is a different kind of handful. But you? You’re my priority. If you’re not fueled up and happy, I can’t focus. It’s a performance issue, really."
"Oh, so I’m just a 'performance variable' now?" she pouted, though her eyes were soft.
"The most important one," he said, reaching across the table to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His touch was so light, yet it felt like a brand. "You're the only part of my life that isn't a calculation. You're just... you."
She looked down at her hot chocolate, her throat tightening. Every time he said something like that, something so grounded and sincere, the fear of falling for him doubled. He was so oblivious to the chaos he was causing in her chest. He was just being Oscar, he didn't realize that every small act of care was a hammer blow to the walls she had left.
"You're going to be so bored of me," she whispered, half-joking but mostly terrified. "I’m going to be the one tripping over cables and asking where the snacks are while you're trying to win a Grand Prix."
Oscar reached out, taking her hand and squeezing it firmly. "I’ve spent twenty-some years not being bored of you. I think I can handle more race weekends. Besides," he added, his eyes darkening with that secret, dominant glint she loved, "if you get too restless in the garage, I’ll just have to find a way to keep you occupied in the hotel room. I hear the acoustics in the Monte Carlo hotels are excellent for... vocal feedback."
She choked on a laugh, her face turning crimson. "Oscar! We are in public!"
"And you're a graduate," he reminded her, his smirk widening. "You can handle a bit of adult conversation. Now, eat your waffles. We have three more stops before I take you home and check if those silk pajamas I bought fit as well as I think they will."
She bit into the soft pastry, the sweetness comforting, but her mind was miles away. She looked at him, so confident, so steady, so completely unaware that she was currently drowning in her love for him. He was her best friend, her "Daddy," and her future, all wrapped into one stoic Australian package.
I'm so far gone, she thought, watching him scroll through a technical email with one hand while holding hers with the other. And he has no idea that he already has everything I am.
—
The calm of the morning was interrupted by the persistent chime of her phone on the nightstand. Still tangled in the sheets and the warmth of Oscar’s side, she reached out for it, blinking against the brightness of the screen.
It was a text from Marcus, a guy from her thesis cohort who had spent many late nights in the library with her over the last few months.
Marcus: Hey! Huge congrats again on the defense. We actually survived. Now that we’re officially free, we should grab that coffee we talked about. Maybe dinner? I feel like I haven't seen you outside of a library cubicle in years.
She smiled, her thumbs hovering over the keyboard. She liked Marcus, he was kind, and they’d bonded over the shared trauma of academic stress. To her, it was purely a friendship forged in the trenches of research.
Her: Thanks, Marcus! I’d love to, but I’m actually heading out of town today. Not sure when I’ll be back. I’m traveling for the next race in Japan.
Marcus: Japan? Wow. Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask... what’s the deal with you and Piastri? I saw him at the graduation. Are you guys... together?
Her: Oscar? Nooo haha. We’ve been best friends since we were kids. He’s like family. He just came to support me because he knew how much I was struggling with the thesis.
She locked her phone and set it back down. She didn’t see the need to mention the text to Oscar. It was just Marcus being friendly, and Oscar was already busy double-checking their passports. Besides, explaining her "best friend" dynamic to Marcus was easier than explaining the complicated, heated reality of what had happened on this bed only hours ago.
The transition from the quiet of the apartment to the frantic energy of travel was seamless. Oscar was in "race mode" now, focused, efficient, but with a new, protective edge. Throughout the long-haul flight to Tokyo and the subsequent trip to Suzuka, he kept her close. Whether it was his hand resting on her knee under the travel blanket or the way he guided her through the swarming fans at the airport, he was silently marking his territory.
The humidity of Japan hit them the moment they stepped out of the car at the circuit. The air was thick with the scent of high-octane fuel and the distant, high-pitched whine of pneumatic guns.
Walking into the McLaren garage felt like coming home. The clinical white floors, the glowing telemetry screens, and the orange-clad crew created a familiar, electric hum.
The moment they stepped inside, a few of the mechanics looked up from the car, their faces lighting up.
"Look who’s back!" Kim, one of the lead engineers, called out, wiping his hands on a rag. "Congratulations! We saw the photos. Glad you finally finished that paper so you could come back and keep this one in line." He jerked a thumb toward Oscar.
"We missed you around here," another mechanic added, offering her a high-five. "The garage is way too quiet when you're not here to stress-pace during Qualifying. It’s good to have the good luck charm back."
Oscar looped an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against his side as he greeted his team. He looked down at her, a small, private smirk playing on his lips, the kind of look that reminded her exactly why she had told Marcus they were "just friends." It was a lie, but it was a lie that kept this world, and Oscar, all to herself.
"She’s not going anywhere this weekend," Oscar said to the crew, his voice firm. "She’s had enough time away."
The lighthearted atmosphere of the garage shifted the moment Oscar’s lead PR manager, a sharp-eyed woman named Sarah, caught his eye. She didn’t smile. She simply tilted her head toward the back of the hospitality suite, a silent command for a private word.
Oscar squeezed her waist one last time before stepping away. "Stay with Kim. I’ll be right back."
She watched him walk away, his shoulders tense under his team kit. She turned back to the telemetry screens, chatting with the engineers, but her eyes kept drifting toward the glass-walled office where Sarah was already pulling up her tablet.
Inside the office, the door clicked shut, cutting off the roar of the paddock.
"We have a situation, Oscar," Sarah began, skipping the pleasantries. She turned the tablet toward him. It was a mosaic of social media screengrabs from the graduation. "The fans saw you. More importantly, they saw the way you were looking at her. The way you were sitting with her parents."
Oscar crossed his arms, his jaw tightening. "I was supporting a friend. I told you I was going."
"And the fans aren't stupid," Sarah countered. "While the 'best friend' narrative we’ve pushed for years has been great for your image, it makes you look loyal, grounded, and sweet, these photos are crossing a line. Some fans think it's 'goals,' but the negative data is overpowering the positive. The speculation is getting invasive. People are digging into her life, her thesis, her family. It’s becoming a distraction for the team."
Oscar’s voice dropped, dangerous and low. "She isn’t a distraction."
"To the public, she’s a target," Sarah said firmly. "The brand needs you focused on the championship, not a 'secret' romance that’s leaking through the cracks. We need to stabilize the narrative immediately."
She swiped to a new slide, a portfolio of a high-profile Australian model, someone with a massive following and a clean, high-fashion image.
"We’ve already been in talks with her agency. We’re suggesting a 'cover-up.' A few public appearances, a couple of strategically timed pap shots at a dinner in Tokyo this week. It reinforces the idea that you and your 'childhood best friend' are exactly that, just friends. It protects her from the spotlight, and it protects your focus."
Oscar looked at the screen, a sick feeling churning in his gut. He thought about the handcuffs, the blindfold, and the way she had looked him in the eye and told him she belonged to him. Now, he was being told to stand next to a stranger and lie to the world just to keep the peace.
"I don't like it," Oscar bit out.
"It’s not a request, Oscar. It’s damage control," Sarah said, her tone softening but remaining professional. "If you want to keep her safe from the vitriol of the internet and keep the team's sponsors happy, you play the part. You stay 'best friends' in public. The model is the girlfriend. That’s the price of the seat."
Oscar looked through the glass at her, still laughing with the mechanics, blissfully unaware of the wall being built between them. He felt the weight of his contract, the weight of the car, and for the first time, the suffocating weight of the life he had chosen. He couldn't fight this, not yet.
While Oscar remained locked in the glass-walled office, his expression growing more stonelike by the second, her phone buzzed again in her pocket. She pulled it out, shielding the screen from the curious eyes of the mechanics.
Marcus: Just landed in Narita! Weird coincidence, but I’m actually here for a few days, my cousin is getting married in Tokyo. Since you're already in the country, any chance we could actually grab that catch-up? I'd love to see a friendly face in Suzuka if you can sneak away from the track.
She felt a flicker of relief at the message. After the intensity of the last twenty-four hours and the slightly overwhelming energy of the garage, the idea of a "normal" conversation with a friend from home sounded grounding. Marcus was easy to talk to, and he didn't treat her like a "VIP guest" or a distraction.
Her: No way! What are the odds? I’m mostly at the track, but I’m sure I can find some time. Oscar’s going to be busy with briefings and PR stuff anyway. Let’s do it! Just let me know when you’re near the circuit.
She tucked the phone away just as the office door opened. Oscar stepped out, his face a carefully neutral mask that she had learned to read as a sign of deep frustration. He didn't look at Sarah as he walked back toward her, but his hand immediately found hers, his grip almost bruisingly tight.
"Everything okay?" she asked, leaning into him.
"Fine," he said, the word clipped and tight. He didn't mention the model, the "cover-up," or the fact that his team was currently planning his public dating life. He just looked down at her, his eyes dark with a sudden, sharp possessiveness. "We're leaving for the hotel early. I need to get out of here."
She nodded, not questioning the sudden shift in mood. As they walked out of the garage together, her phone felt heavy in her pocket, a secret of her own, however innocent, held against the weight of the one Oscar was currently carrying.
—
The car ride back to the hotel was suffocating. The air conditioning hummed at a high blast, but it couldn't cut through the tension radiating off Oscar. He sat in the backseat of the team car, staring out the tinted window at the blurring Japanese landscape. His jaw was set so tightly she could see the muscle jumping in his cheek, and his hand, usually so gentle when it held hers, was gripping her fingers with an almost desperate, white-knuckled pressure.
"Oscar, you're hurting me a little," she whispered, shifting her hand.
He blinked, suddenly snapping out of his trance. He immediately loosened his grip, his expression softening into a look of pained regret. "Sorry. I just... I have a lot on my mind. The car setup isn't where I want it."
It was a lie. She knew it, and he knew she knew it, but in the world of F1, "the car" was the universal excuse for everything. She didn't press him. She knew Sarah and the PR team had a way of draining the life out of him, and she figured he just needed space to process whatever corporate nonsense they'd dumped on him.
"It's okay," she said softly, leaning her head on his shoulder. "Actually, since you’re going to be buried in telemetry and meetings tomorrow morning before Practice 1, I’m probably going to head out for a bit."
Oscar’s body went rigid again. "Out? Where?"
"Oh, remember Marcus? The guy from my cohort I told you about? It’s the craziest coincidence, he’s actually in Japan for a family wedding. He messaged me saying he’s near Suzuka and wanted to grab a quick coffee to catch up. Since you'll be busy, I figured it was the perfect time."
Oscar didn't move. He didn't blink. The mention of another man, especially one who had spent the last few months "studying" late into the night with her, felt like a physical blow, especially after being told by his manager that he had to pretend to date a stranger to "protect" his image.
The irony was bitter. He was being forced to push her away in public, and here she was, innocently stepping toward someone else.
"A friend," Oscar repeated, the word sounding like ash in his mouth.
"Yeah, just Marcus," she said, oblivious to the storm brewing behind his eyes. "He was really helpful during the final weeks of my thesis. It’ll be nice to talk about something other than G-force and tire deg for an hour."
Oscar’s grip on her hand tightened again, though he caught himself this time. He wanted to tell her no. He wanted to tell her about the PR cover-up, about the model, about how the thought of her sitting across from another man made him want to burn the whole paddock down. But Sarah’s voice echoed in his head: It protects her. It keeps her out of the spotlight.
"Fine," he said, his voice dropping to a low, hollow tone. "Just... stay safe. And keep your phone on."
He turned back to the window, his reflection in the glass looking like a stranger. He wouldn't tell her, not yet. He’d let her have her "friend," while he prepared to play the part of a man who didn't belong to the only woman he ever wanted.
—
The local cafe was tucked away in a quiet street of Suzuka, filled with the aroma of roasted matcha and the hushed tones of locals. The morning light was soft, but the atmosphere inside the booth was anything but.
Oscar had insisted on dropping her off. He claimed it was "on the way" to the circuit, even though the team car had to take a significant detour. He stood beside the table, still in his black-and-orange team kit, looking every bit the high-performance athlete, and every bit the territorial predator.
"Marcus, this is Oscar. My best friend since we were in diapers," she said brightly, trying to ignore the way the air seemed to thicken the moment the two men locked eyes. "Oscar, this is Marcus. I told you about him. He’s the reason I didn't fail my data analysis module."
Marcus stood up, offering a hand. He was tall, with a relaxed, academic charm that stood in stark contrast to Oscar’s sharp, coiled energy. "The famous Oscar Piastri," Marcus said, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. "I’ve heard so much about you. It’s a pleasure."
Oscar took his hand. He didn’t shake it; he crushed it. "Is that so?" Oscar’s voice was like velvet over gravel. "She didn't mention much about you. Just that you were... helpful."
The word "helpful" sounded like an insult coming from Oscar. He didn't sit down, instead choosing to stand close to her, his hand resting firmly on the back of her chair, a silent, physical claim.
"Well, we spent a lot of late nights together," Marcus said, his eyes flicking to the way Oscar was guarding her. He wasn't backing down. In fact, he seemed to find Oscar’s tension amusing. "You know how it is. Coffee, cramped library desks, leaning over each other’s shoulders to check formulas. You get pretty close when you’re the only two people awake at 3:00 AM."
Oscar’s jaw tightened so hard the muscle jumped. He felt the heat of last night, the handcuffs, the way she had screamed his name, and the thought of this man anywhere near her at 3:00 AM made his blood boil.
"I'm sure," Oscar replied, his eyes narrowing. "She’s always had a habit of being too nice to people who hang around her."
Marcus chuckled, leaning back into his chair, purposely testing the boundary. "She’s more than nice. She’s special. I was actually surprised she decided to come all the way to Japan just for a race. I thought after the thesis, she’d want to celebrate with someone... closer to home."
Marcus let the word "closer" hang in the air, a direct challenge. He looked from Oscar to her, his gaze lingering on her lips for a second too long. "But then again, childhood friends have a special bond, right? Like a brother-sister thing?"
Oscar’s grip on the chair tightened until the wood groaned. He leaned down, his face inches from Marcus’s, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly calm whisper. "We aren't anything like siblings, Marcus. Don't let the 'best friend' label confuse you. I’ve known her longer than you’ve known how to read. I suggest you remember that while you’re having your 'catch-up' coffee."
The tension was a physical weight. She looked between them, her eyes wide. "Oscar, you’re going to be late for the briefing," she intervened, sensing the situation was seconds away from a disaster.
Oscar didn't look at her. He kept his eyes on Marcus for three more heartbeats, making sure the message was received. Finally, he straightened up, but before he left, he leaned down and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to her temple, far more intimate than a "best friend" would ever dare.
"I'll have a car pick you up in an hour," Oscar said to her, his voice possessive. "Don't be late. I want you in the garage before I get in the car."
Marcus watched the door close behind Oscar, the bell’s chime still ringing in the tense silence. He turned back to her, a slow, calculated smile spreading across his face as he took a sip of his black coffee.
"He’s intense," Marcus remarked, his voice dropping the friendly academic facade. "Does he always mark his territory like that? It’s a bit... primitive for a world-class driver, don't you think?"
She felt a flush of heat creep up her neck, her hands tightening around her matcha latte. "He’s just protective. Like I said, we’ve known each other forever. He’s had a stressful morning with the team."
"Protective," Marcus repeated, leaning forward, his eyes locking onto hers with a sharpness that made her skin crawl. "Is that what we're calling it? Because from where I’m sitting, he looks like a man who’s terrified of losing something he doesn't officially own."
He paused, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the table. "You know, it’s funny. You told us you were alone in your place those days we spent working. But I remember the day we were in a zoom call. The audio of the recording... let's just say, very high quality."
Her heart skipped a beat. A cold dread began to pool in her stomach. "What are you talking about, Marcus?"
"I heard him, we did," Marcus whispered, his voice smooth and dangerous. "I heard exactly how your 'best friend' talks to you when the cameras are off. I still have a recording of it, actually. For 'posterity,' you could say."
She felt the air leave her lungs. "You... you kept the recording?"
"I have an agenda, Princess," he said, using the pet name with a sickening sneer. "And Oscar’s PR team wouldn't be very happy if a recording of their 'grounded' star driver talking like a filth-mouthed animal went viral. But... we could make all of that go away. I’ve always liked you. If you agree to give me a real chance, start dating me, for real, that recording stays on an encrypted drive. If not? Well, Oscar’s career is about to get very complicated."
In the back of the team car, Oscar was vibrating with a silent, murderous rage. He slammed his fist into the leather armrest, the dull thud echoing in the cabin. The driver caught his eye in the rearview mirror and immediately looked away, sensing the storm.
Best friends. The lie felt like a collar choking him. He thought of the way Marcus had looked at her, the gaze of a man who wasn't just admiring her, but calculating her value. He could still feel the phantom heat of her skin under his hands from last night, and the thought of Marcus even breathing the same air as her made him want to rip his steering wheel out of the car.
He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over Sarah’s contact. He wanted to tell her to go to hell with the model. He wanted to walk into the paddock, pull her into his arms in front of every camera in Japan, and tell the world exactly who she belonged to.
But then he remembered the way she had looked when she graduated, so proud, so happy, and finally free of the stress. If he went public now, the media would tear her apart. They’d call her a distraction, a gold-digger, a scandal. He was trapped between a PR team that wanted to erase her and a 'friend' who was currently sitting across from her with God-knows-what intentions.
"Drive faster," Oscar growled at the driver, his eyes dark and fixed on the road ahead.
He didn't know about Marcus’s recording yet, but his instincts were screaming. He felt like he was losing control of the race before it had even started, and Oscar Piastri hated losing more than anything in the world.
The color drained from her face, leaving her ghost-pale against the warm wood of the cafe booth. For a second, the sounds of the espresso machine and the muffled Japanese chatter around them seemed to vanish, replaced by the heavy, thudding beat of her own heart.
"You're joking," she breathed, her voice trembling with a mix of shock and sudden, sharp revulsion. "Marcus, that’s... that’s sick. You wouldn't dare."
Marcus didn't flinch. He just leaned back, crossing his arms with a casualness that made the threat feel even more real. Unlike her and Oscar, Marcus had no history with the driver. To him, Oscar wasn't a person, he was a barrier.
"Wouldn't I? Think about the timing," Marcus said, his voice cold. "Oscar is the 'golden boy.' Clean image, quiet, focused. If a recording of him speaking that... vividly... to a girl his team insists is just a sister-figure hits the tabloids, his sponsors will panic. The 'childhood best friend' narrative becomes a lie. It becomes a scandal. And he loses everything he’s worked for."
"He hasn't done anything to you!" she hissed, leaning over the table, her eyes flashing with a protective fire. "Why would you do this? I thought we were friends, Marcus. I trusted you."
"We were friends. I was the one there for you while he was halfway across the world, and now that he’s back, he thinks he can just show up at your graduation and mark you like a piece of property?" Marcus countered. "I’ve watched you pine for him for months. I’m not letting him just sweep in. You’re going to give me a chance. You’re going to tell him you want to see where things go with me."
She let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh, her fear turning into a cold, hard anger. "You think you can force me to love you? You think if you ruin his life and I’ll just fall into your arms? You’re delusional. If you leak that, Oscar will destroy you."
"Maybe," Marcus shrugged, his eyes dead. "But he’ll be destroyed too. Is that a risk you’re willing to take? One click and his reputation is gone. All you have to do is say 'yes' to a few dates. Tell him you’re confused. Tell him you want to see me. Keep him at arm's length while he's here in Japan."
He pushed his phone across the table. On the screen was the video recording.
"I have the power here," Marcus whispered. "Don't test me. I’m not playing."
She stared at the video on Marcus’s screen, her stomach churning, but as the seconds ticked by, the fear began to sharpen into a cold, jagged edge of defiance. She looked Marcus dead in the eye, her voice dropping to a low, steady whisper that didn't waver.
"You think you’re the first person to try and take something from him?" she asked, a ghost of a smirk touching her lips. "You’re a coward, Marcus. If you leak that, you don’t just hurt Oscar, you prove to everyone that you’re a predator. Go ahead. Post it. See how fast your own career ends before his even flinches. Oscar has a team of the best lawyers in the world. You have a library card."
Marcus’s smirk faltered, his eyes widening as the confidence drained from his face. Before he could utter another threat, she stood up, grabbed her bag, and walked out of the cafe without looking back.
—
The humidity of the paddock hit her like a wall, but it was nothing compared to the shaking in her hands. She made it to the McLaren hospitality suite, her heart hammering against her ribs. She ducked into the private bathroom, splashing cold water on her face and staring at her reflection. Her eyes were rimmed with red, and her skin was splotchy.
Deep breaths, she told herself. Oscar can’t know. If he knows, he’ll lose his mind. He’ll hit Marcus, or he’ll lose his focus on the track, and Sarah will blame me.
She applied a thick layer of concealer under her eyes, bit her lips to bring some color back into them, and forced her features into a neutral mask. When she finally stepped out into the garage, the roar of the air guns was deafening.
Oscar was already by his car, his helmet sitting on the sidepod. The moment she entered his peripheral vision, he turned. Even from across the room, his gaze was like a laser, scanning her face with terrifying precision.
"You didn't wait for the car but you're late," he said, his voice echoing through his balaclava as he stepped toward her. He didn't care who was watching. He reached out, his gloved hand cupping the side of her neck, his thumb tilting her chin up so she had to look at him.
"I... left early cause I left something at the hotel and the traffic was bad," she lied, her voice sounding thin even to her own ears. She forced a smile, leaning into his touch. "How’s the car feeling?"
Oscar didn't answer. He narrowed his eyes, his thumb brushing over the skin just below her eye where the concealer was slightly too heavy. He could smell the stress on her, could see the way her pulse was jumping in the hollow of her throat.
"You’ve been crying," he stated. It wasn't a question. His grip on her neck tightened, not to hurt, but to anchor her. His entire aura shifted, the "calm" driver vanishing to reveal the man who had pinned her to a headboard thirty-six hours ago. "What did he say to you?"
"Nothing, Oscar. Really," she pleaded, placing her hands on his chest, feeling the hard carbon fiber of his race suit. "Just academic stuff. I’m just tired. Please, just get in the car. Focus on the session."
Oscar looked toward the garage entrance, his expression so dark that a nearby mechanic actually stepped back. He knew she was lying. He knew Marcus had done something. But the green light for Practice 1 was about to flash, and Sarah was watching them from the pit wall with a hawk-like gaze.
"We aren't done with this," Oscar hissed, his voice dropping to a private, dangerous register. "Stay in my sight. Don't leave this garage until I’m out of that seat. Do you understand me?"
"Yes," she whispered.
He lingered for a second longer, his forehead dropping to hers in a brief, possessive moment of contact before he spun around and climbed into the cockpit, his jaw set in a line of pure, unadulterated fury.
—
Sitting on the back of the pit wall, the heavy telemetry headset felt like a weight pressing her into the ground. Through the earpiece, she could hear Oscar’s breathing, heavy, mechanical, and focused, as he tore through the first sector of the Suzuka circuit. The roar of the engines passing the pit straight was bone-shaking, but it couldn't drown out the sharp ping of a notification in her pocket.
She pulled out her phone, shielding the screen from the engineers.
Marcus: Bold move. But the lawyers won't be fast enough to stop the upload if I don't hear a 'yes'. Don't ruin his life over your pride, Princess. Just one date. That’s all it takes to keep the secret safe.
She felt a wave of nausea. Her eyes drifted to the monitors, watching the little purple dot that represented Oscar. He was setting the fastest lap, driving with a controlled violence that only she knew was fueled by his anger at Marcus.
The word "Princess" in the text made her skin crawl. Suddenly, her mind flashed back to the bedroom, to the cuffs, the blindfold, and the way she had whimpered the word Daddy against his skin.
A lump formed in her throat. In the heat of their private world, that dynamic felt like power, like a deep, carnal trust. But now, with a predator like Marcus holding their intimacy over her head like a guillotine, it felt tainted. It felt like a liability. Calling him that name suddenly felt "wrong,” not because she didn't want him, but because the purity of their secret had been breached. Their private language was now a weapon that could dismantle the career he had spent his entire life building.
I have to fix this, she thought, her fingers trembling as she locked her phone. I can’t tell him. He’ll go to Marcus’s hotel, he’ll get arrested for assault, and the recording will go viral anyway.
She began to pace the narrow space behind the pit wall, her mind racing faster than the cars.
She knew Oscar had McLaren’s legal team, but Marcus was right, leaks are instant. Once it's on the internet, the damage is done.
Her Mom was a data scientist. She knew people. Could she find a way to wipe his cloud storage? Or perhaps bait him into admitting he recorded her without consent in a text, making the evidence inadmissible and ruinous for him? But then she would know about his relationship with Oscar.
If she talked to Sarah, if she confessed everything, could the PR team spin it? Could they "leak" a fake version first to discredit the real one?
She looked up at the screen just as Oscar's car flickered past the finish line, jumping to P1. He was doing his job. He was being the champion. She couldn't let Oscar pay the price for her "friendship" with a snake.
a/n: i owe you all an apology 😭 part 4 took so long to come out, but i promise i didn’t abandon this fic!! i made this chapter longer to make up for it pls accept this humble offering 🥹🙏 and i hope it's worth the wait 😗 its also my birthdayyy so this is my gift to all of you 🤪
a/n 2: lowkey want moots on threads/x so i can overshare about my fics in peace bc none of my moots there rn understands 😭 if you don’t mind random plot dumps and chaotic updates, let’s be friends. drop your @ !!
a/n 3: how do u think she and oscar will handle this?????